Right Where I Am

Posted on May 15, 2013 by Petals of Joy

I was in my late twenties. Round with life filling my womb. The sweet joy of tiny feet pressing my stomach from the inside out. Prince Charming’s hand gently touching my belly, knowing his daughter was being knitted together by the Creator.

Pregnancy brought the beauty of life. It also brought the onslaught of advice. Sometimes graciously accepted and stored in the memory bank. Others would receive my obligatory nod and smile. But there was one piece of wisdom, one nugget, one truth, that has shaped me as a mother.

And it is beginning to shape my entire life….

To read more of this post, click on the link for Woman to Woman Ministries where I am a guest blogger today!

Posted in Beautiful Life, Relationship with God | Leave a comment

Lessons Worth Writing Down

Posted on May 4, 2013 by Petals of Joy

Mrs. Iseminger she whispered at my classroom door. Can you email my mom? Please tell her I was in class yesterday. She doesn’t believe me. She never believes me. It doesn’t matter how good I am.

And my heart shattered against the cold tile floor.

Lessons Worth Writing DownLessons Worth Writing Down

 

Lessons Worth Writing Down

Lessons Worth Writing Down

Sometimes I beat myself up as a parent. I set high standards that in reality may not ever be attained. But then. Then I look around my classroom at students beaten down. Beaten down by parents that don’t know what it is to love their children.

I see the deep sadness in the eyes of teenagers who have been told they don’t matter to the world.

I have seen the tears well up in their eyes as they whisper, My parent’s don’t care what I do. And I wish with every piece of my soul they were lying to me.

I’ve seen the child at the end of the day step into the car greeted with glares and not hello. I’ve left campus only to look in my rearview mirror and witness a parent shouting so loud my heart hears her through the windows of cars. And her son’s face? I can’t see something bent so far to the ground.

And then I realize, maybe I’m not such a bad parent after all. Don’t misunderstand. Mistakes abound. But there are things I am doing right. And you are too.

Being a parent begins with love. Love that is willing to do the hard. Love that spills-out self to make room for grace. Love that wants to be deeper—better.

So my broken students have taught me how to avoid becoming a broken parent. With each lesson I see a different pain-filled face of a student who dreams of a parent capable of such things.

This is the home I wish, with almost desperation, I could create for my broken students. It is the home I pray I am building for my own beautiful children.

Here are their lessons:

      • Your child’s teacher should never be his biggest cheerleader.
      • Understand this: Their world is a darker place than ours ever was, and their challenges greater.
      • Don’t be afraid to discipline. Or to say no. If you don’t, they will one day say yes to everything.
      • Give grace until it hurts. And then give more.
      • Smile at your children when you pick them up from school. Or when they get off the bus. Or when they walk in the door from practice.
      • Yell. Yell words that say your children matter. Every. Day.
      • Kiss your children goodnight. Even if they’re three and wipe it off. Even if they’re teenagers and seem like ice.
      • Respect your children. You will be amazed at how far it gets you in a conversation.
      • Instill the value of learning from life, not just the Algebra and Literature taught in the classroom.
      • Notice the good in your child. Even when their choices have been so, so bad.
      • Tell them you appreciate them. You are grateful for who they are and what they do. Watch their faces light up.
      • Let them fly while tethering them to earth.
      • Foster the dreams God has set before them—not the dreams you feel they should have.
      • Allow them to make their mistakes. Lessons will be learned. Hard lessons. But important ones. You once learned them too.
      • Know rigid legalism will destroy your chances of a relationship. Consider the Biblical Pharisees. Or Les Miserables’s Javert.
      • But follow the rules. Even if they seem silly. Your child will grow up knowing what integrity looks like.
      • Consider it’s not how much money you have—it’s how much time you spend.
      • Don’t be afraid to recognize weakness in your children. Maybe then those weaknesses can become strong. If left ignored, weakness can cripple.
      • Set boundaries. Fences don’t just keep us in—they can keep evil out.
      • Admit when you are wrong. They will learn to do the same.
      • Guard the modesty of your daughter from the beginning. What she wears at six, she will want to wear at sixteen.
      • Refuse to settle for the mantra “boys will be boys.” Teach them to be men. Of honor.
      • Love. Love until it hurts.
      • Pray.
      • Pray, with face to the ground.
      • Pray your mistakes will not scar.
      • Pray you parent in a way worthy of the gift God has given.
      • Pray.
Posted in Motherhood | Tagged , , | 7 Comments

