Fiddledeedee

I’m going to begin this post by venting a little.  Usually I vent first, find the humor, then go to the keyboard. But I haven’t found the humor yet.

Since I homeschool my kids, and lead an Awana group at church during the week, I don’t spend nearly enough time with children.

So I recently started volunteering my time to teach Sunday School every other week.

If you don’t know me well, I’m being facetious.  Because of my high-strung nature, I may very well be spending far too much time in a position of teaching.  Enter the Extra-strength Excedrin.

Anyhoo.

A hot button issue with me and childcare at church, is the area of security.  One of the reasons that we joined our church is because we love that they have a heart for the children, have a children’s pastor that has a heart for the children, and they CARE about the children’s well being.  And have security measures in place to make sure that parents can feel secure about entrusting their offspring to the ministry workers.

I dearly love my church.

When children are checked in to their classes, they wear a name tag with a corresponding number that matches the one their parents bring with them to pick the children up.  Since I just started teaching this particular class, I’m not familiar yet with which parents match up to what children.

On Sunday, I had a dad come to pick up his daughter early.  I had run into him a few minutes before when I escorted two of my girls from my class down to the drinking fountain.  He exchanged a few words with one of the girls, leading me to assume it was his daughter.  He did not say a word to me.

So when he showed up at the classroom early to pick up his child, I asked him if he had her tag number with him.  He was clearly put out that I would ask, and said in a rather surly tone, “No, do I need to go find it?” I said to wait just a second, and I was going to ask my co-teacher if she knew that was the girl’s dad and it was okay to release her to him.  Before I had a chance to check, he said brusquely, “I’ll just leave her.” The little girl had all her things and clearly wanted to leave with him, so I quickly asked my co-teacher, and she said absolutely yes, that was the girl’s dad and it was okay.

I told the little girl to have a great week and off they went.  The father left without saying a word to me.

I was a mad little hornet.

The security measures are in place TO PROTECT YOUR CHILDREN.  How dare him act as though it was an inconvenience for me to ask him for the tag.  And btw, I LEFT MY 3 CHILDREN AT HOME WITH THEIR DAD BECAUSE THEY ARE STILL COUGHING, TO COME AND TEACH YOUR CHILD!

And besides, I knew of a church that released a child to a non-custodial parent, the church was sued, and they lost everything.  So there.

All this was swirling around in my head.  While I attempted to focus on the virtue we were teaching the rest of the children.

Compassion.

How to look around us and recognize the needs of others.

While I was griping about my time at Sunday School with Fiddledaddy, he reminded me of a few things.

The church is kind of like an emergency room.  Full of broken people.  We absolutely cannot look solely to each other for any kind of spiritual fulfillment or encouragement.  That’s only going to come from the One who came to earth without blemish.  The One who died for our sins.  The One who endured that suffering so that we can enjoy eternal life.  Even though we absolutely do not deserve it.

Because we all have crap we’re working on.  I know this because I’ve got a whole bunch of luggage that God is dealing with me about.  A WHOLE BUNCH.

So instead of judging that man for his actions, I need extend enough grace to look beyond myself and see that he may be in a really difficult place.  What if he just lost his job?  What if his wife was ill?  And a million other what ifs’.

Compassion.

Caring enough to do something about someone elses need.

Ephesians 4:32
Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.

Today the Sunday School teacher learned a very valuable lesson.

Christmas is only 8 weeks away.  Plus a little change.

Does that strike fear into your heart?

I cannot even wrap my head around the fact the October is nearly over, especially since our temperatures have risen back up to the point that I break a sweat going out to retrieve the mail.

And that’s just wrong.

One clue that signals the start of the holiday season is the distribution of shoe boxes for Operation Christmas Child.  Operation Christmas Child is sponsored by Samaritan’s Purse, and is frankly one of our very favorite children’s charities.

The premise behind Operation Christmas Child is to reach millions of children all over world.  Children who are impoverished and may not know the love of Christ.

