Chapter 20 - "It's Too Late!"

I’m not a young mother any more, and my children aren’t little. They’re all grown, happily married to wonderful spouses, with precious children of their own. They all serve the Lord, and I believe this cycle will repeat itself in the future: my grandchildren will prayerfully marry men and women who encourage my grandchildren to love and serve the Lord, who will in turn teach my great grandchildren to do the same.

I hope I haven’t painted a picture of perfection for you. Our families are anything but perfect: we have been through struggles, and failures. Some of my children don’t agree with me on the way we raised them. In fact, there have been many, many times in recent years, when I’ve wondered: “Have my children looked back on their childhood, and their teen years, and seen how many mistakes their father and I made?” They’ve probably…I hope…sworn not to make those mistakes with their children. 

So, I guess I’m addressing those of you who have passed those child rearing years. And I ask us this question: “Is it too late?” Well, yes, it is as far as those years go…years that now seem like a vapor. 

This chapter actually isn’t only for mothers who have passed their child-rearing years. It’s for everyone who has looked back on an unpleasant experience, and thought to herself, “Oh, if only I had a second chance!” But going back and un-doing our mistakes is like trying to put an egg back in its shell once it’s broken: you can’t do it.

But I think I have hope for us this morning, as I sit in my very quiet, child-free house: I have hope for those of us who were too strict, or maybe not quite strict enough. There’s hope for those things that come back to our memory…time spent on those things that didn’t really matter a hoot; failure to spend time on others things that really, really did matter. 

What about the negative things I said to my children when they were growing up? What about the positive things I didn’t say about their silly little accomplishments? Can I ever erase my failures from my mind and from my past? Of course I can’t.

But let me share some mothering things that I’ve learned in my forty-plus years in this career: 

1. I’m a sinner. I’m not perfect. God knows I wasn’t a perfect wife, and not even in my wildest imagination, was I a perfect mother. My husband was a sinner, too, and we made little sinners. We live in a sinful world with other sinners, and we’re surrounded by sinful influences. In no way am I excusing myself this morning by blaming my failures on my nature. I know mothers who have never read their Bible, who did a splendid job at mothering. I don’t even come close to their admirable qualities. And they didn’t even know the Lord as personally as I do. But in some small way, I hope to remove some of the negative feelings about past failures if I can, by letting you know why we make mistakes. 

2. While we can never go backward in life, I do believe God does close old doors, while He opens new ones. If you are the mother of adult children, maybe you have done things in your past which have actually harmed relationships. May I say something here? If your children are still small, you probably look at us older mothers, like I used to do thirty-five years ago and think, “Oh, if only I didn’t have diapers to change, homework to patrol, and baths to supervise…” Well, believe me, that day will come so quickly, you won’t even realize it. Just enjoy the simplicity of your career now. Perhaps the biggest boon of having small children is that they don’t judge you. You can pretty much get away with anything, and they will come running to you at the end of the day, and hug you. Young children usually don’t hold grudges. Big children do. Unless you know the tragedy of not being forgiven, you don’t know much about suffering. How do you cope with the burden of “sins unforgiven?” I don’t know. I haven’t really figured that one out yet. But I have found comfort in knowing that God does forgive, because He is God. Children are people. They are sinners, and they haven’t completely learned the art of forgiveness. They hurt. And when we are the cause of that hurt, perhaps the hurt has gone far beyond the capacity to forgive. Have you done everything you know to restore broken relationships? Still no forgiveness there? Don’t let it destroy your joy. Take courage in the fact that God does forgive you. Then just back off, and leave it in His hands. If you’ve confessed your sin to the child you have failed, and if you’ve asked for their forgiveness, then confess it to God, ask Him for forgiveness, and rest assured that He will forgive you. You cannot control people’s emotions. Forgiveness is an act of the heart. And the heart is sacred territory, where only the Holy Spirit can tread. Especially if that child knows the Lord, trust Him to take control as only He can. Then just claim that joy that you lost, and don’t let the devil rob you of the happiness God wants you to have. Another thing I would like to say here is this: no matter how much you are hurting, remember that child who cannot forgive you is suffering more than you are. Holding grudges always, always hurts the grudge-holder more than the person who does not receive forgiveness. If you love that unforgiving child, and I know you do, pray for healing in their heart. There is no way a person can have perfect peace and joy as long as they have an unforgiving heart. By the way, do you have an unforgiving heart? Has one of your children done something to hurt you that goes beyond your forgiveness? Shame on you. Ask God to take that hurt. Give it to Him, and ask for His healing. You do unimaginable damage to relationships when you refuse to forgive. You can forgive, yes you can.

3. Learn from your past mistakes, or balance the books. I am by no means condoning the things I’ve done wrong in my life. I never want to encourage a ho-hum attitude toward sin by thinking, “Oh, well, God knows I’m a sinner, and I’ll never be perfect. That’s just the way I am.” Never! But the past is in the past. We can’t change it, but we can learn from it. Just like a businesswoman balances her books at the end of the year: what brought a profit? What caused losses? What did I do in the past to harm relationships? What did I do right? What did I do that brought me closer to my children? What did I do that drove them away? I must analyze my actions, and my attitudes. I still have children who love being with me. I must never take that for granted like I have taken past relationships. I must guard my mind, my words, my attitudes, and my heart. I must treasure those moments that I once took for granted. I must place my priorities in order. People, not things, not time, not even ministries, are what count most, and I must place them at the top of my list. I won’t bore you by confessing my failures, but you know yours. Bow your head right now, and ask God to show you where you have failed in the past, and ask Him help you to look forward to the future; ask Him to help you not only to avoid doing or saying or thinking the things that destroyed wonderful relationships; but also ask Him to turn every negative into a positive…where you didn’t listen, be absorbed in what your loved ones are saying to you, not only in words, but in expressions, and in attitudes.

So is it really too late? It’s never too late, “because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.” Let’s say with Paul: 

“Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 3:13, 14

Personally, Mom, I think you’re doing a great job! Keep up the good work! Have a good time mothering today.

Chapter 18 - "My Grandkids and Me" or "Shhh... Mimi is getting faith in God"

You knew this chapter was coming, didn’t you? I thought this would be a good place to put this, since we just celebrated Grandparents’ Day a few days ago.

Even as I start this chapter, I’m sitting in my favorite writing spot, my recliner. It’s in the corner of my cozy living room, and if I look to my left a bit, I can see through the lace drapes, out into my yard. For the last thirty minutes my ears and eyes have been “tuned” to my gate, waiting for the sound and sight of my grandchildren’s arrival. They have the key, so they’ll be on my porch before I can get out of my recliner.