Bending Low with Deep Roots

Posted on May 3, 2013 by Petals of Joy

As a native Floridian, two trees have dotted the landscape of my life—the sabal palm and the live oak. Among the green marshes, sandy beaches, and emerald forests of my youth, the palm and the oak can often be seen standing. Side-by-side, one next to the other.

 Sunset Palms by Cheryl Dewees

The oak stretches wide, providing blissful shade from summer heat. Its magnificence and beauty often leaves me breathless. The bark scratching skin, stripping knees bare as little arms and legs attempt to climb its branches. Live oaks are majestic. Noticeable. Praiseworthy.

But then. Then the sabal palm. The state tree of Florida. It fails to hold my attention. The paltry shade offers little protection. If you found Florida in the middle of August, you would not seek the palm’s shelter from the orange sky-fire burning your skin. It catches the eye as only a symbol of paradise. Nothing more. A tall, skinny toothpick. I am not a fan.

Until now.

The winds have changed my mind.

Lately, the winds in life have blown hard. Maybe you know them. Hurricane forces threatening to uproot your existence–driving debris and hail into your days with damaging strength. Some days the winds rage with such ferocity, survival seems a bleak possibility.

But God can speak to us through His trees. When strong winds blow, oaks are uprooted. The palms? They hold fast.

They hold fast for two reasons—their roots and their willingness to bend.

When the hurricanes come, majestic oaks with their shallow roots lift like feathers out of the ground and crash, splintered and fragmented—only a shadow of what they once were. The roots cannot hold tight. The mighty tree falls.

But the sabal palm? It has an extraordinary root system. While the roots stretch wide, they can also sink 15 to 20 feet into the ground. The fibrous tendrils cling tight to the rich earth beneath the sandy surface. Roots driven deep into the life source. Roots refusing to let go.

Paul admonishes us to live our lives in Jesus, firmly “rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith…and overflowing with thankfulness (Colossians 2:7).” The further we drive our roots into the Savior, the stronger we’ll stand.

When our roots spill out and grasp the wood of two cross beams we are tethered. Tethered by an unshakeable force, stronger than any hurricane wind blustering through our lives.

So. When the unrelenting gusts do threaten to uproot us, we are held tight by the splintered cross. Splintered so we remain whole. And then we must bend.

We bend, but we do not break like the rigid oak. Prideful and haughty, the oak refuses to bow, and so it snaps. Branches ripped and destroyed. And the earth thunders under the fall of the immovable majesty.

But the palm? Watch how it bends. The winds come and the sabal palm bows to the ground. Humble. Pliable. Because bending low can save the palm from destruction.

Bending low can save us from being uprooted, splintered, destroyed. With our faces bowed low, we lift up holy palms to the Shelter from our storms. The I-could-never-do-this-alone posture of bending. Realizing the need for the Savior who lifts bent hearts.

Because a life rooted to the splintered cross is a life that also bends low in prayer. Deep roots and praying hearts can weather the storms.

Hurricanes will role across our lives, but the palms will point to the One who can bring us through the rain still standing—holding fast.

I would like to introduce the photography of a dear friend, Cheryl Dewees. Her stunning images of God’s creation can be found on her Etsy site, Point of View Creations, by clicking here.

Posted in Beautiful Life, Struggles | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

You Are Held

Posted on April 21, 2013 by Petals of Joy

The moment I heard him hit the floor, I knew. I knew he was hurt. His mouth turned crimson and he screamed. People stared.

