Conversations With Coconuts

Some time back, I found myself at Target. Alone! Although I wanted to run through the aisles yelling, “FREEDOM” William Wallace style, I managed to get control of myself. Instead, I found myself slowly meandering through the store, inhaling the smells of popcorn and Starbucks, and reveling in the ability to silently walk whatever aisles I wanted. Just me and my own little thoughts, without a constant, machine gun barrage out of my mouth of, “come here right now, stop touching that, no you can’t have that, stop running/hiding/jumping/breathing….”you get the picture. It was great. I didn’t have to worry about either avoiding the toy aisle, or a lawsuit from someone tripping over one of the Coconuts that I was dragging through the store.

As all good things must come to an end, and I value my relationship with hubby who was home with all four, I soon found myself in line to check out. At the register was a young mom, baby-wearing a tiny, screaming infant. Her 3 or 4 year old daughter was entertaining herself by alternately licking the gum display and scooting around the floor on her bottom. Meanwhile a 5 or 6 year old little boy was throwing a fit in the basket over The Toy He Did Not Get. Oh, momma, could I relate. I tried to meet her eyes to smile and encourage her. To tell her, “I understand. You ran over the invisible time clock of cooperation that small children have and now they have turned on you.” Unfortunately, there was an older, grandmotherly type woman between us who stood looking at her with a sweet smile on her face and then she uttered the words I know that mother did not want to hear.

“Enjoy every minute because it goes by so fast. You will miss this someday.”

Inwardly I cringed and watched the moms expression as she tightened her lips, took her receipt, and managed a terse, “thank you”, before pushing off with cranky children in tow.

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See, it’s not that Grandma Lady was wrong or insensitive. I totally get her meaning. I can’t tell you how many times and how many people have said the same things to me. Early on I used to feel guilty because I would think, “there is no way I will miss this. This moment is the last moment I want to have seared into my memory,” I would think to myself as I drug cranky, screaming children out of stores, forced naps, cleaned up puke and poo, held small bodies down for shots or to have foreign objects pulled out of ears, or fought the urge to mop the floor with their hiney after dealing with outright rebellion from someone not even 4 feet tall.

Nope. There are some moments that I will not miss and some things that I can’t un-see as a parent. Just think toilet training and let your imagination run wild, but I won’t feel guilty when well meaning Grandma Ladies tell me I will. Because, see, they’ve got Granny Blinders on and all they see is a cute kid. I’ve got to go home with my tyrant….I mean, offspring.

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Then one night as I was snuggling down into my bed, I remember sleepily thinking how relieved I was that we were somewhat past the frighting season of When Kids Won’t Sleep. It was kind of nice not to have a random kid (or two) in the middle of our bed. Suddenly though, out of the blue, I had this momentary, weird, freak out moment: “When was last time I nursed Coconut #1?” Suddenly I was wide awake and straining to remember the last time I nursed my 13 year old. Bizarre, I know but that’s how my brain works and for whatever reason, I needed to remember RIGHT THEN. Was it a night time feeding? Was it after she had hurt herself? Or when she was just over tired? What would I have done had I known it was going to be the last time? Wouldn’t I have lingered just a little longer in my chair? What about the last time I washed my sons hair? Or I helped Coconut number 3 get dressed on a regular basis? Did Coconut #4 really just shower by herself for the first time last night?

I started to panic a little because I realized there were so many lasts that I hadn’t even realized were happening.

Then I understood. I understood that although I would not miss the screaming temper tantrums and over tired toddlers, I would miss the precious, repentant moments that followed when sweet little bodies would crawl into my lap for a cuddle, “nummies”, or just to pray with me. I could happily forget cleaning up bodily fluids of every kind, but I will forever hold on to memories of time spent on the couch reading or movie watching the afternoon away with a kiddo who was under the weather and just needed some snuggle time with mom. I could happily file away the trip to the ER for foreign object removal but listening to the 4 year old describe her ordeal with her siblings and anybody else that would stand still and listen was priceless.

I have learned much over the past 13 years. I’ve learned there’s lots of ugliness in parenting.