This is a happy day for me, because I haven’t seen these particular “grandkids” (I use that word in keeping with the title of my book, because I don’t usually refer to my children and grandchildren as kids and grandkids, since I’m not a goat, and neither are my daughters and daughters in law) in about a month.

There are some great stories, and so many cute things my grandchildren have said, and so many things we’ve done together:

Monday's are Philip and Liz's "day off."  Philip had left to make a visit (did I say day off?), and after settling the boys down with their toys, Liz went to take a shower.  She had just dressed, when she walked into the living room, which was nice and clean when she left out. Now it was cluttered with their toys.  She proceeded to scold them very sharply, when she looked out at the gate, and there was a strange man standing there.  He was with a young lady from the church who had brought him to the pastor's house.  He had a long beard.  Liz went out to the gate to see what he wanted.  She called Philip, and he said he was on his way home, so she invited them in.  She realized that Sam wasn't in there, so she went to the bedroom to see about him, but he had locked himself in.  "Sam, open this door right now!"  He said, "I'm not coming out...I'm scared of Santa Claus!"

Andrew is learning to tell time on a clock with hands.  Yesterday morning Anna asked him what time it was.  "9:15," he said.  "Andrew, that's good...how did you know?"  “Because when the big hand is on the 2, it's 9:10, and one more number is 5 more."  She said, "Andrew, how did you know that?"  He said, "Because I always sleep with my thinking cap on."

I have to include this one from one of my own "babies:" My daughter, Ruthie sent me a message while I was at the airport during one of my trips one Mother’s Day.  She wished me a Happy Mother's Day, and then she said, "I'm so glad I grabbed you when it was my time to be born."

But I’d like to share the ones which consist of the times I’ve stayed with my grandchildren while their mommies were in the hospital having their little siblings.

I wrote a devotional once called, “Adjust Your Oxygen Mask; or Mimi, I Want My Chocolate Milk!” I actually wrote that lesson while I was keeping Jacque and her 4 siblings, while their Mommie was in the hospital, having her sixth baby. The idea of the lesson was: if you are going to help someone (like on a plane to adjust their oxygen mask) you need to have your act together first, (just like you should adjust your own oxygen mask in case of emergency, before helping a child or someone else.)

Because Sarah had a C-Section, it took her a little longer to recuperate than it did with her other five. So I stayed a few extra days until she was able to get around.

While Sarah was in the hospital, and even after she came home, as soon as Jacque would get up in the morning, she would patter downstairs in her bare feet and gown, go into my room where I was reading my Bible, and say, “Mimi, I want my chocolate milk.” I learned really fast that if I wasn’t prepared for the day before these little ones got up, chances were I wouldn’t have another chance until the next morning.

The lesson I learned from Jacque was: I don’t know what this day holds. Before interruptions come “pattering down the stairs” I’d better “have my oxygen mask adjusted” by spending a quiet time with God, and turning over the events and interruptions of the day to Him.

Thomas Gregory, who was named after his two grandfathers, has two siblings, Andrew and Debbie. Tommy Greg was born here in my town, so I got to stay with Andrew and Debbie.  I think my favorite part of having a new grandbaby, is getting to share those special moments right after the birth, with the baby’s siblings. I never cease to be amazed at how fast these little guys bond together, right from the beginning. Actually, I think they’ve already bonded before birth…feeling the baby move; seeing the ultrasounds…things we never shared with our children when I was expecting their siblings. That was sort of taboo back in the 70’s and 80’s, at least around the Sloan house, where we didn’t even use the word “pregnant” in mixed company.

Tommy Greg was born in January, a very cold month here in my mountain home. So after visiting with Mommie and Baby for a while, we left Daddy to take care of Mommie while Andrew and Debbie and I took a taxi home. It was about 5:00 Saturday afternoon. We went down to the corner store, bought some treats (I’m a real party grandma), came home, had supper, and showers.

As soon as they were in their jammies, and the dishes were done, we went into my bedroom; I put a Little House on the Prairie on, turned on my electric blanket, put on my gown, and crawled into the warm bed with my grand-treasures. When Mama Bear and Papa Bear came home from the hospital with Baby Bear, that’s where they found us, eating ice cream! What precious, happy memories.

Mark Allen Ralph decided to make his appearance four years ago, the first day of Vacation Bible School. That was fun, but a special challenge, since I had to juggle getting out the door and head for Bible School, with two little boys in tow. Actually Mark’s arrival was scheduled. Isn’t that funny? I don’t think I’ll ever get over the very well planned births mommies give these days. Isn’t there something missing, a little mystery element when you know what you’re going to have, where, when, almost the hour? Anyway, “planned births” sure make things a lot more organized for everyone involved, I guess.

When my 5th baby was born in 1977, I couldn’t believe my ears when my hospital roommate told me she actually went to K-Mart on February 13 to do some last minute shopping before checking herself into the hospital on Valentine’s Day. She knew what time her baby would be born, and that she would be a girl…and a Valentine Baby.

But I don’t know…there’s a special feeling about a sudden burst of pain…no pain…“It’s a girl!” that is exhilarating! You haven’t had months to prepare yourself for what your baby will be. It all happens in that incredible moment when you know it’s over, and then finding out who he or she is at the same time.

Not all births are like that, of course. Anna’s deliveries were never scheduled, although she knew what her baby would be before he or she arrived.

We’ve all heard stories about babies being born on the way to the hospital. A lady who lives near my house had her baby just as she stepped into the lobby of the hospital…in front of all the people sitting there.

But back to my grandchildren:

Time and space fail me to tell of everything. But perhaps among my many favorites, is the little hand-written note on my bedroom door.

I live alone. But I am blessed to live in the same town with one of my sons, and within a few hours of three of my daughters. So during one of the visits of my daughter, Anna and her family, Debbie wrote me a little note, and put it on my bedroom door: “Shhh…Mimi is getting faith in God.” Let me explain:

I take advantage of the fact that when my children are here, they can answer early morning phone calls, and receive early morning visitors. So I get up, shower, put my gown back on, and crawl under my blankets on my un-made bed, to have my devotions. My grandchildren are very well trained by their mommies to respect my “corner of the world”…whether I’m visiting in their home, or whether I’m at home in my bedroom, especially early in the morning. Hence, the precious little note written from the heart of a 6-year old and her opinion of what it is to have a quiet time with God.