I held.

I held my son in my arms, not worrying over whether I too, would become a bloody mess. Tears ran down his soft cheeks as sobs echoed through the tiled grocery store. I carried him. And didn’t think once of putting him down. Not once.

Even after making it home, he stayed in my arms. Finally resting. Peace filling his tiny body as his eyes drifted shut and he slept. I laid him in bed and watched him, afraid to leave. I noticed one thing. Just one. Strange–how my arms felt.

My arms were heavy. And I could still feel his weight. His burden.

My chest heaved, and I was spent. Tired. Useless for the rest of this day. My humanness wearing thick on my skin. Weakness painted obvious on shaking muscles.

I am reminded of the arms of my Lord. His strong arms.

What a bloody mess He must be this week—this week in our nation. For He has lifted us, carried us crying, screaming out through space and time. Shaking at the evil that snatches our innocence.

How heavy His arms must feel.

To see His children in so much pain. To hear them cry out at the utter depravity witnessed in mankind. To watch them suffer in anguish and loss.

How heavy His arms must feel.

Because He holds us. In the same way I ran to my son, my Jesus never hesitates to lift us up into His arms. His arms, stretched wide by nails and wood. One hand massive enough to hold the universe in His palm.

He holds us. He holds you. He holds me.

Held

 

“I will be the same until your old age, and I will bear you up when you turn gray. I have made you, and I will carry you; I will bear and save you.” Isaiah 46:4

I have made you, and I will carry you.

Allow the Comforter’s words to wash over your soul—to speak tenderly to your heart. Maybe, for you, Boston is next door but still a world away. For we all fall. We trip. Our faces hit the ground, and we cover the shoulder of Jesus with a bloody mess.

But He has promised to carry us. And unlike my withering strength, His arms never tire. They are always strong. Ready to carry the burdens we unleash with sobs and screams, burying our heads into His strong power.

There comes a point in each of our journeys when we hit the ground with such intensity we cannot stand on our own. We cannot walk or put one foot before the other. These are the days we hold tight to His arms. Arms that have gathered us, gently rocking back and forth.

He holds our tearstained cheeks to His chest, and we listen to the soothing voice whispering in our ears, Shhh, little one. I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay. Maybe not today but it will be. Shhh. I won’t let you go, sweet baby. You’re mine. Shhh…

You are held. Held with an inexplicable love. Held with such a Force of strength even Hell can’t drag you from the arms of your Savior.

You are held. It’s His promise.

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My Mommy Confession

Posted on April 13, 2013 by Petals of Joy

Lean in close. Closer. I have a secret. Even my thoughts whisper in my head as I ready myself to share it with you.

Shhh. Are you ready? I’m not. My fingers lightly tap the keyboard, unwilling to breathe reality into this personal struggle. Even shame.

Yes. Shame. Because here it is: I don’t like playing with my children.

There. I said it.

The proverbial band-aide has been ripped off, taking skin and esteem with it. I can’t stand playing pretend with my kids, and I don’t want to pretend perfect parenting with you.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my children. The kind of radical, I-would-die-for-you-and-risk-all-I-am-for-you love. Love spanning time and space. An insane love that, for sure, could scale Mt. Everest if need be.

I enjoy my children. Cherish walks and hearing little voices recount their day. Holding them. Brushing their hair. Laughing with their giggles as I tickle toes. Taking my daughter shopping or her brother to the park. I love being with them.

I just don’t like playing with them. Games of pretend tea parties send my head spinning. Super Hero missions make me want to flee the room screaming. Puppet shows and Barbie. Pirates and princesses. My insides cringe and my eye twitches.

Then comes the guilt. Always the guilt. It follows the shameful, “Not right now,” that gushes from my mouth because though my love is deep, it is not selfless.

