You’ll love her right away.

She and her team have written a book that would make a fabulous gift for yourself or a mom in your life for Mother’s Day, and she’s graciously shared an adapted excerpt with us today.

“I show up at the sink to an insurmountable pile of dishes. Nothing is scraped. Nothing is sorted. My limited counter space is overrun with remnants of our previous two meals—room-temp food, wadded up napkins between plates, stray silverware, and pans that need to be soaked. I pause and take a deep breath, aware that the only way to get out of this mess is to travel through it, bit by bit, plate by plate.

To my left, worship music plays softly through the Bluetooth speaker inside the cupboard of drinking glasses. I swing the cabinet door open so melodies can surround my weary soul as I swipe plates with a sponge and place them into the dishwasher. I’m hoping the cares I’ve brought to the kitchen will wash down the drain along with the bits of food I scrape into the disposal.

I’ve never been great at staying ahead of the mayhem, and as we’ve added kids to our family, it has become increasingly difficult to keep a tidy kitchen (let alone a tidy house). Most of the time I hobble along, performing whatever damage control is necessary to get through the day. Despite my best efforts, I constantly feel like our home is in disarray.

Like my kitchen, I am a mess inside—anxious, easily irritated by the squabbles of seven spirited children, weighed down by worries common to mothers everywhere.

Not a single thing I do in the course of a day leads to a satisfying end. I always have more toys to pick up, more laundry loads to flip, and more dishes to wash.

I turn up the volume loud enough to drown out the normal sounds of the kids, but not so loud I won’t be able to hear if an emerging situation requires my attention. Words of hope fill my ears, and the music draws me into another world. I replace noise with noise, but the worshipful words are a solace and an invitation to quiet my heart before God while my hands do the work they know. I am transported to a place where I am both physically present in an ordinary kitchen task and attentive to a deeper exchange between His spirit and mine.

When I show up at my kitchen sink, God shows up, too.”

~Excerpt adapted from “Worship at the Kitchen Sink” by Emily Sue Allen; this is an essay from Strong, Brave & Beautiful: Stories of Hope for Moms in the Weeds by writers from KindredMom.com

Maybe it’s the fact we have nine people living in our house, but it seems to me like there are always piles of dishes in my sink––even if I just finished doing all the dishes. The constant nature of the food cycle––prepare, serve, store, cleanup––is just one of many duties of caregiving that has required more energy than I typically have in reserve…not to mention I’d rather be reading, walking, or doing something creative with my time.

Still, I have come to believe it is a grace from God to draw me back to that humble place at the kitchen sink to repeat the same simple steps every day––a living liturgy to remind me that strength is cultivated by faithfulness. This simple, ordinary cycle is more than a hum-drum task meant to wear me out.

This basic household routine is part of a greater reality: faithfulness is required for flourishing.

For me, it’s less about the dishes and more about the truth of servanthood. Serving my family is not always gratifying. Sometimes it is mundane. Sometimes it is annoying. But when I set aside my boredom and annoyance to do what is needed, I can see the purpose in my service. I am nourishing my children’s hearts and bodies.

I am modeling a good work ethic and what it looks like to care about basic needs with love. I am expanding my children’s understanding of the effort involved in serving them, and I’m teaching them––meal after meal––how to be grateful.

I am empowering my older children to join me in the process of scraping, rinsing, and putting away dishes, demonstrating how we all should be moving toward age-appropriate responsibility for the stewardship of our lives.

I will still let out a sigh when I see the next obnoxious pile of dishes taunting me from my kitchen sink, but that won’t stop me from getting my hands wet to repeat the cleaning process yet again. This is about more than dishes. This is how God grows my character.

In the humble and repetitive chores of caregiving, I am reminded that God continually cares for me. He strengthens me to do what is necessary. He equips me as challenges arise, and He stays with me even after the clean dishes are put away.

When I faithfully serve my family, God nourishes me for the tasks and produces a flourishing life in my family and in me.

The post How to Flourish with a Sink Full of Dishes appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

It’s time to leave the beach, and I dread making the announcement.

The beach has become a reprieve for me in the busy days of parenting our three little boys. They were born within three years, so we never had time to store the stroller. I just kept squeezing them in and strapping them on—the youngest in the proper seat, the middle son curled into the fabric basket beneath it, and the oldest straddling the stroller’s canopy.

Aside from a few squabbles over the good goggles and the buckets without cracks, the boys have been happy and entertained for hours. They are slippery with sunscreen. Sand clings to every inch of their skin and sticks in the creases of their chubby arms and legs.

But now it’s time to go. I try to soften the blow, “In five minutes, we’re going to start picking up our toys.”