How right you are, Debbie. I lack so much faith this morning. Things are a bit upside-down in my world. So it’s in my little corner of the world, every morning, behind closed doors, that I “get faith in God,” and things come into the right perspective.

There are decisions to be made that perhaps will change my life, and the lives of so many others; legal affairs to get in order; travel arrangements to be made. I really need to “get faith in God.”

How do you get your faith in God? I do it by:

1.

    Getting alone with Him early in the mornings in prayer and Bible study.

2.

    Remembering how He has brought me through difficult times, and helped me to survive.

3.

   Keeping my focus on Him. To me, this simply means going about my daily routine with a positive attitude.

4.

    Realizing that negative thoughts are put there by the devil.

5.

    Negative thoughts can lead me to doubt.

6.

    Doubt is the opposite of faith, and can lead to depression.

“Thank you, Lord, for my precious grand-treasures, and for the lessons You’ve taught me through them. Amen.”

MY KIDS AND ME - Chapter 17

“When I was a Child”

Are you young enough to remember the details of your childhood? Well, I’m sure there are few ladies reading this book who are older than I am. But I can still remember vivid details of my childhood. I’ve never studied up on this, but I wonder why there are minute details of when I was a child that are as vivid as though they had happened yesterday.

I have a picture in my mind of the sandals my cousin, Becky had when I wasn’t yet 5 years old. I can close my eyes and see the green, red, yellow and blue straps; and I liked them so much that just before my Uncle Paul pulled out of the drive after their visit, she took them off and gave them to me.

I can remember what it felt like to crawl up into my “Mammie’s” lap…the name everyone called my maternal grandmother…and the security of hearing her heartbeat as she held me close, and rocked me to sleep in her squeaky rocking chair. I couldn’t possibly have been more than four.

I remember smells…and sounds…and verses I quoted in a Christmas play. I remember the face of my first grade teacher, and the name of the little boy who got me in trouble by passing me “love” notes.

And I remember feelings I had…when I was a child.

I remember feelings of love, and fun, and excitement.

I remember joy over seeing my baby brother for the first time, and I remember getting my first reader…both on the same day!

But I also remember negative feelings… I remember the feeling of almost terror the day I missed the school bus; and the wonderful sight of Granddaddy waiting for me in the drive when my teacher drove me home; the feeling of regret when I would disobey; anger when my brother wouldn’t help me with the dinner dishes; sadness the day Granddaddy died; fear when seeing “Santa Claus” walk into our living room on Christmas Eve, even though he was a neighbor everyone called “Heavy.”

But perhaps the greatest emotion carried over from when I was a child is this feeling of rejection…this outside feeling.

Ever felt left out of things? Do you ever feel like you’re not young enough, or old enough, or good enough? There are few feelings as strong as those of not feeling accepted. We all want to be loved and admired and included.

When I was a child, I was a preacher’s kid. Back in the 50’s, that wasn’t the respectable position it is today. I can remember hearing so many times the cutting words, “Oh, you can’t do this, because you’re a preacher’s kid.” I wanted to run away, even though Daddy would comfort me by saying, “Being a preacher’s kid doesn’t mean you can’t do certain things…if you were a deacon’s kid, or a mechanic’s kid, it still wouldn’t be right for you to participate in those activities.”

But this is a book about MY kids…and me. What did I learn from them regarding being left outside?

I have a son whose birth order is right in the middle of four girls. And just to add to his misery, he is the youngest of four boys. Because of this, he was too little…or so his three brothers thought…to be included in their activities. He didn’t want to be included in the activities of little girls. So talk about being outside! He should be writing this chapter!

Do you have a child in a difficult position because of his birth order, or her size? Or maybe it’s their lack of the ability to achieve.

Well, this is not a book of advice on how to raise children, is it? Remember my promise to you at the first of the book?

But looking back, if there is something I could observe, as if floating on a cloud above my life back then, and if I could have shouted down some words of advice learned over more than ten years of my non-child-rearing days, it would be the same advice I would give to anyone coping with feelings of “not good enough, or old enough, or young enough, or brave enough.”

Learn to accept.

Isn’t that simple? Learn to accept yourself and others, whether it’s your sister in law, or your 15 year-old son.

God does. We are “accepted in the beloved,” aren’t we?

Always trying to change your hubby? Well, neither is this a marriage manual, but are there attitudes toward your husband that sometimes make him feel like he’s outside your circle of activities, or friends or family?

I believe if I could go back over my life, thinking of all my relationships, not just as a Mom, but as a wife, a sister, a mother in law, I would be more accepting. Even now, there are people in my life I wish I could change…not exchange; but I find myself wishing they were more considerate; or more involved in certain activities; or less aggressive; or not so demanding of my time.

I wish they didn’t complain as much; I wish they were more outgoing; I wish their hair was shorter; I wish they wouldn’t take themselves so seriously.

That pretty much sums up my attitude of an almost-lifetime.

How sad!

Makes me wonder how many hours of enjoyment I’ve missed.

I don’t want to spend another day wishing for changes. I want to “…put away childish things,” and accept others just the way they are…

just the way God does me.

“To the praise of the glory of his grace, wherein he hath made us accepted in the beloved.”…

Ephesians 1:6

Did I Say 10,000 Miles?

Do you ever go to bed at night, and lie there thinking of all the bad things you did and said during the day? I hate falling asleep like that, don’t you?

Last night, I lay down, and instead of thinking of all my sins, I “re-read”  in my mind Chapter 16 of my book, My Kids and Me that I posted. For some reason, the phrase “10,000 miles” shot through my mind. “Did I say that?” Now if I may justify myself a bit, I got that figure seven years ago, while visiting a park in Kiev that shows the distance from where we were standing to most major cities in the world. I immediately checked how far I was standing from Mexico City, and the figure 10,000 stayed in my mind. But what I forgot to change was kilometers to miles. There are about 1.8 miles in every kilometer. So if your hubby was looking over your shoulder while you were reading my latest chapter and started laughing, it’s because the author should have said “about 5,000 miles,” which I have already corrected in the original.

Another reason for this post? It will be the first one I’ve ever done without Jolene, who either posts them for me, or is here to hold my hand. This is Sunday morning, and I don’t even need to tell you why she doesn’t have time to help me!

You’re probably a busy Mom, and you know, don’t you?