But here’s the thing—I’m not sure I’m alone in my confession. Even if you do enjoy playing pretend with your children, I am sure there is something you don’t enjoy. Play-Doh? Legos? Books? There’s always something.

Shouldn’t I enjoy playing with my children—these pieces of my heart birthed in pain and struggle? My dreams of motherhood never looked like this.  Who envisions locking yourself in the bathroom to escape one more game of Candy Land?

So what now? How do I become the mother I should be, knowing I will never love, never enjoy, some parts of motherhood? I have wrestled with these questions for years. Struggling between guilt and defeat.

In recent months, my Jesus has started to unwrap the edges of an answer in my heart. As I take the corners and lift with ginger hope, I find a smile. An “a-ha.” It begins with one word.

Serve.

Sitting down, He (Jesus) called the Twelve and said to them, “If anyone wants to be first, he must be last of all and servant of all.” (Mark 9:35)

Servant. Of all. Including my children.

I must serve my children. Not in the let-me-never-teach-you-responsibility-and-do-everything-for-you kind of serve.

Rather the allow-me-to-put-aside-my-own-selfish-desires-in-order-to-meet-your-needs kind of serve. Even if those needs happen to be building towers of blocks over and over and over again so your little one can continue to knock them down.

But Jesus wasn’t finished when he told his disciples to be last of all and servant of all. He continued…

Then He took a child, had him stand among them and taking him in His arms, He said to them, “Whoever welcomes one little child such as this in My name welcomes Me…” (Mark 9:36-37a)

And now I know…

When I enter the space in the lives of my little ones and welcome them, all of their needs, all of their desires to play, I am welcoming Him. The One who took on the very nature of a servant when He sacrificed everything for me.

When I play with my children taking on the heart of a servant and lay aside selfish desires, I am welcoming Jesus.

When just doing the work of motherhood transforms to having the heart of a servant as I mother, well, my entire perspective changes.

When I serve my children, I serve my Savior.

It is a heart change, dear friends. And a heart change brings an attitude change. Peace rests upon my home when I take on the posture of a servant, ready to meet the needs of my children—my family. Whatever those needs may be.

Because becoming the mother I should be is never about me. And this is hard. Exhausting. Grueling. Serving others never begins easy. But it ends better.

Do I suddenly enjoy Princesses and Pirates? No. But my children do. So I will play. I will serve. Because saying yes to the servant’s heart is leaving guilt on the front door step of my home. It is putting regret out with the trash. It is telling shame to never call again.

Serving my children brings a fragrant offering of grace into my home, and that is worth far more than a few moments to myself.

Grace

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Waiting for Joy

Posted on April 10, 2013 by Petals of Joy

Joy can vanish. It takes but a word or two. Words that lock our hearts, telling us joy will never be felt again. Words that grip-hard our souls promising to twist and bend until pain turns numb. Words like: Terminal. Miscarriage. Divorce. Addiction. Fatal Accident. Killed in Action.

There are other words too. So many other words…

The darkness seeps in and joy rushes out. And survival is all that matters. One leaden foot in front of the other. Heaving through. Wandering. Joy is hidden and really, you’re not looking.

There are seasons we must wait for joy. Seasons when Joy has left our hearts; our dancing has turned to mourning (Lam. 5:15.) Tragedy strikes our lives and we pound our chests—eyes flooded with oceans spilling over into the days. And, oh the nights. Those torturous hours with nothing to distract.

But hope.

Hope is the thing with feathers.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

by Emily Dickinson

To hope. In better days ahead? In others to carry us through? That the pain will vanish? No. If misplaced, hope is brittle—a thin glass bird, waiting to be snapped and shattered.

Job cried out from his dark pain, “Though He slay me, I will hope in Him.” In Him. In our Jesus. Hope in Him brings us through. He becomes the immovable bird, unafraid to perch in the storm of our grief-weary hearts. He is the bird singing to our souls as a sea of tears soak the pillow during our darkest night.

Hope’s song tells us morning will come.