Shoe box distribution begins at the grass roots level, through a church or other organization.  Volunteer families fill the shoe box with small gifts of toys, art supplies, basic hygiene needs, for example and choose the age and if the box is filled for a girl or a boy.  You can also include a family picture and letter for the child.

We’ll be filling boxes for our Awana group and the girl’s American Heritage Girls scouting troop this year.  Each year that we’ve done this project, my kids have thoroughly enjoyed hand selecting what should be carefully packed into their child’s shoe box.

I cannot tell you how many stories I’ve heard about a child receiving an Operation Christmas Child shoe box at Christmas time, and how that one small act of kindness completely changing the course of their life.

And as you might know that I’m a hot weeping mess every time our church shows the video announcing the start of Operation Christmas Child.

Blessed are the little children.

Last week at church, I heard about a little girl in our Awana group that inspired her entire elementary school to get involved in the program.

A public school.  And yes, it had to be approved by the School Board.  And it passed.  Which is astonishing since Operation Christmas Child is an evangelical Christian organization.

That made my heart happy.

For more information on how to get involved with Operation Christmas Child, please visit their website.  You can order free materials for your own group or church, or find out where the closest drop off location is.  The national collection week is November 16th through the 23rd.

As we get closer, I’ll share what my children have packed this year.  Jensen is even going to pack a shoe box.  I’ll have to inspect that particular box very very carefully.

He’s not above an attempt to ship a pesky older sister off to another country.

Me:  “Honey, I just found out that P31 Ministries is offering a scholarship again this year to attend the She Speaks Conference coming up July 31st to August 2nd.  I need to write about why I want to go.”

Him (ripping into a bag of tortilla chips):  “Did you read the post that won last year?”

Me (getting him a bowl):  “Yes, Karla wrote it and it was wonderful.”

Him (ignoring the bowl):  “Well.  Just copy and paste that one.”

And with that, he left the room, trailing tortilla chip carnage in his wake.

He’ll be here all week, ladies and gentlemen.

I attended She Speaks last year.  On the writer’s track.  I was blessed by the speakers and attendees in ways that I’m still processing, a year later.

I desperately wish to attend again this year.  But not on the Writer’s track (although the readers of this blog are all sending up a collective prayer that I will rethink this position).

I really feel led to be placed on the Speaker’s Track.

In this last year, I have been asked to speak.  In public.  In front of people.  People with ears.

And I said yes.  Which is odd because I have a deep and abiding fear of speaking in public.  And interestingly, when I’m nervous, the most inappropriate stories seem to fall from my mouth.

I think that should I attend the She Speaks conference on the Speakers Track, I might learn a lesson like; “Always ask if you will be speaking from, say, a holy alter in the sanctuary of God’s house.”

And if so, you won’t plan a talk that includes factoids about yourself like how you were named after a stripper.

Or you might not feel compelled to relive the story about how you turned around in the library one day only to find your 3 year old son naked, from the waist down.

Things like that.

I believe that laughter is God’s medicine.  And this is why my blog rarely tackles the tough issues.  My blog is a respite for weary moms like myself, who just need to prop up their bunny slippered feet and laugh at their predicament.

I want to be able to do the same thing when I’m asked to speak to the moms in the trenches.  And yet, have my wits about me to tie in what God is whispering in my ear.

Oh Lord, let my words be a healing salve, even when sprinkled with bathroom humor.

To read more entries from many women who are such a blessing to the internet, head over to Lysa’s blog.

Recently, I spoke to a group of homeschoolers at a conference.  Unbeknownst to me, I was to give my speech in a sanctuary.  A holy place of worship.

And interestingly, the first thing I was going to talk about was the meaning of the names we are given.  And how all the little girls in my Catholic school were named after a saint.  But when our priest got to me and asked about my name, I reported to him and to the entire second grade class what I’d always heard my mother say.

“I was named after a stripper.”

Thankfully, it had very little affect on how I turned out.

A number of years ago, I was a Sunday school teacher for my daughter’s class.  I had taught the same group of kids for about 4 years, starting with them from about the age of 2.  They were a delight to me.