Chapter 16 - "Leaving Home"

It was 1:30 a.m. In a few hours we would be traveling from southern to northern Mexico to renew our visas. I walked down the long hall leading from my bedroom where my husband was sleeping, past the three bedrooms where our eight children had finally gone to sleep. The ten suitcases lining each side of the hallway were a sure indication that someone would soon be leaving home. Passing my at-last-clean kitchen, I stepped down into our living room, walked around the coffee table, touching my piano for the last time until we returned. Tears flooded my eyes. We were indeed leaving home.

That scene took place many, many years ago…probably even thirty, but I can still feel the emotion welling up inside me…just the thoughts of leaving my comfortable routine, if anything can possibly remotely be described as comfortable with a noisy household of eight children. But home was my comfort zone…MY old washer; MY worn carpet; MY faltering refrigerator.

Thirty years later, I struggle to hide my tears as I hug my children and grandchildren who have come to my house to tell me good bye…again. I had just flown in two days before, had unpacked and packed again, and now I was leaving everything I held dear…my children, my grandchildren, my home, my church.

I hate leaving home. If it weren’t for the fact that I think I might be a blessing to some lady who’s about to quit; a pastor’s wife who needs encouraging; a distraught young mother, I would never leave home.

In the past few days, I’ve carried in my purse four different kinds of currencies from four different countries; I’ve struggled through security, boarded and de-boarded eight different planes; and met an Olympic trainer in London.

Leaving home…even the sound of that phrase conjures up almost depressing emotions for me.

There’s the “did I get everything?” although I make and check meticulous lists; “am I taking too much?” “Will my luggage be overweight?” “Will someone be at the airport to meet me?” “Will I make all my connections?”

What is there about home? For me, it stands for security; comfort; routine; the familiar…everything that leaving home takes away from me.

I sit here this morning, thousands and thousands of miles from my home…another continent, another time zone, another culture. My thoughts have crossed the ocean this morning to what my loved ones are doing near my home. While I begin my day, theirs is ending. While I sleep they work and play and study.

Homesickness to me is a real sickness…one as real as the flu, or chicken pox, and almost as painful…at least emotionally.

My homesickness is cushioned, though. I’m here with my other children and my other grandchildren.

What is there in this story for you? Do I simply want a homesick mother to be able to finally find someone with whom she can identify? I think there’s something more here…something I’ve learned during the past two weeks since leaving home.

1.      I’ve learned to make different comfort zones, a different “normal.” I packed and brought with me certain things that make me feel secure, even though I’m in a different home, on a different continent; in a different culture. Things like my Bible, my prayer book, my journals, my brush and comb; my toothbrush and toothpaste; my pens and note paper…these go in my carry-on, so that if I have a canceled flight, there can still be a certain normal feeling, an area I can still control in my upside-down day. This provides security when I have 11-hour layovers in an airport; and on the plane, I pass the hours reading and writing.

2.      I take my routine with me. Does that sound strange? Maybe you’re leaving home to go on vacation, and you’re looking forward to it. To leave routines and schedules, can be dangerous. While there are times when I do have to leave my normal routines, it is usually because someone else has changed it. For example, in a few days I will be going to the hospital to await the birth of my granddaughter. I will leave my home very early in the morning, and will return late that night. I will be completely out of my routine. I didn’t ask for that change, but I accept it as a healthy change. I have a very comfortable routine for reading my Bible and praying in the morning. Unless I’m willing to get up at 3:00 in the morning the day my granddaughter comes into the world, and because I will be recovering from jet lag, I plan to take my comfortable routine with me, and settle for a quiet place in the corner of a coffee shop later in the day.

3.      Be flexible. I’m sitting at a desk about 10,000 miles away from my office this morning. I’m juggling interruptions, delightful though they be…my toddler grandson loves opening the drawers of his big brother’s desk I’m using these days. So I pull him onto my lap and enjoy a Mimi Moment. After my devotions and housework routine, I settle back down at my desk…at home or abroad…and write for one hour. If within that hour my grandson needs my attention, I must be flexible enough to either say, “Oh, well, there’s always tomorrow.” Or I can add a few minutes onto my hour. My prayer time at home includes a 36-minute walk up and down my hall, no matter how full my bedrooms are with guests. When I’m away from home, that isn’t possible, because my hosts have other routines. So instead of my prayer time being a very structured 36-minute prayer walk, my prayer time includes holding my normally active grandson early in the morning while looking out the window at village life; or waiting in the car while my son runs a 30-minute errand. Who cares that it’s 5:00 in the afternoon, and I’m just now praying for my grandchildren to do well in their studies today? Where they are, their school day is just beginning.

4.      Leaving home can bring an adventure dimension into your life. Don’t resist change. Look at leaving home as a learning experience. Try to maintain a positive attitude. If you’re a young mother, you probably can’t relate to this lesson, because you would leave home in a heartbeat, if it meant leaving the tiring routine of mothering and keeping house. But there are still lessons, little mother, in here that you can glean from what I’m telling you.

But there’s another kind of “leaving home” I’m thinking about this morning. I’m thinking of my husband who “left home” almost eight years ago from our bed in our home. What did it feel like? Was he tied to his earthly home? Was there a struggle to stay? Silly thought here: Is he homesick for his earthly home, for me this morning? Do saints in Heaven relate to a past?

Since leaving home a few weeks ago, a dear friend near my home left his home, and is in Heaven this morning. Was his an abrupt jerking away that took him to his Heavenly Home?

I’m enjoying my “home-away-from-home” feeling this morning, because after a while, you become familiar with your surroundings. Things that seemed strange to you upon your arrival away from home, now seem normal, and are becoming comfortable. In some ways, I will miss this “other home” where I’ve been the past days, when I return to my own home.

Of all the things I do, all the sacrifices I make, “leaving home” is by far the greatest and most painful.

But “This World is Not My Home” must be my theme. This holding on to things, and people, and surroundings must be held very lightly to my heart. Even as I do when preparing to leave home…making plans for that “other home,” I must also while I’m preparing to leave my earthly home for my Heavenly one, “lay up treasures in Heaven.”

Does what I do today have eternal value? Is that what makes dying so painful? Is it the dying that is so painful? Or is the leaving home that hurts so much? The “I’m going to miss you” is what I heard so much when Daddy was leaving home for Heaven. His greatest dread was waiting for Mother once he arrived.

“This world is not my home I'm just passing through,
My treasures are laid up somewhere beyond the blue.
The angels beckon me from Heaven's open door,
And I can't feel at home in this world anymore.”