And so we wait. We watch. We anticipate that first glimmer of orange-pink light to touch the horizon. It seems it will never come. But there is still hope. The hope of sunrise—the morning we break through our grief.

Morning will come.

Because Hope has told us, has whispered in our ear and shouted through our pain that weeping may spend the night, but there is Joy in the morning (Psalm 30:5b.)

Some nights are long, filled with misery and despair. But night always ends. Always. The black sky gives way and the horizon cracks. Night cannot contain the joy morning brings.

So we wait, hoping for the morn. We wait for Joy.

Public domain image, royalty free stock photo from www.public-domain-image.com

Posted in Joy, Struggles | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Ho-Hum, Blah, To and From Days

Posted on April 3, 2013 by Petals of Joy

Crowds of tourists with fanny packs, flip-flops and sunglasses. The Florida sun beat upon my nose, leaving its lobster-like stain on my pale skin. The Mouse House beckoned, and we answered Mickey’s call.

Who could resist a free day at Disney? The Happiest Place on Earth. Apparently. As born and raised members of the Sunshine State, this wasn’t our first experience at the famous theme park. We’re seasoned veterans. Even Princess Ella had been numerous times. But Caleb? Only a few.

It was to be our son’s first real trip to the Mouse House, at least one he would be able to remember. Prince Charming and I were so excited. Scratch that. Excitement was only etched on my face. The Prince just loves me enough to smile and go along for the ride. He hates theme parks.

But since we were getting in free…And it was two weeks from our boy’s birthday…

I had visions of Caleb with joy eking out his pores. Meeting Mickey for the first time. Flying Dumbo through the air. Riding the same carousel I did as a child. Having “It’s A Small World” play in my head. Over and over and over.

The possibilities were endless. But my Court Jester threw us a wrench—an I-show-you-how-happy-this-place-really-is curveball. He was a GRUMP! Wait. What? You can’t be unhappy here. This is Disney for crying out loud! Which he did, cry out loud, I mean.

Grumpy Court Jester

Birthday Button

Caleb sported a Happy Birthday button all day. To which Disney employees would catch a glimpse of and make all kinds of celebratory comments to our son. Caleb, my bouncing ball of joy, scowled at every single person. I mean every. single. one.

Don’t get me wrong. The day was fantastic. We really did have an awesome time. And our little boy wasn’t grumpy all day. I mean, he laughed and giggled once we actually got on the rides. But the walking to and from? Grrr. Angry stomps.

And the highlight of our day? We finally did get to meet Mickey. What a beautiful, joyous moment. Caleb was mesmerized. And afterward, he never stopped smiling. Trouble is, we didn’t meet the famous mouse until 9:00…PM!

Take a deep breath in and release slowly. I sigh.

I’ve been struggling some in recent weeks. Filled with the blahs. Going through my days, with a ho-hum attitude. I live in anticipation of the weekends, the big events, the birthdays, the trips to Disney. But the day-to-day? I’ve been a grump. The walking to and from? Grrr. Angry stomps.

As I looked in the mirror this morning, concealing the purple-black bags under my tired eyes, I began to reflect on our recent trip to Disney and Caleb’s experience. I realized my life isn’t much different.

I mistakenly believe the momentary thrills in life to be all there is of joy. In essence, I have confused fleeting happiness with lasting joy.

There is nothing wrong with happiness. Happiness can bring forth joy. The two are interconnected. Joined. But not every part of life is happy. You can’t fly upon Dumbo or shooting aliens in Buzz Lightyear every day. These experiences are incredible, warming us to the point we eek out joy.

However, we still have to get from one ride to the other. It is the in between, which threatens our deepest attempts to find joy each day. Because happiness doesn’t always exist in the to and from.

But Joy can. And Joy does.

I have to wonder how our magical day might have been different if Caleb had met Mickey from the start? You see, for my son, Mickey is the core of Disney, its root.