Ugliness in myself.

How many times through a sleep deprivation fog have I grudgingly held a screaming baby, yelled at my over-tired toddler, or tuned out a needy child because I had been touched one too many times in a day? Because everything in me just wanted to run into my room and be alone for once? Because I just wanted to do what I wanted to do? But it’s here, in the fox holes of the parenting war when the battle is raging that one learns the most about themselves.

It’s here that I learned how truly selfish I can be but also just how selfLESS I could be.

Parenting has hammered some things out of me, stretched me, and made me see just how much I need Jesus.

So here’s my unsolicited advice to new parents. Don’t feel guilty about wanting to forget certain parenting moments. Just know that the process of growing applies not only to children but to us as parents. So let the trials change you and bring you closer to Jesus. Parenting is messy because life is messy, but in those moments we would rather forget, when we’re cleaning up another potty accident, refereeing yet another argument. when we are consumed by loneliness from not seeing another adult for hours on end and laboring under the heavy weight of guilt because we’re sure we’re not doing it right, just take a step back. Because a moment later, you will find yourself melting when a tiny head lays on your shoulder and sweet sleepy breath touches your cheek.When a little voice says “I wuv ou, Momma”, you will forget the battles and remember only that although the minutes sometimes feel like hours and the hours feel like days, in reality the years go by like seconds.

“Hey, so how do you handle chores with your kids? How much do you pay them and what do you have them do? She casually asked. We had met in the cleaning aisle of Wal-Mart and began chatting when I philosophically asked if Mr. Clean’s pants were white because he was always cleaning or was he always cleaning because his pants were white. “Well, we’re a big family over here, so everyone just works. The kids clean the kitchen, their rooms, and alternate cleaning the bathroom. The two big ones occasionally do their own laundry when time permits.” I replied. “Mr. Clean looks like he has never set foot in a kitchen yet manages to sell millions in cleaning supplies. It’s got to be because he’s bald, buff, and has an earring. What do you think?” I asked my new friend. Ignoring my Mr. Clean obsession, she persisted with the kid chore questions, “What about lists? Do you rotate so it’s fair?” “I have one list on the wall that says what all needs to be done in the house every week. When the kids act like they don’t know what to do, I tell them to go pick something from that list and when they try to bring up fairness, I tell them welcome to life and remind them that no one owes them anything,” I responded, still caught up in my Mr. Clean reverie.  My inquisitive friend was now squinting at me, somewhat perplexed. “But how do they know what to do? And how much do you pay them?” “If they can figure out smartphones and the Xbox, they can figure out what needs to be done from a list. And I pay them by allowing them to live here. Besides, keeping up with all that would just wear me out,” Says I. At this point the young mom I was talking to excused herself, I’m pretty sure to call CPS, leaving me to my thoughts of Mr. Clean and re-thinking my social graces. Anyway, I guess my lack of Pinterest ideas put my new friend off but it got me thinking. About my slow cooker at home. I know, I may have ADHD, but let me explain.

Our kids are growing up in a society of instant gratification and the belief that life should be fair and everyone owes them something.  Fast food, Amazon, and smartphones has turned this generation into a bunch of impatient, slothful, self-observed individuals, drowning in information but lacking any knowledge. Technology has become the new babysitter with phones and tablets pushed into tiny hands and tiny brains absorbing the things of the world without the maturity and understanding to process it all. Meaningful communication has been reduced to text messaging and emoticons. We are raising modern day cave dwellers who peck out cliff drawings instead of talking to someone face to face. I shudder at the thought of what is happening to an entire generation of people who have been raised on a steady died of instant gratification and emotion-based decision making. And you can trace it all back to the 70’s when microwave ovens began growing in popularity and reducing in price. It transformed meal times. Not necessarily for the better. From then on, everything is about faster, better, more, convenient, and all about me.