Chapter 15 - "Super 8"

I’m writing this from the 7th floor of the Holiday Inn near Chicago.  I’ll be speaking this week at a Family Conference, and one of the blessings of being invited to speak to ladies is the royal treatment I’m given…being chauffeured around, fruit baskets full of my favorite treats (mostly chocolates, little fruit, actually)…AND staying in five-star hotels.

This morning I was doing my prayer walk in my room, and since I have a lovely view, I paused a moment to look out my window. Even though it was only 5:00 a.m., it was daylight! Something caught my eye: right across the lane that runs beside the hotel was a sign, and for some reason it brought tears to my homesick eyes. I’ve been traveling now for over seven years, and I still get miserably homesick for my beautiful mountain valley home. But an emotion even greater than homesickness was the nostalgia, past memories. And that nostalgia prompted me to write this chapter.

And this is what the sign said: Super 8, and it was the name of the chain of hotels, or similar at least to the hotels, where my husband and our 8 children and I used to stay. As I looked down on that hotel, I asked myself, “Am I really happier spending the night in the lap of luxury than I was, sometimes when the manager would let us, staying in the room with all eight of our children? My husband and I would sleep on one bed, and sometimes we’d turn the girls cross-wise, and throw pallets on the floor for the boys. If there was a baby in the bunch, she would sleep in her travel bed.

Forget about courtesy breakfasts in those places. We felt honored to be offered stale coffee after 7:00 a.m. in the lobby.

But there was a coziness about those memories. We would travel all day, no reservations, because we didn’t know where we would be stopping. My husband didn’t go for reservations, because he said it put a restraint on the Holy Spirit. (Sorry, Honey, now that you’re not here, I’m a firm believer in reservations!)  

By the time we would find a hotel meeting my husband’s requirements (looking for a room was like shopping for a house. I often thought it would be nice if we could have been able to travel with a real estate agent.) So by the time we would stop, we were so happy to be out of the van, it looked like the 5 star hotel I used to longingly drool over as we passed them on the freeway on the way to another Super 8.

I learned something this morning as I gazed across the parking lot, at the sign on the other side of the trees: “Lord, help me never to forget where I came from. Help me to remember that I’m not a conference speaker. This is not what I do. I’m Mom and Mimi, that’s who I am. I feel more comfortable in an apron than I do in a suit, and You know that better than I do. But help this…this looking down from where I am to where I was remind me of where I am because of Your grace. The circumstances that brought me up here weren’t fun. There was a molding process that got me on the elevator across the road from where I used to be. There were hardships that taught me lessons that I share with Super 8 ladies today. Those ladies think they will always be stuck with diapers and dishes and homeschooling. Super 8 ladies are up all night, and when the night is over, they have it all to do over again.

Super 8-ers don’t think about wardrobes, and hairdos, and plane reservations. They’re happy to get their hair tied back in a pony tail before the last baby wakes up for the day or the doorbell rings. I know. I’ve been there.

Super 8 Moms look out their windows, up at my seventh story window with longing, wishing with all their hearts that they could spend one single day rushing to the airport, going through security…from one moment being treated like a queen, the next moment like a criminal. But they’d gladly change places with me while I stay with their little ones. Oh, the joy of being baby-free for a whole day, to do adult-talk, and browse in airport shops (who cares if you can’t afford anything), and have lunch at the restaurant of your choosing during your long layovers.

You’d save every bag of the peanuts, and the napkins with the airline logo on it to take back to your little ones, the only souvenirs you can afford.

You’d study the latest styles that parade in front of you while waiting to be boarded at your gate. You’d smile at the stewardess, who asks what Madam would like to drink.

And when you got to your hotel room, escorted by the lady who will be at your beck and call all week, you close the door, double lock, and climb into a bubble bath because, Hey, no babies to knock on your door, no baths to give. Just little ole you and you alone to care for.

But from up here, and believe me, Baby, I’ve come a long way…it ain’t what it looks like from down there. Get your little binoculars and take a close look at my face. I’m tired, and I’m exhausted from smiling, and greeting, and hugging, and signing, and speaking. I don’t get a good night’s rest, not at my age, at least from 12:30 a.m. to 4:00 a.m.

And in the midst of people who literally surround me with their love, and lavish attention on me, and who have sacrificed things I can’t even imagine, I sometimes feel a loneliness I didn’t feel down there where you are. I have almost physical waves of homesickness when I hear, “Mom!” I instinctively do a double-take, and tears come to my eyes when I realize I’m the wrong Mom. I’m thousands of miles away from those who call me Mom.

I remember back in the Super 8 days. I had just spent a few days with my parents and my brothers and their families. Mother gave me a beautiful white suit with lace on the collar, and a pink blouse. Super 8 moms don’t do super white suits. So I treasured that suit. The next day was Sunday, and I wore that suit to church. I imagined my self a conference lady, and I was walking in to the church where I would be speaking. Who cared that there were only 25 in attendance. This was my dream, and no one would steal it from me. Looking back over those thirty years ago, I believe that’s where my dream started, like it was a gift God had given me, a longing, a desire. It was like, “This is what I want to do. This is what I was created for.”

I would be invited to speak at small ladies’ prayer groups, or a baby shower, or a bridal shower, and I’d give it all I had. I was like transformed into another lady…that lady up there on the 7th floor. As I would leave my Super 8 room, up the elevator (figuratively speaking, of course) I was another me. Who cared that I didn’t know beans about anything back then, I pretended I had all the answers, and I spoke with authority. Who cared that I was just repeating things I’d heard from the Hyles’ preaching tapes we used to listen to so many times I had them memorized!

For two whole hours I lived on the 7th floor, speaking to Super 8 ladies, and I’d do it with gusto.

There’s a peace, a routine, a sameness in that little Super 8 room that doesn’t exist on the 7th floor. There’s simplicity, a fun-in-common-things that I enjoyed in my Super 8 room that I miss here on my 7th floor.

I love my life, and if I try real hard, I can imagine it adventuresome and exciting. But there’s a fluff up here that’s not needed down in that little Super 8 room. When it’s over, it’s over. And I’m off to another plane, another city, another country, another challenge, more lessons, and reservations.

Down in ole Super 8, it was always the same, never the fluff, then the work; the queen and then the criminal. It’s steady down there, comfortable, nobody to set deadlines for you, or to scrutinize your words, your advice, and your ideas.