Disney Joy

God is the core of Joy. He is its essence. He is the Joy Giver.

Psalm 16:11 says “You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.”

The human experience is painful. It’s full of struggle and hardship. Our pores often eek out exhaustion and sadness. Happiness can be impossible to find.

But Joy.

Joy can exist even when there is no happiness. Because in the presence of the Father we find the fullness of joy—its satisfying abundance. And we cannot fully know Joy until we know the Joy Giver.

In the middle of my to and from days, I forget. I forget to find His presence. I forget to splay myself across His feet. But when I do, the heaviness of my soul lifts. The darkness that pervades my in between moments fades, giving way to the Light.

I may not always experience the happy, the light-hearted giggles, at His feet—life is sometimes full of just too much pain. But I am filled with the deeper, fuller Joy. The it-is-well knowledge that the Joy Giver overflows His abundant riches into my soul.

During the blah, the ho-hum days, Joy is in His presence, so there I must go.

Posted in Joy, Struggles | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

When the Answer’s No

Posted on March 26, 2013 by Petals of Joy

Caleb, no you may not climb into the refrigerator. Caleb, no you may not hit your sister with the sword. Caleb, no you may not ride the dog like a horse. Caleb, I said no. I said no. Caleb. I. Said. No.

I once asked my son if he thought his middle name was No. My daughter, I’m sure, can relate to her brother. Her name can often be read, Ella Not Now.

I say no to my children. A lot. The word no elicits a great deal of anger out of my little ones. It is a word they don’t like to hear. They stomp their feet. They pitch their fits. They cry their hot tears.

If I’m honest, it’s a word I don’t like either. And I hear it spoken more often than I want. No is shouted over the waves of tragedy. No is written on the walls of change I crave. No is whispered within my heart by the Holy Spirit.

And I lay on the floor, kicking and screaming. Crying my hot tears.

My mind can wrap itself around some no’s. I tell my children no to keep them wrapped in a cocoon of safety.  I deny their wants because I see the larger picture—the down-the-road mistake of saying yes. No is their middle name when instruction is the goal.

But there are some no’s I still struggle to grasp. God, heal my friend’s daddy? God, can you please, oh please, put an end to sex trafficking?  Aids? Childhood hunger? God, can you keep my family safe? Forever?

I get the theological answers. I do. The reasons for no when I just don’t want to even try and understand. Because when the deep-thinking-theology is stripped away, I am left with an answer good enough for my questions. He is God. I am not.

Maybe it’s oversimplified. It is. Millions would believe me to be naive, ignorant. I’m not. Trusting the no, even when it makes no earthly sense, is part of the trusting Jesus.

And it’s not easy. This faith by belief. This sometimes-I’m-like-Thomas-and-need-to-feel-the-nail-scarred-hands faith that is just. so. hard.

But I must trust the no. Because in the no, I feel insanely connected to my Jesus. My crucified Christ. My Savior, who in complete humanity, cried out to God, “Abba, Father! All things are possible for You. Take this cup away from Me. Nevertheless, not what I will, but what You will.” Mark 14:36

Iron Nails

He was in the Garden of Gethsemane. Praying. Anguish so intense blood dripped from His pores. Preparing His heart for the gruesome death He would endure. The black sin He would heap upon His soul. For me. For you.

And yet He asked the Father. Please, Daddy. I know you can do anything. Anything. But this plan? This is a trial I don’t want to endure. But Daddy, I will walk this road if it is your will. What you want. Because I trust your will.

The Father said no to His Son. Because he said yes to you and me. And oh, how grateful the woman is that God answered the way He did. How often have I prayed, Take this cup away from me? From those I love.

But if God can tell his Son no to save the world, how can I question His no when so much less is at stake?

And now I understand. When I’m asked to hold the cup, God holds me. My Daddy God takes me in His arms, tears in His eyes, and holds me. He doesn’t always shield me from pain. And He doesn’t always shield the world from tragedy.