Especially after they were all potty trained.

The teachers all sat with the kids in “children’s service.”  This was a time of children’s music worship, with a message geared to the children’s young impressionable ears.

One particular message fell on my impressionable ears.  And has remained.

The speaker was talking to the kids about the commandments.  In their terms.  I was riveted.  And especially interested to see how she was going to cover “Do not commit adultery.”  Which she handled with grace and diplomacy.  And in such a way that I didn’t have to go home and down 3 or 5 Extra Strength Excedrin prior to explaining the intricacies of how the birds and the bees are really friends.

Whatever.

Instead, what caught my attention was her explanation of not taking the Lord’s name in vain.  Which I thought I had all figured out.  As long as I don’t say the “d” word after the “G” word I was golden.

Or so I thought.

I’m paraphrasing, because I heard this years ago, and many many valuable brain cells have suffered a tragic death since then, but I’ll do my best.

“When you are using God’s name, unless you are praying TO Him, or talking ABOUT Him, you are using His name in vain.”

OMG.

That’s what I’m talking about.  How often have I used that phrase out loud.  I was immediately convicted.

Yesterday I was reminded of that long ago children’s sermon when I heard a speaker on the radio talk about how we trivialize the name of God when we flippantly use it.

This has been something that I’ve tried to instill in my children.  I don’t even like, “Oh my gosh” because it comes too close.

“Oh my goodness” is fine in our house.  When Emme was small, she would often exclaim, “OH. My. Gerdness.”

I can’t and don’t dictate what other people do.  I’m no one to judge anyone.  So when my children hear other people say “OMG” they look to me to see my reaction.  Later I tell them that they are to follow my rules.  And don’t judge anyone else for their rules.

I wanted to open this up for discussion on this beautiful Sunday morning.  What do you think?

One of the things that I miss about living in Los Angeles are my girlfriends.  Women with whom I forged friendships long before husbands and children.  A time when we could meet for coffee at a moments notice, have girl-talk, and wear sun dresses and sandals.

A time before cellulite.

I had a small group of gals that I met with at for weekly Bible Study and prayer time.  We have friendships that have spanned two decades or more.  I keep in touch with them still, even though we are all flung to the far corners of the country.  Plus a few in the center.

Big huge shout out to Michelle, Keller, Karen, Debra, Sonya, Sarah, and especially to my Kathy and Marsha.

These women have been an integral part of the beginnings of my journey as a woman of faith.  I miss each one dearly.

Fiddledaddy and I moved all of our belongings plus one very angry cat to Florida a little over 10 years ago to start our family.  The hardest part of leaving, was saying goodbye to my girlfriends.

And as God is apt to do in my life, when He closes a door, He throws open wide a window.

I am blessed to be surrounded by an amazing group of women here in Armpit, Florida.  They are my family.  In every sense of the word.  They include my mother-in-law, plus 5 SIL’s, and 2 adult nieces.

My SIL, Trish, has established an every-other-month ritual in which all the girls will get together at my MIL’s house on a Saturday night for fun and frivolity.

To give you an idea of the kind of goofy family that I married into, I wanted to publish a few of the e-mails that have been hurled about, in anticipation of this Saturday night event.

After Trish sent out the initial e-mail, my BIL Pete had this to say:

“I think this is a horrible idea.

You uppity women need to learn your place.

Stay home on saturday night and take care of your men.

That is all.

You may continue cleaning now.

Sincerely,

The Men”

The following was my e-mail response:

“Hey!  I’ve got a great idea for a craft!  Bring material and we’ll make little dolls.  And don’t forget the large pointy pins.  And incense!  It’ll be fun!”

Which was thusly followed up my my SIL, Cathy:

“You forgot to add that to make the dolls work, I mean look nice, a locket of hair is a great addition.”

I suspect that there will be a flurry of responses, sure to tickle my funny bone today.

I’m a blessed woman.  And the great part is, I’m not even the weirdest one in this group of fruitloops.  Unusual, to be sure.

P.S.:  I’ll be sure to take pictures of our “crafts”.