This fall, I'll be involved in a Bible study with a few other girls with young kids. Our focus to start out with will be a book by Elyse Fitzpatrick called Give Them Grace: dazzling your kids with the love of Jesus.
I started a first read-through of the book last week, and -only 1 1/2 chapters in- it's already provoking some thought and conversation on how Cal and I want to raise Parks with our fervent hope for his future salvation in mind.
First and foremost, I should admit that I am a Grace girl, wholeheartedly, in the always-present Grace vs Law debate. I haven't always been this way, but I admit that those sneaky Reformers broke through a pretty tough self-righteous barrier back in my late college/graduate school days and created a life-long, acknowedged, horrible sinner who is saved solely by Christ's righteousness. In other words... me.
I am aware that nothing I can do (or not do) can bring about my salvation, NOR cause God to look upon me with any more or less favor than He already does. Because I am one of His, He doesn't see my sinfulness; He sees, instead, Christ's absolutely spotless record in its place. And because of Christ's record --not mine, thank goodness-- I am saved from the judgement of eternal damnation that I would face otherwise. Without it, it wouldn't matter whether I committed mass murder or merely had a selfishly grumpy attitude when Cal wanted to go play tennis: either way, I'd be doomed to the exact same Death after my time on earth was done. There are no degrees of salvation (or damnation) to match up with how good (or bad) one is in his or her lifetime. Not one of us is or can ever be perfect, so we would all spend eternity in Hell if He left us alone. But He didn't! What good news!
The danger in this Grace stuff, of course, is that it can be misused and taken for granted. What? you say. God doesn't see our sin if we have Christ's righteousness? So... I can sin all I want to, right? Well, no. Ideally, those with truly reformed hearts will grasp the fullness of grace that God has given them and, in response, strive to live a life that is pleasing to Him. They won't be able to do it for as long as a full day, or hour, or MINUTE, even, in some cases. But they will want to. And they will be saddened by their inability. And God's Holy Spirit will work in them, transforming them into people who are less and less a slave to their own sins and more and more a mirror of Christ's perfection. Will we reach that perfection here on earth? No. Definitely not. But what a worthy goal!
So now the dilemma of the moment. How should this gospel message affect the way that I raise my kids?
In the small bit of the book that I've read thus far, I've gathered that Fitzpatrick is advising parents who want their children to really understand and appreciate God's grace to be cautious about teaching kids to obey merely for the sake of obeying. I was raised in a really strict environment, and my sisters and I all turned out pretty okay. We were obedient (for the most part), respectful (for the most part), and successful (for the most part). But was I obedient, respectful, and successful as a fruit of the transforming power of the Holy Spirit? Or was I obedient, respectful, and successful because I was afraid I'd be spanked or restricted from watching Full House and Growing Pains on a Wednesday night? You see? That's the tricky question.
I don't want Parks to be "good" because of fear of punishment. I can teach him to behave in certain, acceptable ways, and I can praise him when he shows that he's learned (or discipline him when he doesn't), but -as the primary model of God's authority in his life- what does that teach him about God? Mommy loves me when I obey but gets mad when I don't... so naturally God is the same way? God will find favor in me when I do all the right things and will let me into heaven, but if I am bad he will send me to Hell as punishment? And THAT, folks, is not the Gospel. THAT is legalism. THAT is a road that leads straight to Death.
No, I am not saying that I won't discipline Parks, or that I won't correct him when he is being wayward or bratty or petulant. Because -trust me- I will. What I am saying is that I don't know how to find a balance. How to help him be obedient, respectful, and successful in the meantime, while I'm faithfully waiting for God to regenerate him and transform his heart, without teaching him legalism or giving him a false sense of self-righteousness and security in his own good behavior. Without his immature mind translating my discipline into "Mommy loves me when I'm good and doesn't when I'm bad," and from that conclusion, even worse: "God loves me when I'm good and doesn't when I'm bad."
Anyway, I'm hoping Fitzpatrick will have some answers. Or... some of you readers out there will. Because, let's face it. I sure don't.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Break time
Back when I was in the recognized working world full-time, I would get through my days by looking forward to break times. During the day, I’d have at least one planning period plus lunch during my work hours, and then I’d be off by four at the latest. From week to week, I’d look forward first to weekends, and then to holidays: Memorial Day, Labor Day, a week at Thanksgiving and Spring Break, two weeks at Christmas. And the ultimate break for all teachers was, of course, summer holidays, after which a fresh, new year would start with fresh, new students.