But not my kids. I am raising slow cooker kids in this microwave generation. Everyone knows that slow cooked foods just taste better. They’re healthier, tastier, and worth the wait. We are not perfect parents and we certainly haven’t done everything right but some things we have. We have one shot with these souls we’ve been entrusted with that will someday be making decisions for many. In a world full of distractions, now is not time for distracted parenting. There is a dark undercurrent that is always pulling on our kids and it’s usually easier to go with the flow. But not now. There is a word that is prevalent in current, certain political circles these days that some may not agree with but that accurately describes our parenting style. RESIST.

We choose to RESIST the urge to hand them technology, whether it be a phone, a tablet, or an Xbox every time they use the dreaded “B” word. “I’m bored”.  First of all, there has been multiple studies done on the impact of technology and social media on our kids. Secondly, it’s really not going to kill them to be bored, no matter what your hormonal, emo kid tries to tell you. As a matter of fact, it’s good for them. It will make them slow down, stimulate their imagination and teach them that as they grow up, life as a parent, as an adult, is not about bouncing from one fun thing to another. Unless you consider paying bills and wiping hineys and noses, “fun”.  Let’s be honest. Handing over electronics really just makes our lives easier but parenting is not about what’s easier. So, we put limits on all things electronic and instead put books in their hands, give them dirt to dig in, work to do, and real-life people to connect with.

We RESIST the lie from society that says our teens need to be independent and able to do their own thing. Our teen needs us now more than ever. However instead of helping her get dressed, she’s relying on me to help her navigate a world that screams deceitfully at her what it looks like to be beautiful, cool, and loved. My son is looking to his father to see what it looks like to be a father, to be brave, and yes, to be a man.  Parenting adolescents is less about the physical tasks of doing and more about the emotional tasks of connecting and engaging. It’s less about making decisions for them and more about helping them carefully and prayerfully think through their own decisions. It’s less about talking AT them about their life, their friends, their future, and more about talking TO them and to God about those things.

We RESIST the urge to buy them every new thing that comes out, the urge to shield them from hard work, and fight their battles for them. Instead we are teaching them the value of wait. To be still. The treasure of hard work and sacrifice. We resist the urge to check out and just pop that dinner in the microwave. We fight it all the time. Our kids are old enough now to be self- sufficient in many ways. Most of them can get dressed, eat, and (sort of) shower by themselves. A couple of them can cook, although you may not want to actually eat it. So, it’s easy to think that they don’t need me as much as they used to. It’s easy just to check out a little. But I can’t. There are too many important lessons left to teach them. It’s up to me, to us as parents to show them the value of marinating as opposed to microwaving.

So, although I still haven’t figured out the secret to Mr. Cleans success, you can count on me to have some great slow cooker recipes to share.

I’ve been trying to avoid social media and the news for months now but it’s like a train wreck that you can’t seem to avert your eyes from.  I find myself opening up Facebook and news sites with feelings of dread and trepidation. Even reading blog posts is hazardous to one’s emotional state these days. If the negativity of the person writing them doesn’t get you, don’t worry, the comments below the posts will. So I’ve found myself reflecting on other things. More important things. The holidays were a whirlwind last year and although every year seems crazy, this one was especially manic. We moved a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving and life just seemed to keep barreling forward like a steamroller out of control. The change of the seasons brought with it other changes. Changes that were painful and hard to understand.    

While December brought cheer to many, it also brought great sorrow to others. We lost a dear friend two weeks before Christmas. My friend Mary was a woman of God who loved and cherished her family. While the rest of the world was spending their days throwing hate and stereotypes at each other, I watched a family grieve the loss of a daughter. While people were rioting in the name of peace, five children began the arduous task of building a new life without their mother. And while still others waged war against whatever they deemed to be tyranny (whether on the right or left) a church family busied themselves bearing one another’s burden of grief.

