Welcome to the Funny Farm (17 page)

Take, for example, the phrase, “You're not getting older, you're getting better.”

I know this isn't true. Much to my chagrin and dismay, I really AM getting older, and I'm reminded of it daily to boot.

You know you're getting older when you buy a rotary phone at a garage sale, and one of your daughter's friends tries to call home but can't because she's never seen a phone like yours before.

You know you're getting older when you walk into Supercuts, tell the hair stylist to give your kid a Dorothy Hamill, and she looks at you and says “Dorothy who?”

And you know you're really getting older when you take a road trip with your kids, and you need more potty breaks than they do. How come, as we age, the cartilage in our ears continues to grow while our bladders shrink?

One morning my friend Linda called me and said, “Did I wake you up?”

I told her, “Nah, my bladder did that twenty minutes ago. I don't even use an alarm clock anymore. If I need to get up earlier than usual I just drink an extra glass of water before bedtime and limit my nocturnal potty breaks to two.”

Not to mention that weird thing that's happening to my memory. Take yesterday, for example. I looked at my five-year-old and said, “Kacie, go put the cheese away in the . . . the . . . that thing over there. You know. Right there. What's it called again? Oh yeah. The refrigerator.”

All this might be fine and dandy if we lived in a culture where age and wisdom were revered. Unfortunately, we live in a society where youth and beauty are worshipped above all else.

Wealth and power are a close second.

I don't know about you, but it's easy for me to get sucked into the beliefs and values represented on TV, in literature, and in the lives of many around me. When I'm not careful, I find myself buying into the idea that more is better, that my personal comfort is the ultimate pursuit, that what I do is more important than who I am, that marriages are disposable, or that my value as a person is determined by my beauty, youthfulness, or bottom line.

When it comes to shaping my view of my world, my self, my purpose, my worth, and my relationships, I'm tempted to go to the world.

I could be going to the Word, instead.

God's perspective on my life, purpose, and worth should be the only one that matters. Yet I can spend merely minutes a day absorbing his perspective and hours each day soaking up the viewpoints of Tom Brokaw, not to mention those of Monica, Rachel, and Phoebe.

Another cliché I hear all the time is this: You can't teach an old dog new tricks. I don't know about canines, but I'm guessing forty-year-old women are as teachable as they want to be.

I think today I'll make an effort to turn off the world and turn to God's Word.

That is, as soon as I remember where I put my reading glasses.

38

Help Is on the Way

N
OT TOO LONG AGO
I
HAD
“
ONE OF THOSE DAYS.
”

I was feeling pressure from a writing deadline.

I had company arriving in a couple days, and the toilet was clogged.

I went to the bank, and the trainee teller processing my deposit had to start over three times.

I swung by the supermarket to pick up a few things, and the lines were serpentine.

By the time I got home, I was frazzled and sweaty and in a hurry to get something on the table for dinner. Deciding on Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, I grabbed a can opener, cranked open the can, then remembered I had forgotten to buy milk at the store.

Nix the soup idea.

Setting the can aside, I went to plan B, which was leftover baked beans. I grabbed a Tupperware from the fridge, popped the seal, took a look, and groaned. My husband isn't a picky eater, but even HE won't eat baked beans that look like caterpillars.

Really frustrated now, I decided on a menu that promised to be as foolproof as it is nutrition-free: hot dogs and potato chips. Retrieving a brand-new bag of chips from the cupboard, I grabbed the cellophane and gave a hearty pull.

The bag didn't open.

I tried again.

Nothing happened.

I took a breath, doubled my muscle, and gave the bag a hearty wrestle.

With a loud pop, the cellophane suddenly gave way, ripping wide from top to bottom. Chips flew sky-high. I was left holding the bag, and it was empty.

It was the final straw. I let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!”

My husband heard my unorthodox cry for help. Within minutes he was standing at the doorway to the kitchen, where he surveyed the damage: an opened can of soup, melting groceries, moldy baked beans, and one quivering wife standing ankle deep in potato chips.

My husband did the most helpful thing he could think of at the moment. He took a flying leap, landing flat-footed in the pile of chips. And then he began to stomp and dance and twirl, grinding those chips into my linoleum in the process!

I stared.

I fumed.

Pretty soon I was working to stifle a smile.

Eventually I had to laugh.

And finally I decided to join him. I, too, took a leap onto the chips. And then I danced.

Now I'll be the first to admit that my husband's response wasn't the one I was looking for. But the truth is, it was exactly what I needed. I didn't need a cleanup crew as much as I needed an attitude adjustment, and the laughter from that rather funky moment provided just that.