My trust is that He will hold me—cradle me. This is my faith that can move mountains. God. Will. Hold. Me.

In the same way, I gather the two pieces of my heart, son and daughter, into my arms. They don’t understand my reasons for no, but they don’t need to comprehend. They are tucked in close. Held tight. They know I will never let go.

Posted in Relationship with God | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Failure is Not an Option

Posted on March 22, 2013 by Petals of Joy

More often than not, I fail as a mom. Sometimes countless times in a day, playing out a much different version of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poem, “How do I Love Thee?” Instead, my life as a parent could be titled, “How do I Fail Thee?” Let me count the ways…

I forget to sign important papers. Break promises. Yell, scream, shout—lose my patience. Discipline the wrong child. Would rather clean baseboards than play Candy Land. Give in too many times. Selfishly fulfill my own desires before theirs. Miss teachable moments. And say things I should never say.

Should. Never. Say.

The list stretches out across a vast desert, leaving me parched and thirsty.

I fail because I am human. But failing as a mother terrifies me. It’s the stuff of black nightmares and dark waters.

My list of failings is as atrocious and long as the line at Disney’s ride, It’s a Small World, in the middle of summer.

For example, my daughter walked around on a broken foot for five days before we took her to the doctor. True story. Mom of the Year I am not.  Another confession. I hate—hate—to play pretend games. And sometimes, I give in to the whining because I’m just so tired.

And so the list of questions rises to the surface. Bubbling from deep within, where insecurities lurk. Like failure licking at my heels.

What if I don’t play with my children enough? Will this scar them for life? Are they going to feel a void that I didn’t fill? Do I push too hard? Not hard enough? Am I present enough in their lives? Is their character shaped by my mistakes or by my victories?

The questions never seem to end. But there is one question that plagues my heart. And I must battle, must wage war, to discover its answer.

How on earth do I raise Christ-loving children in this evil-loving world? I can fail in countless ways, but I can’t fail in this—teaching my children to love God with their whole heart, soul, and mind. And in this instruction, I know failure is not an option.

Yet, how do I raise my children to love Jesus when they can see shades of my sinful heart as few others can? My hands are dirtied with mistakes and regrets. But still. I must dare to try.

While I don’t pretend to have the answers, I know one truth. I. Can. Not. Fail.

I must be willing to be battle weary for the souls of my children. Because trust me, the world is doing it’s part to steal them away. It seems I need only turn my head one way and then the other to discover countless vile schemes devised by the evil one to destroy our children.

Sound the battle cry. This is war—A war worth every bloody battle.

All too often we leave this war to our churches and our private schools. But this war is not theirs alone. It is ours. And it is one we’ve been called to fight. Did you know, as parents, God has given us one command? Only one.

“Father’s don’t exasperate your children by coming down hard on them. Take them by the hand and lead them in the way of the Master.” Ephesians 6:4 MSG

“Love God, your God, with your whole heart: love him with all that’s in you, love him with all you’ve got! Write these commandments that I’ve given you today on your hearts. Get them inside of you then get them inside your children. Talk about them wherever you are, sitting at home or walking in the street; talk about them from the time you get up in the morning to when you fall into bed at night. Tie them on your hands and foreheads as a reminder; inscribe them on the doorposts of your homes and on your city gates.” Deuteronomy 6:5-9

Our only task is to teach our children to love our Jesus. And there, in the profound silence of this command, is the beauty of God’s grace on our lives as parents. If I am I teaching my children the way of the Master, I am not failing.

But to teach my children the way of the Master, I must be following. Following His steps. Willing to make the sacrifices. To lay my own desires aside. To devote myself so completely, so fully to the task God has given me, my children see my Jesus-love.

When my own Jesus-love overflows from my heart into the lives of my children, when my own cup pours out of my cross-purchased soul and spills onto their tiny feet, then nothing else matters. Nothing.

Because this is not failure. This is success!