Mary battled cancer for 3 years. She fought bravely until the end. I had so many thoughts running through my head and heart but the one that kept returning was, this is what courage looks like. Three and a half years ago, when Mary was diagnosed, a woman named Brittany Maynard decided to end her life rather than fight the cancer she was diagnosed with. She was hailed a hero. I couldn’t get on social media without seeing someone praising her “courageous decision”. My Mary had just been diagnosed. It was heart-wrenching. But I was blessed because I got to experience what real courage looks like in the face and determination of my friend. For three years she endured chemo, radiation, and sickness. She never lost faith or hope. Most importantly I watched her be perfected in love and in suffering. And it wasn’t easy to witness.  It wasn’t something out of a Hollywood movie. It was raw and visceral. It was real. Her beautiful hair fell out and she became a walking skeleton. She threw up everything she ate and needed help going to the bathroom. Her Mother and sisters and closest friends had to bathe her. But I will never forget the last time she spoke to me. Her face was gaunt and drawn. She struggled just to sit up in bed and her breathing was labored. But she told me that she loved me and that she wasn’t afraid. And in her face, I saw Jesus. Through the suffering and the pain, I saw the face of our Savior. And she ordered me that day, “Stop your crying. I’m going home.”

We had prayed fervently for her. As a family, we’d asked God to heal her. The Coconuts struggled with understanding and would often ask me, “Why, momma? Why won’t God heal her?” I admit I feinted a little during that time. Sometimes I didn’t know what to say because frankly, I felt the same way. Why Lord?? Our church has fasted and prayed. We’d believed. She’d believed. Why?? I felt as though the heavens were brass and there was no answer. Only silence.  I comforted my children with the knowledge that our beautiful friend and sister in Christ was in heaven, walking on streets of gold. I told them that the Lord is sovereign (and He is) that His ways are higher than ours (and they are) and that He loved Mary more than we did (and He does). It appeased them but I felt hollow.

One day I was praying again for understanding. I needed closure. I needed comfort. The Lord took me to the scripture in Mark 1: 35-38

“Now in the morning, having risen a long while before daylight, He went out and departed to a solitary place; and there He prayed.  And Simon and those who were with Him searched for Him.  When they found Him, they said to Him, “Everyone is looking for You.” But He said to them, “Let us go into the next towns, that I may preach there also because for this purpose I have come forth.”

“That I may preach there also because for THIS purpose I have come forth. “ Not for my purpose. Not to be a genie in the lamp. But that His gospel would be preached. It is the gospel that saves. It is the gospel that mends our brokenness so that we can make heaven our home. It is the gospel that changes people and HEALS their sin nature. Because, really, in the end, that is all that matters.

As the seasons are changing once again, and I find myself looking at the holidays again, I am reminded that our God never changes. He’s still reaching for our hearts and offering us restoration and healing for our brokenness through His cross.  I watched my beautiful, brave friend live out the gospel to the very end. Not even death could break the bond of love and faith she held with her Savior. She was made whole. She was healed. Just not on this side of heaven. But the seeds that she planted through the gospel in both her life and death have taken root and will produce fruit in the years to come. I saw her faith and love touch those around her that she loved the most. I see that same faith and love for God growing in her daughter today.

The Lord is our healer. But His most important healing takes place in our souls and then through us to minister to others.

It’s been a year since she left us. I miss her tremendously and can still hear her laughter and her voice chiding me for my crazy driving. I miss hearing her stories and seeing her love for kids as she faithfully ministered to them during Sunday school. I miss her friendship. I am better for knowing her and I am honored to have called her friend.

This picture is my favorite. It sums up who she was. Superhero of faith. Champion of love. Friend to all.

 

The bags have been unpacked, the stinky laundry has been washed (who knew my kids could smell like a football locker room and dead fish?) and the sleeping bags have been put away. Kids Camp 2017 is over, living on now only in a few blackmail pictures posted on social media, crazy stories (my son has been bragging about not having had a shower that week) and in our memories. In a mere 3 weeks, summer will be over. Not the heat of course, as we live in central Texas and will continue to be blasted from the furnace of Hades until at least the end of September, but school will begin and a somewhat normal routine will commence for the Coconuts. However, it’s hard to imagine slipping back into the normalcy we call everyday life after experiencing what we did in the 5 days spent at camp.

