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Unusual Potty Training

Our bathroom has double sinks, a nice tile shower, a jacuzzi tub, and one of those "private" potty rooms. You know what I mean? The kind where the toilet has it's own space and you can shut the door and actually be alone while you take care of business.

Not that I ever actually get to use the potty alone...

There have often been little fingers squirming their way under the door.

Absolutely-cannot-wait-45-seconds-to-be-asked questions spouted from the other side of the door.

Many tattlings have been told, and conversations carried on, through the door.

It was there a few nights ago that I looked around and saw the necessities - all the things anyone might need to take care of business - in that little room-within-a-room, but I also noticed something else... stuff nobody wants:

Drips.

Dust.

Smudges.

Stink.

Grime.

Gross!

Seriously, y'all. Ugh.

And yet, so often, I had dismissed it, "It's not that bad." I thought. "It could be so much worse." "I just cleaned it two Saturdays ago!" 

So I reached over and grabbed the brush, pulled the cleaning spray from under the sink, and give it a good scrubbing. 

Truth be told, I was a bit frustrated before I ever went into that little room that evening, so getting the Throne to sparkle was a goal worthy of my focus. And, hey, since I had all that pent-up aggravation energy, I realized I might as well wipe down the top of the toilet and the floor around it, too. Then I noticed that the baseboards were pretty yucky, so I gave them a cleaning, as well. After all that, I couldn't leave the floors in a less-than-next-to-godliness state, so I wiped them down, and finished with the door.

Somewhere in the midst of cleaning, this thought crossed my mind:

What if this little room is like a relationship?

What if we're so used to appreciating a friendship for what it is, all the "necessary" things it offers, that when we start to see little whisps of cloudiness in the corners, we're quick to dismiss or ignore them. "No big deal," we say. "Just a little dust. I'll think about it if it gets worse," Or we might even talk about it: "Hey, did you notice that it's looking a little dingy in here?"  "Oh, I don't know, maybe it's just the lighting." But we never actually take time to see if we need to do anything about it.

And one day, (after it's probably been months but we try to convince ourselves it has not,) when we finally reach over with a washrag to wipe off a little spot, we discover this is much yuckier than it first appeared. It's not just a little whisp anymore. No. Apparently. we've become Dust Bunny Farmers.

And everything, from the teeny spiderwebs in the highest corner, down; is suddenly shown in new light. It's neglected. It's stinky. It needs some quality attention.

So, then, we have a couple of options:

We can take a swipe at it, call it good enough, and go on. 

We can let things go that we think aren't going to send us back to the room with, uh, more urgent use of the facilities. And we can get by. 

Or we can take some time, and scrub away the goo.  We can get down on our hands and knees and get a little dirty. We can focus in on the hard-to-reach places where the dust bunnies have had their parties, even though it makes us cringe to think we've let them live it up this long.

It might be hard.

It might seem daunting.

It might certainly give us an opportunity to feel badly about the state we've let it get to.

Looking at all we're wiping away, we may feel sad because it begins to feel overwhelming.

But as we scrub that space from top to bottom, we begin to see a glimmer of something.

Maybe we're not sure what it is exactly; sometimes it's really hard to tell at first.

And I think it can look differently to each of us.

But when it comes into focus, it's always the same thing:

Hope.

When we acknowledge hope, we can begin to see the beauty at the end of the chore.

The bright whites. The warm woods. The light.

When we embrace hope, we're able to be honest about how we feel and what we see, and be heard.

We're able to listen without judgment, with a humble heart.

We're able to extend trust back to the other person even when it has been broken.

When we extend hope, we hold our hand out to the ones who hurt us and invite them back in.
We are able to let go of anger, bitterness, and selfishness because our hands are free.
And we swim in grace; which is so much better than trying to hold our heads up above slimy waters.

Now, every time I step into my bathroom I'm reminded of this.  And while I haven't come fully to the place where I'm consistently chasing out relational dust bunnies, I am more conscientious about what's beginning to gather in the corners.

(Plus, my housework has stepped up a bit. So there's that!)


Is there a "mess" has God used as a "message" in your life lately?

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An afterthought: I started cleaning the bathroom that night out of exasperation. But the Spirit was so faithful to use it to show me that He speaks gently into my heart most clearly and eases my heart most quickly when I am actively serving others. He drew me out of my stewing to remind me life is about service.  It was a beautiful lesson that, honestly, was hard for me to acknowledge at first. I wanted to think a bit higher of myself than the griminess before me. Thankfully, our Father is so so good and He wants to use every moment, even the struggling ones, to teach us and lead us deeper into relationship with Him for His glory and the good of those around us.

Purpose

Purpose.
Reason for being.
Intention.

Do you ever have days when you wonder if you have any of those?

I've gotta be honest: I do.


And then, my husband puts his arms around me.

My younger sister invites me to meet her for lunch.

My preteen daughter sneaks out of her bed late at night and asks if we can talk.

A friend texts me and asks if I can pick up her kid from school.

My son says, "Mom! Watch!" for the thousandth time.