“Noooo!” They protest and go on digging, scooping, and filling their sandpits with scoops of water, only to watch it seep away.

I shade my eyes and scan the beach for misplaced towels and water bottles. I toss forgotten shovels and rakes into a mesh toy bag so the sand will gradually fall off and stay at the beach. Sweat trickles down my temple, and when I wipe it away, I realize I’ve swiped sand from one side of my forehead to the other.

Finally, I give the fun-squashing direction, “It’s time to leave. Go wash off in the water.”

Shoulders slump. Heads drop. Protests erupt.

I herd them toward the water to wash away the sand. If they weren’t slathered in three applications of sunscreen, the process would go faster. I remember that hogs supposedly use mud as a sunscreen, and I try to make light of this task. “You’re muddy as a little pig. This sand caked on your neck probably kept you from getting sunburnt.”

The joke goes unnoticed, and as I’m dipping them in the lake, trying in vain to flush away oily sand, the fun officially stops. I’m irritated, and I start barking commands. “Stop. Hold still. Stand up.” I wash one son and send him to put on his flip-flops, but the sand is hot and burns his toes.

“Stand on the wet sand and wait for me,” I holler. He does, but not without kneeling in the sand…again.

When I have completed our de-sanding ritual, we pile toys and towels onto the stroller, and I shove it across the beach toward the car.

For the next 30 minutes, my life goal is to keep sand out of the car, as if my salvation depends on it.

If I can just stay ahead of the chaos to stave off my kids’ meltdowns and messes, then (I falsely believed) I was doing well and pleasing God. This manic race for cleanliness reflected the striving in my heart to stay in God’s good graces.

Back then, I didn’t understand that as a believer in Jesus, my standing before God was fixed. Because of Christ’s death and resurrection on my behalf, I was already in his good graces. In fact, I was “blameless in His sight” (Ephesians 1:4) regardless of how many meltdowns I was mitigating or how many pounds of sand I had to vacuum out of my car.

But on that hot summer day at the beach, I didn’t understand that yet.

So I brush off sand, wipe hands, shake towels, and bang flip-flops together.

Then, from under the stroller, I retrieve my most important ally in my war against sand: my ice cream bucket of cool water. I set it on the pavement, and I lift each boy by his armpits and dip his feet in the bucket. They swish their little toes around, and the water turns brown.

After I buckle them in their car seats, it’s my turn to wash my own feet.

The water is dirty, and my feet don’t really fit in the bucket. I stand on top of my sandals while I try to get every last grain off. Finally, I leap from my sandals into the car. I lean out the driver’s side door and grab my sandals to bang off the sand. Then I swirl the bucket’s sludge into a watery vortex and fling it into the parking lot.

Finally finished, I look around the car to discover that somehow, we are all still covered in sand.

I am reminded that foot-washing has always been a futile chore.

During Holy Week, Jesus knelt in that upper room to wash the feet of his disciples. Their feet were covered in dirt and dung left in the streets by livestock. It was a smelly job. By the time the twelfth pair of feet was clean, the water was filthy. The basin was half-empty, and the towel was sopping and gray.

Was Jesus shaking the towel, flinging dirt, wondering how in the world he was going to keep everything tidy?

I don’t think so because Jesus’s main goal wasn’t clean feet. “You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand” (John 1:37), he told them.

“No,” said Peter, “you shall never wash my feet.” All of Peter’s bold-acting, fast-talking, hard-driving devotion to Jesus couldn’t keep him in God’s good graces. Peter didn’t understand that Jesus wasn’t as concerned about his feet as he was about his heart.

Friendship with Jesus requires a clean heart, but only Jesus can clean it up. Only he can brush away the oily sludge of angry insults we lob at people we should love. Only he can provide the solvent that cuts away the gritty sin that chafes, causes infection, and eventually brings death.

But Peter didn’t understand that yet because the cross was still to come.

Jesus would wash all his disciples’ feet that night as an example of service in a degrading and futile chore. Jesus would love them to the end. But they would still flee, deny, and betray him because a foot-washing, even when given by Jesus, doesn’t permanently cleanse the heart.

In a few short hours, Peter’s feet will be soiled again. He’ll kneel in a mudpuddle made with tears over his denial of the only Savior who could make him spiritually clean.  

At the cross, Jesus endured the punishment that Peter—and you and I—deserved. He felt the burning wrath of his Father against the sin that injures the people he loves. The futility of scrubbing away dirt to make oneself appear holy will finally be revealed for what it is: a symbol, not a solvent.

God will wring from his Son the true solvent—the only detergent that can permanently wash away the sin that clings.

A few weeks later, the Resurrected Christ will invite Peter to walk along the beach and talk. With one question asked three times—Do you love me?—Jesus will assure Peter that his place in God’s Kingdom is secured. He’s been permanently cleansed, even if there is sand stuck between his toes just now.