 

As we have in the past four years, our family spent the week with about 400 other kids, countless volunteers, and a dedicated children’s ministry team at a summer camp that our organization puts together for kids to come, have fun and have an encounter with Jesus. This year I worked as a zookeeper chaperone in a dorm where I was assigned a group of lovely, albeit wacky girls to keep track of. It’s a good thing that the camp directors didn’t know that at home I regularly hide in my pantry and eat chocolate when I’m supposed to be keeping track of my own kids but I digress.  From sun up to sun down we ran with the masses. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner (Dear Lord, I don’t want to eat one more thing on a stick), morning rally, power filled church services, and lake and waterslide adventures awaited us. Every. Single. Day. The camp itself is set in the beautiful hill country, and my 44-year-old body felt every one of those hills by the end of the night. Bedtime was another adventure of its own. Attempting to get 6 giggling girls to sleep when they are were amped up on sugar and the gleeful possibility of pranking their matron, namely me, was a futile task.  Running on four hours of sleep a night was only made possible by Folgers and Jesus.

 

I’m still not quite sure what The Hubby’s position was there but it had something to do with playing basketball at all hours of the night with a bunch of other old dudes who had forgotten how old they were and coming to my dorm at 7 am to drink my coffee. Regardless of the craziness of it all, this particular week of the year is one we look forward to. We love absolutely every part of it. And this year was no exception.

However, it wasn’t the manic schedule that was so life changing, although the lice check at registration may change your decision to ever let your child use another kid’s hairbrush, pillow, or bed sheet. The real revelation came with noise. Kid’s camp is filled with craziness and noise. The cafeteria, the sanctuary, the dorms, it’s all loud. But somewhere in the midst of all that noise, when the services begin and worship is offered up, the sacred takes place. The presence of God permeates the atmosphere and touches hearts.

The kids who come to camp are from all different back grounds. Many are church kids from great families. Others are not so lucky. The situations and backgrounds these kids have to deal with are so tumultuous, so heartbreaking; you just want to weep with them. There are children there who have lost a parent (or both parents), those who deal with abuse or rejection daily, those who are bullied, neglected, and unwanted. As a matron (or a dean) in the dorms, you spend every moment with the kids you are responsible for. If done right, you form connections and bonds. In the safety of those connections and in the presence of the Lord these children will begin to open up to you.

In hushed voices, stories are offered up of living environments that no child should experience but for 5 days these kids are able to come out from under that pressure and experience the love of a good Father. This camp is their opportunity to feel Jesus, some for the first time. Never to be the same again, these kids may go home to terrible situations but this time with the Prince of Peace lodged in their hearts. I am thankful to the South Texas District Children’s committee and their dedication to these children. Most of all I am thankful for this experience for a certain little boy with deepening freckles and a certain girl poised on the brink of becoming a woman. My two oldest Coconuts do not know what it’s like to live in a constant state of fear or abuse. They’ve only ever known safety and comfort. This camp has been an education for them. And for me. Watching my girl hug her dorm mate and weep with her over a childhood ending too soon, watching them pray at the altar for others, convicted me with their compassion and unabashed love.

 

In a world full of selfies and selfishness, it’s easy to become distracted and apathetic. Serving others is the way to shake off that apathy and remind us that we are the only Jesus that this world is going to see. So find opportunities to serve. We are called to be His hands and feet. Never are we more like the Master than when we are serving these little ones. Listening, loving, and leading them to Him. Love those that God has put before you, whether they are big or little people. Give of your time and resources.  It will change someone’s life as well as your own.

I thought of Josiah, the boy king of Israel who, after becoming king at only 8 years old, brought back righteousness and true worship to the land during his reign. His father and grandfather were wicked but he earned his place in history as a king who did right in the sight of the Lord. Somewhere, someone poured into him. Perhaps it was his mother or the prophet during that time that taught him about the Lord. Regardless, someone took the time to show him the goodness of God. Isn’t that our calling now?  To give of what God has given us? Maybe it will be the next Josiah that we pour into, or it may simply be someone that goes on to love and serve God as a godly father or wife. It matters not. What will matter is that we gave of ourselves.

 

Although it took me several days to fully recover from the insanity of kids’ camp and I may still be suffering from Lice Paranoia, I can’t wait to go back next year and see what other lessons await us.