One of the kiddos on Sunday morning asks a question totally unrelated to the Bible story I am teaching.


And, like sunlight on a cloudy day, I can see it. Purpose. Something for me to do. Something that says, "This is who you are." I am needed. I am welcomed. I am loved.

Some days are just harder than others. But I have seen, and I am learning that:

When I feel invisible, my Father says, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you.." Jeremiah 1:5.

When I feel overwhelmed, my Savior draws me, "Come to Me, all who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you, and learn from Me. For I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls." Matthew 11:28-29.

When I feel adrift, The Spirit reminds me, "For [you] are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that [you] should walk in them." Ephesians 2:10.

Perhaps you are some like me. If so, I pray you can find a bit of encouragement here.
You are especially created.
You are deeply loved.
You are a beautiful example of amazing grace.

Do this: Put your hand on your chest.
Feel that?
Thump-bump, thump-bump, thump-bump...

Purpose.



This post is part of a link-up for Hearts At Home. You can find more great bloggers writing on the same topic over on Jill's blog.

Facebook Asked; I Answered

Facebook asks me, "What's on your mind?"
Well, right now, it's Santa Claus.

Yes, even though we are a few months away (seriously, people, we are only 4 months away from Christmas!) I had a friend who asked how to handle the "Mom, is Santa real?" question, and I thought I would share my response with everyone, just since it is an ongoing conversation.

I understand why people say 'believe to receive.' I do. So please don't take this as anti- that. It's just what we have done because we believe it is best for our family...

First off, we ask them, 'What do You think?' And then we proceed with the convo based on what they say. We don't necessarily come right out and tell our kids Santa isn't real... But then again we never tell them he is real in the first place.
When they start asking questions and they say they don't think or aren't sure that he is real, we talk about the real Saint Nicholas and how he loved Jesus and how he served those around him. And then we talk about Christmas traditions and how the idea of Santa Claus came to be.

The bottom line for us is that we (all of us) spend so much time teaching our kids not to lie, but then we are expected to spend some of what can be considered the funnest moments of their young lives lying to them. That is a double-standard, whether we are willing to admit it or not. So, we decided to not lie.


One thing we battle are the comments that it takes the "magic" out of Christmas when our kids don't believe in Santa. My response to that is
#1 For us, Christmas is not about Santa. It's about Jesus. So that is a non-issue.
#2 None of our kids believe in Santa, and it truly does not change the excitement of going to bed on Christmas Eve and getting up Christmas morning. In fact, I think knowing that Santa is pretend and the freedom in which we can get up on Christmas morning and celebrate Jesus and Family far outweighs anything we thought we had with Santa growing up; as well as any sugar-coated gumdrop dreams we may have walked into Parenthood with.

The other thing we might possibly meet up with is "What if your kid tells another kid that Santa isn't real?" On the one hand, I would want to say, "you're the one lying to your kid, so how can you be mad at me for telling my kid the truth?" I know that sounds harsh, I know, but it is just that - truth. We (corporately) don't tell our children that Cinderella is real. Or that Ninja Turtles are really real. We joyfully tell the make-believe stores and when applicable, the morals of them. So why do we feel so protective of telling our children that Santa is real?

On the other hand, I do understand why it feels "threatening." People want to hold on to the magic and mystery of it all.


So, yes, there is a real chance my kid could tell your kid there is no Santa. Now, whether or not that causes your child to question the validly of the Man in the Red Suit is not set in stone. But it is possible. And quite honestly, while I would feel a little bit sorry because none of us would intend for that to happen, (I do have a tender heart, people!) we will not be sorry that our kids know the truth. They asked, we talked, they know. That's just where we stand on it.

Even though we DO tell our kids they aren't supposed to say Santa is not real one because some kids do believe he is, (which, Sidenote: leads to the question, "Why do their parents tell them he is real?" How do you explain why a parent lies to their child? Can you see what a spot that puts us in? It makes us the "bad guys who don't tell their kids about Santa." But I really don't mind, because like I said, we are doing what we think is best for our family, and so my goal is to always be extremely gracious in my responses.) 

But one time Zack (who was 4 at the time) did say (in the car, with carpool kids in tow) "Santa's not really real." And one of the girls argued with him. I stopped the conversation and she said, "Mrs. Jamie, why is Zack saying Santa is not real?" I told her, "Well, Zack is four, and he says a LOT of things." And that was the end of it. I didn't spoil it for her. But I didn't invalidate my kid's right to his own voice, either. And to us, that is the right thing to do.


Also, while I'm thinking about it, this might serve as a helpful reminder that when you see our children around Christmastime, it might be simpler if you ask, "What did you get for Christmas?" instead of "What did Santa bring you?" Especially if there are other children within earshot. Because, while we do tell our kids to be gracious when people ask them this, and just answer the question, you know as well as I do that you can't exactly control the things that comes out of a kid's mouth. And if they happen to say they got Nothing from Santa, it might raise questions from small-ish bystanders. Forewarned is Forearmed, you know. ;)