Grace and the Bug Man

Last week I spent the morning running errands downtown. As the Office of Vital Records had been closed on Martin Luther King, Jr. day, the lines were long for all the people who needed birth certificates, copies of marriage licenses, and other such official documents. Being raised as a good girl of the South, I heeded the sign that asked all to silence their cell phones and got busy filling out paperwork.

My husband buzzed in to text that the bug guy had left a message for me to call him. The longer I waited, the more I wondered if there was a problem. I did not have an appointment for our quarterly spraying until noon, and it was only 11:00. As soon as I had the documents for our dossier in hand, I briskly trotted out of the building to return the call.

"Mrs. Davis, are you going to be able to make your appointment today?"

"Yes. I'm on my way. It's at 12:00pm, right?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sitting here in your driveway, but don't rush or anything."

I looked at the time. It was 11:20, and even though I was not late I found myself rushing home as if I had inconvenienced the bug guy. I had a conversation with myself in the car about how he was EARLY, and it was not my responsibility to keep him from waiting. Yet, having been raised in the south as a good girl, I remembered the voice of my Grandmother chiding me for making the family tardy to something...probably church. The "You must not be late. Good girls do not keep people waiting" button went off and I caught myself doing 80 mph down a hill on the interstate.

Still talking to myself, I marveled at how the words spoken to us as children can affect us, even as adults. "It's not my fault that you are early!" I spoke panicky to the dashboard. And when I pulled into my driveway, the service truck was indeed pulled in front of my door. I pulled into the garage and ran around to open the front door, but saw no sign of the service man. Perhaps he started treating the outside of the house, I thought, looking for him. And then, I stopped in my tracks as I noticed that he was SLEEPING inside the truck. He hadn't been worried a bit, but was happy for the opportunity to catch some zzz's while I sped home torturing myself for keeping him waiting. I had to knock on the window to wake him up.

Although I would never think that I care too much about what other people think, this interaction with the bug man has made me more aware of my weird behavior. I didn't even know this person. He was filling in for someone else, and yet I found myself speeding home to keep him from being unhappy.

God, may I only seek to please YOU, and not put pressure on myself that no one intends. Help me live in such a way that reflects the Truth that I know, and not spazz out operating on automatic pilot.

by Emily Freeman
Letting Go of the Try Hard Life

Mighty Warriors

What do a candy cane, a speckled brown banana, and an empty box of cereal all have in common?

All can be turned into weapons of mass destruction in a boy's mind.

I have watched my boys flip a candy cane in the air and run through the house terrorizing their sisters with imaginary bullets when the Nerf guns have been confiscated. At times like these, I stand amazed at little boy make-up. I did not teach them to engage in combat. They came that way.

As such, I have enjoyed watching my eight-year-old delve into the Action Bible. Bible Stories portrayed as comic strips. My son sat up in bed and read 100 pages last night. Thank you, God, for creative minds, who have figured out how to capture your truth and make it interesting for wiggly, squirmy boys who prefer wrestling to long sessions of story hour. May they grow up to be Mighty Warriors for you.

The Super-boy within the Superman

when the cat's away....

When the cat's away... the mice will play.

My man is away on business this week. I love him, and he loves me, but I think we both enjoy the different rhythm that a business week away brings. I am thankful that my Mr. loves Jesus, and prefers a quiet night surfing in his upscale hotel room to all the trouble that Vegas can offer. He can turn the air down as low as he wants, crank up the electric white noise with no one complaining, and I can listen to the crickets here, and pile on the duvets, with no overhead fan disrupting my preferred temperature.


I love the sounds of silence. The sounds of quiet. Real crickets (or are they frogs?) outside my french doors. Real wind blowing through the chimes on the back porch. The sound of my six year old breathing heavily next to me. Quiet.


We have an alternate routine when Mr. is away.


I do a little less parenting, a little less cleaning, and a little less cooking. The kids are more than happy with chicken nuggets two nights in a row for dinner...or cereal night...or tonight's menu: Lean Gourmet lasgane freshly microwaved from a cardboard box...with a few clementines thrown in on the side to quiet my maternal-nutrition-conscience.


The popcorn might remain on the floor unswept until morning, and the dishes might stay in the sink overnight.


And I indulge in something fun...like my newfound fascination with Pinterest.


I know that there will come a time when parent-child sleepovers are inappropriate, but for now, each of my children sidle up to me secretly and ask if they can be the first one to sleep in my bed since Mr. is out of town. When the select child has a turn for a sleepover, we read whatever they select. (This week we had the first chapter of Harry Potter, book one; a Junie B. Jones book, and the story my daughter is writing herself). Then we take turns asking one another questions and writing the responses down in a journal.


Earlier today I had tea with a friend who had grown up in Romania. Her grandparents were from Moldova. She told me stories of being very poor in a village and staying with her grandparents on a farm in the summers. She remembers her grandfather telling her of when the Russians invaded their village, burned their home, and how the children in their family were hidden in the hay in a barn to keep them from being abducted. She is thinking of writing her family stories down, so that her own American-born children will know what life was like for their great-grandparents. I hope that she does and that the stories are not lost. It's hard for so many to find the time to record their thoughts, take the pictures, or tell the stories. Life (or watching a fabricated version of life electronically) seems to get in the way.


As I listen to my children fall into a deep sleep, I am so thankful that they have been blessed to be born here, in a time where war is not at our doorsteps or a part of our everyday life. The biggest thing they have to worry about is whether or not they will get their preferred seat in the minivan or the last serving of their favorite cereal before a brother or sister takes it.


May they grow, in time, to understand how very blessed they are.