It’s time for him to leave the beach too. He’s got good news to share. Jesus doesn’t say, “It’s futile.” He says, “It is finished.”

Remembering Holy Week: A 5-Day Devotional

Once again, in preparation for Easter, I’m offering my free Holy Week devotional. Sign up below to receive your free copy.

The post Does it Seem Futile? appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

By the time we met on that May evening in 2014, I was exhausted. I had driven eight hours, located registration, lodging, dining and classrooms, and attended a pre-conference session. When the first key-note speaker that evening was finished, I unpacked my rickety Honda and hauled my stuff up the stairs to our room. Since spring in the Rockies can be unpredictable, I had packed for every temperature and was advised to dress in layers. I waddled into the room looking like a coat-tree with bags, backpack, and purse dangling from my arms and a fist full of conference papers.

Deb Moerke was the quintessential professional. She was real estate agent. At age 63 she was fit as a fiddle since she worked out with her personal trainer–her daughter—every Thursday. I was 23 years her junior and huffing and puffing on the sidewalks of Estes Park like I’d been sitting on a couch for the last decade. Colorado’s elevation is always a smack in the face to this flat-lander.

We were both tired but excited to be attending our first writers conference. While we visited, we unpacked, swapped travel stories, and scrolled through family photos on our camera rolls. Eventually we were in pajamas having a grown-up slumber party when Deb politely asked the question you expect when you attend a writer’s conference.

“What are you writing?”

You’re supposed to have a canned answer prepared before you arrive. It should be clever and interesting. If you do it correctly, somebody important will snatch up your book idea like parade candy and make it into a book with your name on it. It’s called an elevator pitch, because you ought to be able to communicate it in the time it takes to ride from the first to the third floor.
But I had not perfected mine. I didn’t really know if I was a writer or if I was just a busy mom with a brain full of silly ideas who saw an opportunity for a kid-free vacation in Colorado. So, I babbled about a series of Bible stories retold based on unlikely examples of faith in the gospels.

“I’d like to title it Remarkable Faith,” I said. We had crawled into our respective beds, continuing our conversation by the light of the lamp between us when I returned the favor and asked, “How about you? What are you writing?”

“Well,” she said, “My husband and I used to be foster parents. We fostered about 140 children over the years.”

And without a fancy elevator pitch she had my full attention. I’m not going to sleep until I hear the end of this, I thought. We talked into the early morning hours. We were both former foster parents. Hers was a story of radical obedience, unfathomable heartbreak, and unbelievable, real-life plot twists. I could hardly sleep. Finally, I drifted off thinking, “Only God could write that story, but it sure needs to be told.”

Five and a half years have passed. Today, it is my absolute pleasure to tell you about Deb’s book, “Murder, Motherhood, and Miraculous Grace: A True Story.”

Her story reminded me of a parable Jesus told. He said, “Everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock” (Matthew 7:24-25).

Deb and her husband Al built their house and life on the rock of Jesus Christ. They fostered children, hosted students from a local school for the deaf, and helped struggling friends by temporarily caring for their kids.

If I had known the Moerkes at the time, I would have expected God to spare them the steady rain, threatening floods, and repeated battering by the winds of tragedy.

They were not spared. While they were grieving and reeling, God made a mind-bending request, and Al and Deb said yes.

Their story rocked and inspired me. Murder, Motherhood, and Miraculous Grace is a testament to the undeniable, unexplainable, palpable presence of God. He empowers radical obedience and provides miraculous heart change even when the tragedy remains.

In places, the book is difficult to read. As the title implies, a brutal, and unnoticed, murder occurred. But long after the journalists had printed stories and the judges had hung up their robes, God wove redemption into tragedy, and we are witnesses to His glory.

News feeds are littered with devastating catastrophes, but Deb’s story is proof that God deploys his obedient, ordinary people to tend to the carnage so he can bring redemption from rubble.

I invite you to get your copy here.

Deb’s Interview by Janet Parshall

Deb in her own words:

Debra Moerke and her husband, Al, were foster parents for eighteen years, taking in more than 140 children. Debra has served as the director of women’s and children’s ministries of the Central Wyoming Rescue Mission; the executive director of a Christian crisis pregnancy and counseling center; a jail guard; and a jail chaplain. In 2017 she graduated from Gateway Seminary in California with a certificate in Christian ministries. She is currently an associate real estate broker and owner of Stratton Real Estate. Debra and Al live in Casper, Wyoming and have six children and seven grandchildren.