You’re surrounded by people who see you before you brush your teeth, who know the real, real you, and not the you that has been dressed up and anointed with expensive perfumes. You can smile if you feel like it, but if you’re sad or discouraged, you don’t have to smile. You don’t have to act like you’ve got it altogether; your kids love you and listen to your advice, anyway. And besides, they are truly the ones who know you ain’t got altogether, kid, and you never will, even if you live to be 68 years old.

I have 8 children, 8 Super Sinners. But they’re my Super 8, and I like to think that most Super kids come out of little Super 8 rooms. Super 8 kids know things 7th story kids don’t know, because they never had to learn them.

Hey, Super 8, Mom. Put down that binocular, look around you down there. Your little brood doesn’t need a 7th story mom now. You can’t be a 7th story mom to Super 8 kids. You wouldn’t have time, and neither you nor they would be happy.

This is what I told my daughter, Sarah, a few months ago. We had spent a glorious week at a ladies’ conference together, just her, her two sisters, and me. She loves her husband and six children, but she said, “Mom, I feel like I’ve been on a honeymoon with Jesus.” And I tell you, Super 8 mom, what I told her, “Sarah, one morning you’re going to wake up and go downstairs for your coffee. You’ll look at your tidy living room, you’ll go into your kitchen where you left every dish washed last night, and there won’t be one dirty sippy cup in your sink. You’ll relax over your first cup of coffee while you read your Bible, and won’t be listening for your baby to cry for her diaper to be changed. There won’t be any sox on the stairs, or toys in the bathtub as you go in for your shower. That’s how fast it will happen.” Your 7th story day is coming, don’t worry. But there are things down where you are now that I miss.

I miss having to please just one man. I miss that wonderful man making all the decisions in my life, because his desire was God’s will for my life, not to worry!

I miss loads of laundry that marked that feel-good feeling you get from really, really having accomplished something extraordinary. I love memories of, “Mmmm, this is soooo good” from a husband who didn’t compare my fried potatoes with anyone’s Crème Brule.

Luxury to me was crawling between sheets that still smelled of Downy and sunshine from hanging in the sun, all in one glorious fragrance.

Didn’t take much for this Super 8 Mom to feel special and loved. “Mom,” I remember one of my teenage daughters saying to me many years ago, and I’ve never forgotten it because it makes me know I’m me, and can never be anyone else. “You do everything so special. Like you have a certain way you get things ready to make lemonade, you never clean your rice before you clean your kitchen. Even if you’re in the middle of making dinner, everything is organized and clean.” (Musta been a blind Super 8 kid.) No matter, I can still feel the glowy feeling, the Super Mom feeling it gave me. And that came from a little teenager.

Super 8, or 7th story Holiday Inn. I enjoy both of them still, and would certainly be an ingrate for not loving the wonderful life the Lord has given me.

He’s given you one, too.

Chapter 14 - "Visions"

Tommy (my oldest son) has big, big plans to visit the other little villages one day. One night, as we were traveling back home, he pulled the van over...well, actually he stopped in the middle of the road, because there is no place to pull off the road. From San Cristóbal, you go down, down, down until you reach the bottom of the valley where San Lucas is located. So at a certain point along the way, at night, you can see the lights of village after village, the most incredible sight. I was sitting right behind Tommy, and he said, "Mom, I'm just going to get out and look at this." In the darkness, no one saw my tears, but I could imagine Daddy getting out, or getting off his donkey, and looking out over that vast valley, seeing past the lights, into homes and hearts, and wondering if anyone would ever go and take them the Gospel.

You know that verse that talks about Mary pondering? I think that must be what that means, and she must have felt like I felt that night, pondering and pondering...my mind and my body were so tired, but God gave me a little more strength to feel joy unspeakable. (Excerpt from a letter to my children.)

The dictionary defines “vision” as the act or power of anticipating that which will or may come to be: prophetic vision;

Have you ever had a vision? Don’t go all spooky on me, now. If you know me, you know I’m the most “un-spooky” person you’ve ever met.

This book is about my children and what I learned from living with them for twenty-three years (the length of time I home-mothered: from the time the first one was born, until the last one was married.) Boy, did I learn a lot from them!

But let me tell you a story from my childhood…actually I was a young adult at the time.

I practically grew up on the mission field of Mexico with my three little brothers. This story probably happened when my middle brother, Lanny, was about 15. My parents were out of town, my “little” brother, Tommy had by then left for Bible College, and my “baby” brother, David, was with my parents. One night I was fixing to go to bed. It was very hot…no air conditioner, so I had my windows open. I turned off the light, and as I was opening my curtain to let the cool evening breeze in, I noticed a figure under the beautiful big shade tree in our front yard. We lived out in the country, right on the highway, and evidently a bum, or a drunk had wandered up in our yard, and helped himself to bedding down for the night in a chair, which was leaning up against the tree. I was sure he wasn’t there to harm me, but just to have a safe place to snooze for a few hours. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to lie down and sleep, knowing a strange who-knows-what was in my yard.

So I did what any red blooded girl would do: I went in and woke up my teenage brother. “Come here,” I know I scared the daylights out of him, “there’s a man under the tree in the front yard.”

He was a mighty brave about-15-year-old, and shot out the door, as if just waiting for an adventure. “Be careful,” I warned him, and I can’t remember to save me if he grabbed a weapon. I think a machete would have been the only one available.

I ran back to my window to watch the scene. Looking back, I don’t know what on earth I would have done if the stranger had attacked him. There were no cell phones back then, and we had no house phone. The nearest neighbor was across the highway, and I would have had to run right past the villain to get help.

I watched as slowly and quietly my brave little guardian angel slipped carefully past my bedroom window, out toward the tree. I could hear my heart, and thought it would beat right out my ears!

But to my surprise, when he reached the ax murderer, he grabbed the empty chair, and turned around, and just shook his head at me. What appeared to be a man leaning up against the tree was just an empty chair someone had left earlier while seeking a shade from the hot sun. My vision turned out to be a harmless chair, with eerie shadows cast from the tree, creating the form of a man in my imagination.

My little sleepy headed brother came calmly back into the house, but I praised him for his bravery. He had no idea what he would confront out there in the dark, but he was willing to risk his life for me.

My adventure turned out to be just a vision formed by the illusion of the shadow cast by that old tree, and probably my wild imagination.

That’s a good story, but it’s not the kind of vision I want to tell you about…the visions I had when my children were growing up.

Neither am I talking about the mystic visions people say they have of angels or devils, or of their future husband.

