She gave me a gift that day.
Years ago, my friend and I sat on my back porch in Uganda–no doubt with tea or coffee in hand. I was preparing for our first home assignment, and the forecasted meltdowns of at least one jetlagged child in a crowded plane where everyone would be able to sleep if it weren’t for your kid.
A few weeks ago, I needed to take my son in to have a couple of teeth extracted.
Can I just say this is not my favorite mom-job?
One (just one) of the problems with writing a parenting book is the whisper spitting in my ear sometimes as I parent my oh-so-real-life teens. Like the one who yelled at me across the lawn this morning. (See? I’m wondering if I should have let you know that.)
Enter the Whisper: And you wrote a parenting book?
I was chatting on the phone with my oldest this week about purity culture–which deserves a post on its own. (I have feelings. Big feelings.)
I expressed to him how tough it is as parents, when some of the less-healthy methods of purity culture are subtracted from parenting –I’m looking at you, shame-parenting–to find something as powerful to direct our kids toward good and keep them from what’s truly bad.
So often, to disciple teens just means making the most of a moment.
We’re training their hearts to engage, connecting their faith with everything: from the cashier at McDonald’s to the bully who slams my kid’s locker on their fingers.
Author’s note: This week was one of those where I was pretty consistently busy nearly until bedtime. I would recommend this pace to pretty much no one.
But I continue to have real-life kids, like the one to whom I have been raising my eyebrows about chores three days in a row. Or whichever one left a fingernail clipping on my sofa. And the one I had to apologize to while editing this version of the post below.
This morning my teenagers are peeling themselves out of bed for that oh-so-exciting first school day after Spring Break. And for all us types with less liturgy in our lives, it might actually be easy to let Holy Week slide into that sludgy pile of Great Things I Really Meant to Focus On.
So I’m tossing both of us a low ball here.
If someone ever asked me what surprised me about living in Africa, I’d have a million answers. Nearly every day held in its ebony hands something to learn or figure out or shake my head over: a motorcycle carrying a coffin. A girl made to sell banana pancakes for a dime in a dangerous neighborhood rather than go to school. Birds the color of the sky.
But I could never have known how working and living among and helping the powerless would change me–to the point it’s now a vital spiritual discipline in my book–and quite arguably, in God’s.
Four years ago, my husband and I squinted through snow flurries as we wound our way to Denver.
We were driving my 13-year-old to an MRI screening for cancer.
Lymphoma is a primary consideration, the radiologist had said, goading us toward the test that day.
I was glad/sad to see high click-throughs for my recent post, When Valentine’s Day is hard.
Maybe I’m reading into it. But maybe some of you are army-crawling through hard times. Or know someone who is. (Or are curious to see exactly how I would tackle that beast.)
![Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language](https://www.janelbreitenstein.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/08/love-languages-text-1.jpg "Now You're Speaking My [Love] Language")
© 2024 THE AWKWARD MOM
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