The post How I Learned about “Murder, Motherhood & Miraculous Grace” appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

It wasn’t the worst place for a baby to sleep, but I didn’t like the thought of putting a baby in a laundry basket. For a newborn it would be safe and portable, but I felt ashamed.

Our second son was born ten weeks premature. A job change, a move, and his premature birth had drained our bank account. Our first son, just 14 months old at the time, was still in the crib and a new bed for him was not in the budget. We’d been financially responsible, made the wisest decisions we could, but instead of a six-figure family income, we had accrued a six-figure medical bill. [Read More…]

I’m sharing this story over at (in)courage today. To join me, click here. 

(in)courage sends daily notes to encourage your heart. If you’d like that, you can sign up here to receive free notes from (in)courage, delivered daily to your inbox!

The post The Remedy for Disappointment appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

I tiptoed over squeaky floorboards toward my living room and accidentally kicked a mound of unmatched socks. Books I meant to read were piled on my side table. My Bible laid opened on the ottoman, with red pen scribbled across the 91st Psalm and a three-year-old’s signature scrawled over the footnotes.

Collapsing in my armchair, I began to cry. Not loudly, of course. I didn’t want to wake the nappers, which made the shoulder-shaking, headache-inducing cry that much more miserable. My overwhelming fatigue required release, but it had to be silent if I wanted to “have my cry” all alone. And I did.

I’d been reading to my kids from our Children’s Bible every night. The disconnect between the heroes of the faith we read about and the disaster of my own faith made me feel like a slimy hypocrite.

In my earliest memories of Sunday school, I sat on a thin carpet square in an echoing church classroom. The industrial carpet was brilliant turquoise and smelled of antique basement. Other children wriggled in close as my mom told the Bible story of a little boy who gave his five barley loaves and two fish to Jesus. With them, Jesus fed a meadow full of people. She distributed colorful postcards with a vivid image of the scene that transported me to that hillside, and I believed.

But over the years, my childlike my faith had become cluttered. I thought if I “did hard things” and if I “let go and let God” and if did things “right” then everything would turn out right. Inspiration plucked from coffee mugs and bumper stickers had stacked up in my soul alongside misunderstood scriptures like so many unmatched socks.

If I was obeying God in the regular work of mothering, then why did it feel so hard?

I had friends who were doing really hard things—homeschooling, parenting large families or medically fragile children, even building orphanages in Haiti!

I was barely making it to church. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that the free childcare provided by the nursery may have been my main reason for attending church during that season. “Everyone else” was performing remarkable acts of faith and ministry, and I could barely fix supper.

I began to suspect that something was wrong with my faith. I was disappointed with myself, and I was certain God was disappointed in me too. The Bible heroes my kids and I read about were giant-slayers, ark-builders, and sea-crossers!

Followers of Jesus were supposed to be great examples like that.

Weren’t they?

Thumbing through our Jesus Storybook Bible, I read this shocking statement by Sally-Lloyd Jones, “the people God uses don’t have to know a lot of things or have a lot of things—they just have to need him a lot.”

Now there was a qualification I could meet. But for some reason I didn’t completely trust the “children’s Bible.” Thankfully, over the next few months I read through the gospels in my grownup Bible, and I discover the same clarifying truth.

Throughout the gospels Jesus regularly commented about people’s faith. But they weren’t the people you’d expect. They were some of the most unlikely “heroes” in the Bible. We don’t know their names. We only know them by their afflictions—the hemorrhaging woman, the Samaritan leper, the paralytic. What did Jesus notice about them when they crossed his path? Their disease? Their interruption?

Maybe.

But the thing he remarked about–even marveled at–was their faith. The fact was indisputable: they were people who knew they needed Jesus a lot. They brought him their desperate needs, and he commended their faith.

For many of us, somewhere between the carpet squares of Sunday school and the living room chair, our understanding of faith becomes cluttered. Growing up means doing things yourself, becoming independent, and achieving more. But faith in Jesus is not a matter of great, independent achievements.

The stories of those eight nameless and afflicted individuals taught me that saving faith is a matter of dependence on Jesus.

As Jesus spoke to a father with weak faith, as he lifted a woman from a pile of dirty laundry, even as he angered the religious leaders of his day by rescuing the helpless, Jesus showed himself to be the hero. And the response of the rescued person was to worship and thank him.

Jesus was not demanding that I “Go therefore and be a Bible hero.” And if I had read the stories of the ark-builders and giant-slayers more carefully, I would have seen their “achievements” were because of their dependence on God.

It was a clutter-clearing revelation for me.  We are not responsible to make ourselves a “hero of the faith” or even a perfect example of great faith. Our job is to rely on Christ–to point to him as the hero. He gives rest and relief to weary Christians. Over time you might find that your children, neighbors, or coworkers are looking toward Jesus too because they saw how he rescued you. And by God’s grace you will have become the faithful example God meant for you to be all along.