I’m talking about the vision defined above; I guess a “prophetic vision,” although I’m not a prophetess.  There’s a Scripture in the book of Luke in the Bible that has always grabbed my attention ever since I became a mother. It’s a comment about perhaps one of the most famous mothers of all time, Mary, the mother of Jesus.  It’s found in Luke 2:19, and it says, “But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.” I’ve always “envisioned” Mary sitting there in the stable, right after the shepherds had visited her newborn Son. “To ponder” means according to the dictionary, “to weigh in the mind with thoroughness and care. To reflect or consider with thoroughness”

Can you even begin to imagine what Mary was pondering in those quiet moments right after her Baby’s birth? I can remember so vividly sitting up in my hospital bed (eight times, to be exact) and looking into the face of my precious little baby I had just brought into the world, and “pondering, and pondering and pondering: What will he be when he grows up?...has her husband already been born?...will she someday be sitting here, holding her newborn in her arms?...what will those little hands hold someday?...will he be a doctor like his Daddy?...”

I can almost “hear” you nodding your head. You’ve been there, haven’t you, Mom? Dreams…ambitions…visions!

I can close my eyes, and see him standing there. It’s 7:00 in the morning, really too early for a three-year old to be out of the house. But he determined to go with me every morning, Monday through Friday to my little class next to our house. We lived in a little village called Ixtapa back in the 70’s, and my husband had decided it would be good for the little boys in our boys’ home, to have a Bible lesson every morning. We had taken these little boys, mostly street urchins, some their destitute mothers brought to us. Every morning they would march off to the village school. But before they put “book learnin’” into their little heads, I would teach them a short Bible lesson, go over their memory work, and then teach them a song we would be learning for the children’s choir.

My little boy would stand up as tall as his little legs would allow, open his little mouth as wide as he could, and sing with all his heart.

One morning, I had a vision. I don’t know what else to call it. I was playing my accordion and the boys were singing, just like they did every morning. But this morning was different. Suddenly, my little son looked like the choir boy on a Christmas card. And my mind fast-forwarded about twenty years. He was standing before a large congregation singing with all his might in the most beautiful tenor voice I have ever heard.

As quickly as it appeared, it went away, and was completely forgotten…

…until years and years later. He was in Bible College, and he was singing with his brothers and sisters at a Christmas banquet. There he stood, as handsome as any young man I had ever seen. Suddenly, as if the Lord turned back the clock, I was standing in a little Indian village, accordion strapped to me, and I was looking into the little face of a little choir boy.

A vision? A dream? I don’t know. I never shared this story with anyone until now. Not even back in the 70’s with his Daddy. I think I must have doubted my little country boy could ever stand in a nice church in the USA, much less sing at a fancy American college Banquet. Someone thought he was good enough to sing, though. His music teacher thought he had potential…enough to record a CD with him.

Yesterday, I wrote my weekly e-mail to all eight of my children and their spouses, and I told the story I included at the beginning of this chapter. While I was having “visions” of the past, my son was having a “vision” of the future. I hope he will do the same thing with his children.

Look at those pudgy little hands. What do you see? Let your imagination run wild. I did that early morning, when there was absolutely no one else around to envision in my little boy what he could someday become. Looking back, I don’t think even I believed it enough to share that vision with his Daddy. So impossible!

Impossible?

You know what visions do? They build skyscrapers, and they go to the moon, and they swim the English Channel.

The next time you wash your baby’s hair, or trim her nails, or tie another shoestring, “ponder.”

That’s what that college music professor did with my son.

That’s what my pastor, Dr. Jim Vineyard, did with college kids. He envisioned pastors, and writers, and musicians, and missionaries. He envisioned unlikely kids with diplomas marching across the platform on graduation day.

Don’t limit your vision to the now. Visions turn drab rainy days into exciting challenges. If visions can change a pile of dirty laundry into neatly ironed and folded clothes, if that’s what keeps you diligently working and working until it’s all put away, imagine what visions can do to a stay-at-home mom while she’s explaining a Math problem, or giving out Spelling words.

Sometimes we labor at mommy-ing without a vision. I certainly did. Now that I’m a full-grown Mom, I have the joy of looking back, which is the opposite of vision.

I watch him in the pulpit, reading his passage for the Sunday morning service, and I think, “Wow, I taught that preacher to read!”

She’s a mommy now, and I’m amazed at how she can juggle housework, homework, church work, and six children…at the same time sometimes. And I wow her with, “I don’t see how you do it!” Her response? “Mom, you used to do it with eight!”

I never had a vision of my little girl watching me clean beans, give out spelling words at the same time, and dreaming that one day she would be doing the same thing. But she does!

I never listened, and listened and listened and listened to my little son while he stumbled over the words in his reading exercise, and think, “WOW! I’m teaching a preacher to read!” But I was.

I never dreamed while I listened to him recite the Declaration of Independence, that one day he would entertain a Vice Prime Minister. But he does.

If he’s flying a kite, will he someday be flying Air Force One?

Stumbling through her piano lesson? She could be a concert pianist in your vision, in your dream.

Let’s face it, Mom. Your job right now could be downright nightmarish, when you think of your responsibility. How I flubbed it so many times! I would go to bed at night, and visions of criminals, and druggies danced in my head. That “what’s-the-use” feeling of absolutely being a failure.

I wish I had been smart enough to realize who was putting those visions in my head. It certainly wasn’t the Lord. So when you-know-who puts those negative visions in your head, run him off to where he came from.

Do you want to be successful at anything? You can’t without a vision, whether it’s taking off 20 pounds by envisioning yourself in your dream dress, or tackling that closet by envisioning neatly organized shelves. Can’t do it!

Or maybe you can produce “dream kids” without a vision. I know Moms who didn’t half try, and they have marvelous children, who are mature, responsible adults. But wouldn’t it be fun someday, as you hear a wonderful inspiring sermon, or watch your little girl knead bread while listening to your grandchild recite poetry, and watch as that vision you had 20 years ago unfolds into reality?

Nothin’ like it!

And absolutely nothin’ like mothering. I’m still doing it!

Chapter 13 - "Letter to Lorie"

I have two desks…one in my bedroom that I use when my house is full of children and grandchildren, and one in my living room. This desk I use exclusively for e-mailing (because I don’t have good coverage in my bedroom), or when my house is empty and quiet.

I’m sitting at my living room desk this morning, so you know I’m all alone.

Because I live across the drive from our church here, and because some of my children live within walking distance of my house, I usually sit at my bedroom desk for my early morning writing. Except for the men who came out for 6:00 prayer meeting this morning, I have enjoyed delicious peace and quiet, and at the risk of sounding pious, which I’m not, I’ve enjoyed fellowshipping with the Lord this morning.