I lived on this schedule for thirty years, mind you. Thirty years is a long time. What is it that behavioralists say? A habit takes 28 days to form? So what happens after 28 (plus two) YEARS? You get my point, I think.
One of my biggest adjustments to being a mother is not only the lack of vacation, but the lack of getting “off” work at all. We moms are on the clock 24 hours a day, seven days a week. While Parks was CIO last night until 9? I was on the job. When Parks woke up at 12:15 am with a bad dream? I was on duty. When he yelled for me at 7:15 this morning? Yep. And even during those times when he’s asleep, both naptime and bedtime, I’m on edge, listening to every breath through the monitor, wondering if those murmurs are signs of awakenings or merely sleep cycle changes. I don’t think I’ve entered a really deep sleep in over two years now.
The beauty of this kind of “work” schedule is that, when breaks do come, I really, REALLY cherish them. Cal gives Parks his bath every night, and it’s a blessed twenty minutes after a long day. He’s also good about taking him on Saturday mornings, giving me a chance to, oh I don’t know, empty the dishwasher or vacuum the rugs.
And when I’m really lucky, the grandparents ask to take him off our hands for a night or two. We don’t have parents here in town, so we don’t have the luxury that some have of being able to drop Parks off for a quick night out or an afternoon doctor’s appointment. And let’s just say that we don’t have the, um, financial status to be able to afford regular babysitters. I think we’ve hired three -tops- since Parks was born, those all for work overlaps or unavoidable appointments.
So overnights are big deals. We’ve done it now four times, the latest being this week, when Cal’s parents watched Parks for a few nights because of some scheduling conflicts between my (paying) job and Cal’s. We went to Tallahassee for two nights a year ago while our parents split the responsibility for Parks, as they did when we went to St. Petersburg for a conference for Cal about a month ago. The fourth was during Cal’s Thanksgiving break last year, time we used to finish up our ridiculously ridiculous house-painting project that had, at the time, been going on over five months.
Four times. Twelve nights out of 800. And we, I know, are lucky to have had those twelve nights.
I don’t know what my point is except to say that those who think that being a stay-at-home mom is the easy way out, the picture of a lazy housewife propped up in front of a soap opera on a weekday afternoon, don’t know what they are saying. Even without the constant housework (that I rarely do) and cooking dinner every night (it was tomato sandwiches this evening), it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.
I guess the old, cheesy cliche is true, and that the best things in life really are worth working for.
I lived on this schedule for thirty years, mind you. Thirty years is a long time. What is it that behavioralists say? A habit takes 28 days to form? So what happens after 28 (plus two) YEARS? You get my point, I think.
One of my biggest adjustments to being a mother is not only the lack of vacation, but the lack of getting “off” work at all. We moms are on the clock 24 hours a day, seven days a week. While Parks was CIO last night until 9? I was on the job. When Parks woke up at 12:15 am with a bad dream? I was on duty. When he yelled for me at 7:15 this morning? Yep. And even during those times when he’s asleep, both naptime and bedtime, I’m on edge, listening to every breath through the monitor, wondering if those murmurs are signs of awakenings or merely sleep cycle changes. I don’t think I’ve entered a really deep sleep in over two years now.
The beauty of this kind of “work” schedule is that, when breaks do come, I really, REALLY cherish them. Cal gives Parks his bath every night, and it’s a blessed twenty minutes after a long day. He’s also good about taking him on Saturday mornings, giving me a chance to, oh I don’t know, empty the dishwasher or vacuum the rugs.
And when I’m really lucky, the grandparents ask to take him off our hands for a night or two. We don’t have parents here in town, so we don’t have the luxury that some have of being able to drop Parks off for a quick night out or an afternoon doctor’s appointment. And let’s just say that we don’t have the, um, financial status to be able to afford regular babysitters. I think we’ve hired three -tops- since Parks was born, those all for work overlaps or unavoidable appointments.
So overnights are big deals. We’ve done it now four times, the latest being this week, when Cal’s parents watched Parks for a few nights because of some scheduling conflicts between my (paying) job and Cal’s. We went to Tallahassee for two nights a year ago while our parents split the responsibility for Parks, as they did when we went to St. Petersburg for a conference for Cal about a month ago. The fourth was during Cal’s Thanksgiving break last year, time we used to finish up our ridiculously ridiculous house-painting project that had, at the time, been going on over five months.
Four times. Twelve nights out of 800. And we, I know, are lucky to have had those twelve nights.