{I had the privilege of sharing this post at Kathi Lipp’s blog here.}

The post Cluttered Faith appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

Every Sunday night we have movie and charcuterie night at our house. I slice up cheese and sausages, lay out crackers, pickles, dried fruit, and popcorn, and I put stacks of napkins on the coffee table in lieu of plates. Everyone puts on their pajamas, and we crowd around our snacks together on the floor.

Sometimes my husband and I introduce our kids to classic movies from our childhoods, and sometimes we rent the latest animated box office hit. It doesn’t really matter what the movie is about because at some point the plot will take us to a predictable point of disaster, followed quickly by the denouement when everything is put back together again.

On our most recent movie night, we watched an animated tale unfold with the same old classic story line of setting, rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution. It’s often between the climax and the falling action when the story seems to be irreparably broken. You know it will be fixed in the end, but first you have to feel the tension of a questionable outcome. True to form, our movie of the night seemed to be heading in a bleak direction when the protagonists were feared dead and the world they lived in was in absolute shambles. You’re pretty sure the story doesn’t end there, but you wonder how it can be fixed.

When we got to the bit between the climax and the falling action, our ten-year-old turned from the screen to look at us with questioning eyes and said, “Where is the bright, new day? I hate this part when everything is falling apart. We need the bright, new day to show up.”

My husband and I laughed because of course the bright, new day was only minutes away. This was an animated film, after all. Sure enough, the story righted itself and ended happily ever after. But I thought my son’s question was an interesting response to a broken story.

Our Broken Story

Because we’re always trying to think with a gospel lens, I think my son’s question is the one we often have when we look at a world that seems irreparably broken. Just in the last three weeks my husband has preached two funerals. In the last nine months, we’ve buried three church members. People we love have been diagnosed with diseases, lost loved ones, and have faced financial ruin. We watch earthquakes reduce nations overseas to rubble, and we struggle to reconcile the deep political divide in our own country.

Sometimes a psalmic “How long, O Lord?” is all we can muster when we look at the sin and suffering around us. When will the Lord fix a shattered story? Sometimes it’s the suffering we see in the mirror that begs the question. How long, O Lord?

I love that question because it sounds a lot like Where is the bright, new day? It suggests that there is a different ending coming, even if we can’t yet see it. As believers in Christ, we know that suffering and sin and death have only a short-term hold on us. We know that this bit between the climax and the falling action feels long, but one day the Lord will return and we’ll have a denouement like no fiction writer could ever imagine. The gospel story follows the classic story line but comes with a double resolution.

The Double Denouement

The first climax of the big gospel story occurred at a manger, a cross, and an empty tomb, and reconciled us to God. But the gospel story doesn’t end there. Though the kingdom has come, it is still coming, and the centuries-long tension that begs the question, Where is the bright, new day? will shatter when the King shows up as a warrior to right all the brokenness of earth. He’ll come to judge those who have rejected Him and raise those who have hoped in Him. Death will not have the final say for the people of God. Jesus will. His first victory secured a coming, final one.

Paul says to the Colossians, “When Christ, who is your life appears, then you will also appear with Him in glory” (3:4). Glory is coming, and with it our rest and resolution. Christ is our bright, new day, and His coming is sure even when we find ourselves standing in the rubble of a broken story line. The resolution is sure because our hope is sure. If you’re struggling to put the pieces back together after an explosion of grief and heartache, if you’re staring down your final chapter with fear, if you’re looking for the bright, new day without success, know that for those who are in Christ, the happiest of endings is still coming. He is our bright, new day, and in the end (which will also be our new beginning) He will bring all the resolution our hearts could ever hope for.

Dear friends, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet been revealed. We know that when He appears we will be like Him because we will see Him as He is. And everyone who has this hope in Him purifies himself just as He is pure. (1 John 3:2-3)

{This article first appeared on GlennaMarshall.com on October 8, 2018}

Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural southeast Missouri, where she tries to keep up with her two energetic sons. Glenna is the author of The Promise Is His Presence (P&R, 2019). You can connect with her at glennamarshall.com, where she writes about suffering, biblical literacy, and God’s faithfulness.

The post Where is the Bright, New Day? appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

“Change” gets a bad rap, especially in the song. But recently I’ve been really thankful for change. For instance, we’re done with elementary school. We have three–almost 4–drivers in the family. Everyone sleeps. It’s a world away from where I was 12 years ago.

In the fall of 2005 I was tending to ear infections, fevers, snotty noses and all the tell-tale signs of teething. I’d like to send that zombie-mom a letter, although I’m not sure she would have believed a word of it.