My mistakes are daily. They will continue throughout the lives of my children. Because I am human. But this fight—this teaching my children the way of the Master, is a battle I will forge. But I cannot do it on my own.

Because war is never won alone. God has promised to fight this war with us. He allows the battles to draw us close to Him, recognize our unquenchable need for His strength—His grace. The battles will be plenty. The wounds will be deep. But failure is not an option.

The souls of my children are worth the cost.

Failure is Not an Option

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A Letter to My Students

Posted on March 13, 2013 by Petals of Joy

Dear Young Heart,

My classroom is empty. You have left for the day. A trail of papers, candy wrappers, and angst in your wake. Desks sit vacant. I sit still. So much I wish to teach. So many lessons I want you to learn—desperate for you to understand.

An Empty Classroom

What Really Matters

Dear Young Heart

And so I write them. I write because when I try to tell you out-loud, I’m not sure if you’re listening. Do you hear me? Are your ears are open? Because some days that wall around your heart is just so dang high.

But I’m a climber.

And I ache to reach out and touch those scarred places, those places where you hurt. I want you to know someone really does care. That you really can be somebody in this world. You’re meant for a life of significance. Of meaning.

You were created for brilliance.

And so I teach. I teach here, on this page. I teach the lessons that really matter. The lessons of life…

    • Algebra? I don’t care what people say. You will use it. Well, at least some of it.
    • Grammar? You will use it. Forever. All of it. Don’t argue.
    • Failure should never be an option.
    • Because though you may fail, you are no failure.
    • Because failure is refusing to try one more time. And you have time to try again.
    • Success is not defined by your Twitter followers or number of Facebook friends. Success is doing what you love, no matter how difficult the job.
    • Go to class. Study hard. But know, sometimes the greatest lessons of life are learned on the playground.
    • Don’t cheat. Even in the smallest of tests. You won’t be ready for life’s big tests if you do.
    • Learn from your mistakes or you will become them.
    • Look up from the screen in your hand. The world is a beautiful place.
    • Gratitude brings forth joy. Be grateful for everything.
    • Rise above the hate. The gossip. The drama.
    • Embrace the strange and unique—the new. You may find it speaks powerfully to your soul.
    • The kid in class you don’t understand? You mumble about under your breath? His scars are deeper than yours.
    • Defend your beliefs and stand tall.
    • Maintain opinions based only on what you’ve heard and you will always fall.
    • Your first love? A piece of your heart is gone forever. No matter what happens.
    • Choose friends carefully. They have the power to strengthen your character or weaken your resolve.
    • Your real friends know and love the real you. Even if you don’t.
    • Create memories with your friends you can be proud to tell your own children one day. Not those you want to bury in shame. I’ve been there. And regrets are real.
    • Regrets are not wrong, rather motivators for a positive change.
    • Your family may influence who you are, but they do not define you.
    • Refuse to be a victim of your circumstance. Choose to fight, to claw, to climb your way out.
    • Fire has the power to destroy or strengthen. In life, we are all held to the flame. How we react to the flame shapes our existence.
    • Act on your convictions, not emotions.
    • Make the hard choices, even when they’re not popular.
    • Choose intelligence. Every. Single. Time.
    • Discovering who you are is a process—Not one single moment of clarity. No need to be rushed.
    • And really knowing yourself? It will come…just not yet.
    • Those tears you think no one sees? God stands ready to count each one as it slips down your cheek because He is beside you when there is no one left.
    • Because there is a God. He knows your name. He sacrificed everything for you.
    • I wish you could see what I see. I see potential—Potential in each and every pair of eyes that stare back at me.
    • You are capable of the spectacular. The Spectacular!
    • Those who say you can’t? Prove the wrong.
    • Prove them wrong.
    • Prove them wrong.
    • I believe in you.
    • I believe in you.
    • I believe in you.
    • You are loved.
    • You are loved.
    • You.
    • Are.
    • Loved.

With Hope,

Mrs. Iseminger

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