I don’t know what my point is except to say that those who think that being a stay-at-home mom is the easy way out, the picture of a lazy housewife propped up in front of a soap opera on a weekday afternoon, don’t know what they are saying. Even without the constant housework (that I rarely do) and cooking dinner every night (it was tomato sandwiches this evening), it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.
I guess the old, cheesy cliche is true, and that the best things in life really are worth working for.
Death by sleeping
Sometimes when we let Parks cry it out (CIO) to get to sleep, as we’re having to do tonight, I genuinely believe that HE genuinely believes that he is going to die if someone doesn’t go back there to rock him. I grew up in a house full of girls, all teenagers together, and I really don’t think that I ever faced as much drama then as I do now at Parks’s bedtime.
He’s not scared of the dark. His diaper isn’t wet. He’s not hungry. He’s not in pain. He just doesn’t want to lie down and go to sleep.
He will be screaming like it’s the end of the world, but as soon as either Cal or I walk into his room, he’s Mr. Bubbly once again, ready to play, read, watch movies, or participate in whatever activity we’ll let him get away with. He’ll even (gasp!) eat, if it means he can prolong sleep for just a few minutes more.
I’m currently wondering if it’s possible that this child is actually an alien lifeform who at some point entered my body, thus creating my pregnancy and eventual labor and delivery. Because it seems impossible that any offspring of mine would fight sleep THIS MUCH. Come on, Parks. You’ve got Terry blood in you.
Won’t someone please come to my house and “make” me go to bed at 7:30 every night? Please? I promise I won’t cry!
He’s not scared of the dark. His diaper isn’t wet. He’s not hungry. He’s not in pain. He just doesn’t want to lie down and go to sleep.
He will be screaming like it’s the end of the world, but as soon as either Cal or I walk into his room, he’s Mr. Bubbly once again, ready to play, read, watch movies, or participate in whatever activity we’ll let him get away with. He’ll even (gasp!) eat, if it means he can prolong sleep for just a few minutes more.
I’m currently wondering if it’s possible that this child is actually an alien lifeform who at some point entered my body, thus creating my pregnancy and eventual labor and delivery. Because it seems impossible that any offspring of mine would fight sleep THIS MUCH. Come on, Parks. You’ve got Terry blood in you.
Won’t someone please come to my house and “make” me go to bed at 7:30 every night? Please? I promise I won’t cry!
Changes
Hi. I’m Miriam. You may remember me from a blog I had a long time ago, one in which I detailed the ins and outs of my daily life as a singleton in small-town middle Georgia. I stopped writing a couple of years ago for two main reasons: 1) my singleton life ended, happily ever after, and 2) all of my energy (and, with it, my intellect) got forcefully sucked out of me by a tiny little being that has fast become a can’t-live-without.
I understand, however, that this little boy’s life is flashing quickly by, and I’m not doing a darn thing to keep the memories preserved. At one of my baby showers, my mother gave me this darlin’ little baby book, blue and white striped with a red sailboat on the front, in which to write down all of my son’s firsts. You know… first smiles, first laughs, first words. I, however, was too caught up in the first spit-ups, first diaper blow-outs in public places, and first “oops, he fell off the bed!’s” to take the time to do a whole lot with it.
So now, two years later, I feel like I’m starting to breathe a bit easier, and maybe… just maybe… I can handle a semi-regular blog update. But my old venue just didn’t seem appropriate anymore. It was about a different me than the one who exists now. A me who was carefree, adventurous, intellectual, and confident. Not the cautious, frazzled, exhausted, insecure, and ignorant girl I am today. And you know what? The old me? She didn’t know what she was missing.
I understand, however, that this little boy’s life is flashing quickly by, and I’m not doing a darn thing to keep the memories preserved. At one of my baby showers, my mother gave me this darlin’ little baby book, blue and white striped with a red sailboat on the front, in which to write down all of my son’s firsts. You know… first smiles, first laughs, first words. I, however, was too caught up in the first spit-ups, first diaper blow-outs in public places, and first “oops, he fell off the bed!’s” to take the time to do a whole lot with it.
So now, two years later, I feel like I’m starting to breathe a bit easier, and maybe… just maybe… I can handle a semi-regular blog update. But my old venue just didn’t seem appropriate anymore. It was about a different me than the one who exists now. A me who was carefree, adventurous, intellectual, and confident. Not the cautious, frazzled, exhausted, insecure, and ignorant girl I am today. And you know what? The old me? She didn’t know what she was missing.
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