Writing letters to your former self seems a bit like an internet fad. But it wouldn’t be the first fad I’ve been on board with. When Exposé was singing “Seasons change…” I was rolling my jeans, scrunching my socks, and arriving at school with a force field of Aqua Net hovering ’round my bangs.

Clearly, I’m not above fads. So in light of changing seasons, I’ve written a letter to my 30 year-old-self. (Or to any young, struggling mamma.)

Hey there 30-year-old Mamma. It’s your 42 year-old self.

I know you’re shocked you’ve lived this long because right now, you feel like you’re about to die. Death by toddler. Death by diaper. Death by sleep deprivation. I’m not going to tell you this doesn’t stink, because 12 years later, I’m still a little traumatized by three boys in three years. It’s rough. Don’t beat yourself up.

You’re 30 years old, and right now you’re berating yourself for not having your stuff together. You’re trying to psyche yourself up by saying “Millions of mothers around the world for millennia have raised 3 kids and more!” That’s true, but you falsely believe that “millions of mothers” did it all, did it better, and did it without tears. But they didn’t. It’s possible God keeps the oceans full by gathering the tears of moms throughout history.

In a few years, the worn-out, worried moms like you are going to discover something called a “blog”–it involves the “internet thing” that ties up the phone line–and moms all over the world are going to discover that no one is mothering without tears…and some yelling. In fact, they’re going to start sharing tips and candid stories that will make the sad-tears and yelling less frequent. Some of them are even going to become friends without ever meeting in person. It sounds creepy, but you’ll get used to it.

I know you saw every hour of the night last night as the the boys took turns waking up all night long. You’re not the world’s worst mom. You’re just tired. Taking care of little people ages 0, 1 and 2 is tiring.

Here’s something that’s going to blow your mind. In less than a year, your oldest is going to learn how to turn on the VCR by himself. So when he wakes up his little brother at 5:03, they can watch Clifford until 5:45 and you can “sleep in.” He’s a smart kid, so just show him where the “eject” button is, and you’re golden until all the tapes need to be rewound.

I know you’re shedding happy tears about that. Brace yourself, there’s more good news ahead. In less than 10 years none of them will even want to get out of bed!!

And cut yourself some slack on the baby weight. Do not even try to start that running program you printed out. You’re too tired, and it will only make you angry and irritable when you can’t get it done. Shoot for sane, not skinny.

You can save yourself some much-needed cash by not buying the Spanish Barney video. They only word the boys will remember is “elefante” which won’t be very useful on the plains of the Midwest. Besides, they’ll be taking Spanish in 8th grade and will learn actual sentences. So check off “bi-lingual exposure” from your parenting to-do list.

Speaking of videos, you’re all nerved up about the fact that they’re watching TV for hours while you brown burger, load the dishwasher, and disinfect door knobs. I know you’ve asked the doctor if their (your) addiction to TV will cause seizures. She was right. It doesn’t. You’re starting to wonder, though, if screen time makes them act up more. Follow your instinct there, because it does. They have energy to burn, so use the cash you saved by not buying Spanish Barney and save up for an indoor trampoline.

They’ll always love screens, but someday they’ll create a drawings, motorized boats, and learn to solve a Rubik’s cube from the screens. Monitor, but relax a little. Their brains aren’t rotting…much.

You’re wondering if they are getting anything at all out of going to church and your night time Bible story books. To be honest, they won’t remember many specifics. But don’t be discouraged. Keep doing it. You’re leaving an invisible fingerprint on their hearts. They won’t remember the exact words, but they’ll know you loved Jesus.

In 12 years, you’ll roll out of bed at 6:15 and feel relatively rested. You’ll hear clattering in the kitchen and find the boys getting their own breakfast. Everyone will dress themselves, pack their own backpacks and leave for school without you. Sit down for this . . . your oldest will drive them to school.

And you know what you’re going to feel?

Thankful.

Some people are going to tell you “You’ll miss this ‘little’ stage” and in a way you will.  Pictures of chubby-cheeked smiles and pudgy legs bulging out of diapers will make you cry because you’ll remember the war between sweetness and stress. But when they pull out of the driveway and you sit in your dark, quiet, kind of picked-up house with coffee and your Bible, you’re going to feel exceedingly thankful.

I’m not saying it’s a cakewalk, but the rugged, sleep-deprived, stressful years your’re smack-dab in the middle of are the foundation for your future gratitude. When you get a few years of distance between now and later you’ll be so grateful because you’ll see how God walked with you–even carried you–through the rugged years.

When funds are low and tempers are hot and the only thing getting you to church is the promise of a church nursery worker, God is carrying you. When you roll the van, and bawl your eyes out in the dentist’s chair, and get dismissed from jury duty, He is with you.