So now I have a question for you, and it's simply this:

Has God ever stomped on your chips?

I know that, in my life, there have been plenty of times when I've gotten myself into frustrating situations and I've cried out for help, all the while hoping God would show up with a celestial broom and clean up the mess I've made of things.

What often happens instead is that God dances on my chips, answering my prayer in a completely different manner than I had expected, but in the manner that is best for me.

Sometimes I can see right away that God's response was the best one after all.

Sometimes I have to wait weeks or months before I begin to understand how and why God answered a particular prayer the way he did.

There are even some situtations that, years later, I'm still trying to understand. I figure God will fill me in sooner or later, either this side of heaven or beyond.

Do I trust him? Even when he's answering my prayers in a way that is completely different than my expectations—even when he's dancing and stomping instead of sweeping and mopping—can I embrace what he's offering? Can I let his joy adjust my attitude? Am I going to stand on the sidelines and sulk, or am I willing to learn the steps of the dance he's dancin' with my needs in mind?

I'll be honest with you: Sometimes I sulk. Sometimes I dance.

I'm working on doing more of the latter than the former.

I guess the older I get the more I realize that he really does know what he's doing. He loves me and I can trust him.

Even when the chips are down.

39

Things I've Learned from My Kids

I'
VE LEARNED LOTS OF THINGS SINCE BECOMING A PARENT.

For example, before becoming a mom I had no idea there was such a thing as “tinkle targets” you could drop in the toilet to give potty-training toddlers something to aim at.

And suction devices to suck snot out of newborns' noses? Well, I never saw that one coming in a million years.

And what about all those childproofing doohickies and doodads? Before becoming a parent, the LAST thing on my mind was rigging my toilet seat so that it would require seventeen minutes of labor, a master's degree, and an act of Congress before I could go to the bathroom.

Since becoming a mom, I've also learned about things like humility.

For example, several years ago I was at a booksellers convention having breakfast with two influential women I'd worked with for years. Linda Holland was a bigwig at my publishing company. Ramona Cramer Tucker was top dog at
Today's Christian Woman
magazine. And I was having the time of my life, because they were both sitting there bragging about my work. Linda was excited about my latest books, while Ramona had just asked me to become a contributing writer to the magazine and was excited about my articles. My head was swimming. If all the congratulatory back-patting I was giving myself was real instead of just in my head, my shoulder would have been pulled out of its socket by then.

About that time, Ramona turned to me and said, “But my favorite story about you—the one we tell around the office all the time—was from ten years ago. I had called you about some project, and we were talking on the phone, when all of a sudden you said, ‘Hold on! I'll be right back . . . my toddler just stuck a peanut butter sandwich in the hard drive!'”

Just then Linda began to laugh. She said, “Oh, that's nothing. She has a new baby now, and last week I was on the phone with her when her daughter set the microwave on fire and gave the cordless phone a bath in the toilet.”

I'm sure the whistling sound I heard then was just in my imagination. If anyone else had heard and asked about it, I would have said, “Oh, don't worry about it, that's just my ego deflating back down to normal.” At least I hope no one else heard it. If they heard it and didn't ask, they might have assumed the windy noise was coming from a different source. Now THAT would have been REALLY embarrassing.

I've learned other things, too, from being a parent, sometimes during the most unexpected moments.

Like a couple years ago.

Kacie is five now. But when she was about two, she had this game she loved to play with her dad. It was sort of like hide-and-seek. Except she was never “it.” She was always the one hiding.

What was really funny was that she always hid in the same two places. If we were upstairs, she covered herself up totally with the quilt on my bed. Every time. And if we were downstairs, she hid under the desk in my office.

Every time.

Sure, Larry would pretend this was a tough assignment. He would roam through the house saying things like, “I wonder if Kacie's in the refrigerator?” and then look in the refrigerator. Or “I wonder if Kacie's hiding behind the couch?” and then look there.

But ultimately, he knew exactly where to find her, because she always hid in the same place.

Which got me thinking.

You know, I do that.

When I'm hurting or confused or rebellious, sometimes I try to hide from God. But you know what? I always hide in the same places. I always run to the same old sins or distractions or addictions and try to hide behind them. I think I'm so clever, as if my heavenly Father doesn't know my tricks already. Like he doesn't know where to find me.

But the truth is that he knows where I am and, like the loving dad he is, he's willing to give me a little bit of time until I'm ready to be found. He lets me play my game until I get sort of cramped and lonely in that secret place of mine, and then he can't wait to scoop me into his loving arms.