Unless you have lived in a busy, noisy house for most of your life, you have no idea how I treasure these rare times…getting up in the morning to a peaceful house, with exactly the amount of dirty dishes I left in the sink last night…none, when I’m alone.

I love watching daybreak through my living room window, walking outside and into our peaceful church building, to turn off the outside lights.

But there’s an obvious downside to solitude. There’s no one around, specifically, no children.

We, and especially I, need to be so careful that we don’t take things and people for granted. I love solitude because it’s so rare to me. But what about the lonely widows all over the world, or the ladies who never had children, or the elderly grandmothers in nursing homes whose children have forgotten them (although sometimes it may be their fault). I must constantly remind myself of how very, very blessed I am to be literally surrounded by people who love me, and whom I love.

While I thank the Lord every morning for this special alone-time He’s given to me, I also know that with time, this could begin to turn into loneliness and boredom because of the lack of challenge of seeing a nice clean house, and all the laundry done. Those are things that keep my life full of “up hills,” and the joy and satisfaction of finally having all those dishes done and actually put away. When I’m alone, those tasks are mere “few-minute-jobs,” and sooner or later turn into routine. There’s no longer pleasure in seeing all my counter tops clean, laundry folded and put away, and not one single thing out of order.

Always-full-cupboards take on a ho-hum effect, and I don’t even have to check to see if I’m out of eggs, since I’m the only one baking and eating here.

With that in mind, I would like to direct this chapter to those mothers who would consider my life right now like a vacation to a lovely Pacific island, or wherever she would like to be…anywhere except where she is right now…surrounded…no, overwhelmed with housework, homework, church work, mission work, and just work in general.

I’m writing this on New Year’s Eve, and always this time of the year, my mind goes back to our children’s college years…the hardest mothering years of my life. In a few days, my children would be returning to college after a two-week Christmas vacation.

Several times in the last few days I have either received e-mails, or talked with ladies whose children will soon be leaving home. In most of these cases, this child is the firstborn, and so a first for these moms.

So I’ve been trying to put myself in their places, and empathize with them. How easy that is for me!

Several months ago, I received an e-mail from a lovely missionary wife/mom. They were fixing to say goodbye to their firstborn. WOW! What vivid memories that brought to my mind. So I share with you the letter I wrote in response to her e-mail. I have changed names, and a few circumstances and places “to protect the innocent.”

Dearest Lorie, (not her real name)

I have already marked July 10 on my calendar with "Smith’s return to Africa without college child," because I'm assuming the child you are leaving behind will be starting college, and that she will be attending Bible College.

My heart goes out to you, and I have absolutely no words of comfort to offer.  For twelve years I waved good bye more times than I care to remember to our eight children, and I can truthfully say that college years were the hardest part of my mothering years.  If your family is like ours was, there will be tears.  You will try to cram all the fun into the last days, and give her all the advice and money you can possible part with.

There will be those many "just one last hug."  I remember thinking, "I don't want to forget what her hair smells like"...or "Will he remember to change his sheets at least once a week? Will he run out of toothpaste?"

If you ask me, Lorie, that's when we really truly "give our children to the Lord."  Dedicating her to the Lord on a Sunday morning when she's a newborn is only symbolic; and we did it with all eight of our children.  If I ever did shed tears on those occasions, they were merely sentimental.

Tears shed while driving away from the dorm, and looking out the back window until you can't see him anymore (what if he runs out to tell me something, just as I look away?)...those are the true tears at the very core of what it means to be a mother, and literally give him back to the Lord.

And although I can't do one single thing to ease your almost physical pain of that parting, I can assure you with all my heart...looking back, as if I were looking through the back window of our old van...looking back over the past nine years since our last one graduated, it is one of the best decisions you will ever make.

Our children are sinners, and they married sinners, and made little sinners.  But if my children ever have amounted to anything for the Lord, in part, and in a huge, huge part, it is because of all the people who influenced their lives during those grueling years:  our pastor most of all; their teachers, classmates (well, some of them), the kids they picked up on their bus routes; members of the church; and pastors and missionaries, whom they would have never in a million years ever met had they not been attending Bible College.  I believe David is a missionary to Ukraine today partly because of the influence of a Russian missionary he had the honor of picking up at the airport and escorting during his college years.

Your children probably need Bible College more than the average child who attends a good church in America, simply because he DOESN’T attend a good church in America.  I can't tell you how ignorant our children were in almost everything from singing in a choir, to eating in a cafeteria.  Their college years gave them (don't laugh) poise and confidence.  Our children needed the exposure to all that they needed in order to be who they are today, and to do what they do.  Never could my husband and I have given them all that.

A few weeks ago one of my children called me early one morning.  "Mom, I just wanted to call you and thank you for all you've done for me through the years.  I believe I'm serving the Lord today because of you."  And I said, "You are who you are because of many, many people God has put into your life."  And probably most of those people were there during his college years.

Please know that on July 10, my prayers and thoughts will be with you, as well as the days before and after your departure.

Your friend,
Mrs. Billie Sloan
Nahum 1:7

I have shared that letter with you for two reasons:

1.      If you’re a “college mom,” or if you’re fixing to say goodbye to your child who will soon be leaving the nest, take heart. This is part of being a mom. Remember, your child needs the people God puts in her life in order to become the person He wants her to be. I’m assuming, of course, that your child is leaving with your blessings.

2.      Recently, three of my daughters and I were privileged to get to spend a week together, without babies, homeschooling, or housework. What precious memories we made together! One of my daughters commented, “I feel like I’ve been on a honeymoon with Jesus.” I told her, “One of these days, you are going to suddenly wake up to a quiet house. All your children will be gone. You’ll go downstairs, and everything will be in order, and there won’t be one single toy or one stray sock in the floor. You’re going to leisurely pour your coffee, and have your quiet time without having your ear tuned to the baby’s bedroom the minute she wakes up. And you’re going to remember how simple life was back then…noisy and busy, but simple.” If you’re longing for a little peace and quiet, a little freedom from incessant laundry and wiping runny noses, and senseless dusting of furniture, fast-forward your life for a few minutes. One of these days, you’ll be sitting at your “empty-house-desk,” wishing with all your heart that your life were as simple as the days when the most important decision you had to make was whether to have mashed potatoes or macaroni and cheese to go with the roast you just put in the oven.