And when you remember it all, you won’t even feel mad at him. You’ll just feel grateful for a tender Savior who promised his constant presence, and has faithfully delivered.

Hang in there, Mamma. He’s holding on to you.

Sincerely,

P.S. Need some encouragement, Mama? Sign up to receive encouragement for your busy, weary mama-soul. (+ a printable prayer!)

The post Unlikely Reasons for Gratitude: Change appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

I wrote about it today over at The MOB (Mothers of Boys) Society’s Blog. And I’ve included some pictures of our process below.

Incredibly, veggies, fish and even sweetcorn were cooked to perfection!

Be sure to check out why in the world we did this over at The MOB Society today!

The post Making Stories Come to Life this Summer appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

The mechanics of life become a bit more complex in the teenage years. We teach them to drive, and to answer out loud when spoken to (though it seems by this time it should go without saying!).

But it’s only when we look back on what we’ve learned from our own mothers that we get a glimpse of the volumes of wisdom housed in our hearts. We know how to tie and drive and be polite because she taught us.

But we know how to live because of how she lived.

Some learn by a negative example what not to do. Some are fortunate enough to learn from a positive example. I was one of the fortunate ones.

My mom and I had our disagreements. I distinctly remember seething at having been made to take a bath. I silently vowed, “I will NEVER make my kids take a bath if they don’t want to.”

Whoops.

For Mother’s Day this year, instead of reflecting on my own wild adventures in motherhood, I wanted to share a few nuggets of wisdom I learned from my mom.

On performance and perfectionism: “No one cares if you mess up.”
At every performance and violin recital I could count on a major blunder. I dreaded performing, especially solo pieces. Twenty-five years later I still get nauseated, sweaty, and shaky before performing. When I bemoaned my musical guffaw, my mom always said, “Hardly anyone listening even knows you’ve messed up at all! Besides no one cares if you mess up!” Of course I never believed her, and repeatedly responded, “Well, I care!”

I’ve repeated the same words to my boys when they’ve fumbled at the piano keys. Because now I know it is true. Very few know, and even fewer care, if you mess up. We are delighted to hear you play at all.

On Breaking Up: “It’s better to rip the Band-Aid off fast.”
This might be one of my favorites, because of the clear sensory analogy. Who prefers having the Band-Aid pulled off slowly—plucking two hairs at a time from a tender injury over an agonizing period of time? Rip that baby off in under a second and be done with it. It still hurts, but it’s over. I applied this wisdom without regret.

But beyond her analogies taught from the pulpit of the kitchen sink, we also learned from how she lived. My mother lived what she believed. She practice what she preached. And she taught that lesson—not with pep talks or analogies—but with her life.

At age six, on the evening before I was to register for Kindergarten in British Columbia CA, I heard my dad’s friend call my mother from the hallway of our house. It was strange to me. As I drifted off to sleep, I made a mental note to ask mom in the morning what he said. Though his voice wasn’t panicked, it was unexpected.

By the next morning I’d forgotten about it. I dressed for kindergarten registration in my favorite outfit which I’d laid out the night before—bell-bottom hip-huggers and a rainbow shirt. My mom called the three of us kids to come to the bedroom we shared. She sat on the edge of the bottom bunk. When I sat next to her I could see she had been crying. She was on the verge of tears again when she said with very little prelude, “Last night Daddy went to live with Jesus.”

We were ages 2, 4, and 6, and in unison we began to cry. I remember thinking we sounded like a tornado siren as it crescendos. We wept and asked questions. She wept and explained as best she could.

At moments like that, the promises of Scripture are tested by real life and real death. Is it true, as the Apostle Paul says, that we “do not grieve as those who have no hope?” (1 Thessalonians 4:13) Leaning on her Savior and His word, she taught us this truth: for those who trust Christ, death is not the end. It is the beginning.

But the words she used were much simpler than Paul’s. She merely told us, “Daddy went to live…”

It was the first of many ways I would see her faith demonstrated as she leaned heavily on her Savior. She cried with us as we missed our daddy. By her example, she taught us to “weep with those who weep and rejoice with those who rejoice.” (Romans 12:15)

She lived it honestly, though.

One Sunday, perhaps only a year after losing my dad, I walked into the sanctuary at church to hear my mother singing a solo during choir practice.

When peace like a river attendeth my way,
when sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
it is well, it is well with my soul.

I was shocked at my mother’s lovely voice. Of course I’d heard her sing before, but it was perhaps the first time I’d heard her solo from the choir loft, and something about the vaulted sanctuary lent resonance and volume. I was amazed and proud. That’s my mom.

When practice was over, I asked if she was going to sing it on Sunday. She replied, “I don’t think I can,” and I knew what she meant. She was just a year into widowhood, and it was not yet “well with her soul.”

She believed someday it would be, but she didn’t feign “wellness” before she was actually well.

Years later she told me that days before my dad unexpectedly died she had read Psalms 68:5, “A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.” It stuck with her for no apparent reason. She did not know of any widows or orphans in her circle of family or friends. But in hindsight she saw her reliable Savior providing for her in advance just as he’d promised, “For your Father in heaven knows what you need before you ask him,” (Matthew 6:8).

He knew, and he gave what she needed before she had asked. Between an international move, six years as a single working mom, remarriage, and the challenges (courtesy of yours truly) of blending two families, she had plenty of opportunities to rely heavily on her Savior.

These are the lessons that can’t be broken into chapters and points. You’ll find books on grief, parenthood, and integrity. But the most memorable way to learn is by observing a life governed by the loving boundaries and comfort of God himself.

That is my mom.

The writer of Proverbs 31 describes a woman of noble character and says “Her children rise up and call her blessed.” As the daughter of such a woman, I would add, it is a pleasure to do so.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. Thanks for teaching me with your life. I love you.

The post That’s My Mom: A Tribute appeared first on Shauna Letellier.

But I married a basketball player—a small-town, high school stand-out, I’m told. My basketball history is less stand-out-ish. I remember sort of  watching exactly one basketball game. Lakers versus Celtics. It was a high stakes game. Die-hard Lakers fans like my brothers sported purple and yellow high-top sneakers for the entire season in an act of loyal devotion. It was Bird versus Magic, and I was nervous.

Why? I have no idea.

I just desperately wanted the Lakers to win because everyone else did. In fact, I wanted them to win so badly, I couldn’t even watch. After checking the score, I’d run to my bedroom to frantically work on my knotted bracelet of embroidery thread. It was the best remedy for my tattered nerves.

In seventh grade I “went out” for basketball. It seemed a logical decision after such an emotional experience with that Lakers’ game I sort of watched. But I didn’t understand all the talk about running the offense, and playing defense because—ahem—I didn’t know the difference between offense and defense.

Apparently the coaches assumed such facts were a given for seventh grade girls. They might have explained it, but I was probably talking, or worrying about how I looked in gym shorts. Somehow, I missed it, and basketball was very confusing. I lasted two weeks, and then I quit.

Several years later as a high school cheerleader, I was finally able to sort out the confusion. Offense: put the ball in the hoop. Defense: keep the ball from the hoop.

Since then Kurt and I have watched a lot of practices and games. Kurt has tutored me in the basics, and I’ve learned a ton from my boys and their coaches.

But it still came as a shock to my entire family when, for the first time in my life, I filled out a NCAA bracket.

March Madness. Until a couple years ago I thought it had to do with St. Patrick’s Day.

So why did I do it? Primarily for entertainment value for me and for the boys. When they laugh about my predictions, I laugh at their utter disbelief that I could have picked THAT team! We are making memories.

I’m a huge fan and follower of our local 5th, 7th and 8th grade teams, but I can’t recall the last time I watched an NCAA game, so their incredulity is warranted. I didn’t really know what I was doing. Thankfully the NCAA listed each team’s record. I loosely based my picks on each team’s record but failed to take ranking into account. (So that’s what those little numbers were!) I chose a few random upsets for my own entertainment.

My youngest looked at my bracket and gave a humored “Pffft.” He ran to his brother’s room and I heard him say, “Guess who Mom has playing in the second round!!” There was a pause and then cackling laughter. They both came to the kitchen where I was carefully (or not) making my predictions, to see if it was as bad as they thought.

I played the part. “Hey, no cheating! You can’t look at my bracket!” More incredulous laughter. “I’m writing my name on here so no one tries to claim it.”

They rolled their eyes and assured me, “No one will take your bracket. “

I’m not without my sources though. I heard Kurt say Vegas picked Duke to win it. I reasoned that Vegas has a vested interest in folks losing, so I picked Kansas to win simply because I have roots in the Sunflower State. Looks like Vegas and I were wrong.

And even though Kansas didn’t win, I still feel like I did because we still has shared experience + family memories + laughter.

This is the ministry of March Madness. I’m taking one for the team. The family team. If someday my boys sit around the living room and recall “the year mom filled out a bracket,” my efforts will not have been in vain. If being the butt of every NCAA prediction joke means we have shared experiences and family memories, I win.

Sometimes the ministry of motherhood looks like teaching, nurturing, and feeding.

But sometimes it looks like March Madness.

Tell me about your atypical, unconventional ministry to your family! 

The post The Ministry of March Madness appeared first on Shauna Letellier.