The Greatest Teachers

I consider myself a decent teacher. From the time I was a teenager, I had tutored younger students. I tutored the children of friends and acquaintances before I became a mom.

And once my daughter was born, I began planning ways to teach her. I sat and watched “Your Baby Can Read” videos with her from the time she was a few months old. I created giant word cards and flashed them at her long before she had learned to talk. I bought a set of math dots and used those. I put up pictures of colors along with that color word right in front of her bouncer-seat: green grass and grapes and trees and a mug and a sweater.

When my sons came along, they got the same input (along with the extra input that an older sibling or two provides). I loved to make the most of teachable moments, a gift my mother instinctively had and a skill I tried to build.

I considered myself a decent teacher.

Then Allen, at three years old, climbed onto my lap one morning. “I love you,” he told me, and before I could answer, he went on to say, “And I love Daddy and I love Aiden and I love Jessica…” He continued until he had named pretty much every person he knew or could remember at the time.

And I realized there is more to teach than words and numbers and facts. And my son was teaching me this.

A few days later was Aiden’s first birthday. That evening, Allen began giving a multitude of kisses and cuddles to my husband. Aiden, who was fully focused on his birthday gift, placed it down and crawled up to daddy. He copied his brother’s behavior and started giving his daddy “kisses.”

Love. Forgiveness. Time. How often do I withhold those? Give them only to those who I feel deserve it? When three-year-olds (and one-year-olds) naturally spill over with contagious love. Perhaps a reason Jesus said we should be like children—not only to enter the Kingdom one day, but to find a place of joy, peace, spontaneity, and love today.

I still consider myself a decent teacher. But I’m also a student. And sometimes my children teach me far more than I teach them.

A Parent’s Prayer for Rest

You who said, “Come unto me all ye who are weary and heavy-laden and I will give you rest,” I come to you now.

For I am weary indeed. Mentally and physically I am bone-tired. I am all wound up, locked up tight with tension. I am too tired to eat. Too tired to think. Too tired even to sleep. I feel close to the point of exhaustion.

Lord, let your healing love flow through me.

I can feel it easing my tensions. Thank you. I can feel my body relaxing. Thank You. I can feel my mind begin to get calm and quiet and composed. 

Thank you for unwinding me, Lord, for unlocking me. I am no longer tight and frozen with tiredness, but flowing freely, softly, gently into your healing rest.

Marjorie Holmes

I’ve Got to Talk to Somebody, God

2014 in Review – Positive Parenting

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

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A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,600 times in 2014. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

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His First Banker Experience

A Story Told to The Annual Pennsylvania Community Bankers Association

By Charlie “T” Jones

I’ve never written and only rarely tell of my first banker experience.

It happened in 1936. I was nine years old and the Depression was still in full force. We came from Alabama and settled in Lancaster County in a little row home, which my father managed to rent. It was getting near Christmas and my dear dad had nothing to spend for Christmas for his five children ages 1 to 9. In desperation, he went to the bank to try to persuade them that he was a safe risk for a small loan. He explained his predicament: no job, no collateral, and 5 small children with Christmas approaching.

As he should have known, the banker would have to decline his request, but he had an alternative offer for my dad to consider. He explained that if my dad could postpone celebrating Christmas a day or two, the children wouldn’t know it and everything would be reduced in the stores, and he would only need half the amount he was requesting. He said if this was agreeable, he would approve the loan for a smaller amount. Of course my dad gratefully accepted his offer.

I have experienced many Christmases, but this was the one I remember the best. Christmas Eve after we were all tucked in bed, the downstairs front door slammed open. There was a lot of noise and footsteps, and my father rushed down the stairs to see what was happening.

I followed a few minutes later, and saw him sitting on the bottom step with his head in his hands. I couldn’t understand why he was weeping. When I reached the bottom step, I could see no one in the hallway, but the hall was lined with boxes. There were boxes of food, clothing and candy. There was a riding fire engine and a four-foot folding white paneled dollhouse. We never had a Christmas like that and we never knew who or why they did it. We didn’t belong to a church, and the friends we had were as poor as we were. My dad returned to the bank to repay the loan. The banker surprised my dad by telling him that there was no record of his loan.

I only understood that Christmas experience years later when Jesus became my Lord and Savior. How blessed some of us are to see God’s love working in and through His children. John 3:16 is where it begins, but those unknown servants were practicing 1st John 3:16. “Hereby perceive we the love of God, how He laid down his life for us: so we ought to lay down our lives for others.”

Question about Kids & Sleepovers

So last night, at 9 pm, the six-year-old girl from across the street ran over and called through the kitchen window for Jessica (my eight-year-old daughter), asking her if she wanted to spend the night as she was having a sleepover.

Maybe I’m just old fashioned, but I was a little surprised. Is that the way the average family with small children operates these days? No communication from parent to parent?

If you’re a parent, I’d be interested to know your take on this — moms and dads, please feel free to weigh in on this one.

Would you send your under-ten-year-old for a sleepover at a neighbor’s house if you’ve only briefly met the parent, and it isn’t the parent getting in touch about it, but the child? Would you send your under-ten-year-old to invite neighborhood kids for a sleepover without getting in touch with those kids’ parents?

Go ahead and comment below. I’ll also post this question on our Facebook page, so if you’d prefer to comment there, that’s fine too.

Bart Miller Shares the Story Behind “Beautiful”

I love this message by Bart Miller, the lead singer of MercyMe, especially when he says that every day he tells his children that they are perfect and that God has a special plan for them. I’ve told my kids that, but I definitely don’t say it every day.
If I want my children to discover and live their purpose, if I want them to know just how much they are loved, I need to remind them of that every day. Because they are just that precious … and even more.

A Time to Be Born

It happened a few years back, during a visit to my parents in California at the time I was living in India. My mom, a midwife, had a couple of assistants on call for the births she attended, but this time (though I can’t remember the details why) she asked me.

“Hey Pete, a lady just called. She’s in labor and sounds like things might move quickly. Want to be my assistant?”

(Yes, my mom calls me Pete, and yes, she is the only one allowed to call me that. And no, it wasn’t because she wanted a boy and I came out instead – just to clarify those points.)

I had read a number of labor and delivery books. My mom had given me classes on all that’s needed at a home birth. And I already had a couple kids of my own (without a doubt, for me, the greatest excuse to help a laboring woman – “I’ve done it too; you’re not alone. You can make it.).

Of course I jumped at the chance and within minutes, we were opening the front door of a home after a woman called, “Come in.”

We stepped in. A woman on her knees was leaning the top half of her body on the living room couch, her large tummy drooping below. The concentrating look on her face made it clear she was in the middle of a contraction. Mom gave me a few instructions as she knelt by the lady and waited quietly.

“Good, deep cleansing breath. You’re doing great,” Mom said, once the contraction had passed. “How you doing?”

“Fine.” The woman sat back for a moment. “Do you need me to get in any certain position? Do you need to check anything?”

“Just be comfortable. Stay in whatever position is best for you and that baby.”

“I think I’ll stay right here.” The woman suddenly closed her eyes and began to focus on her breathing as the next wave commenced.

As I pulled out a chart, a young man came down the hallway. “Finally got her to sleep.” He sat next to his wife and held her hand, speaking softly as she managed another contraction.

“Looks like she’s pretty close,” Mom told me. I started pulling out a few items that she asked for as she stayed by the woman, timing her contractions and not leaving her side. The woman remained in that position the entire time, including when she pushed the baby out, and into my mom’s waiting arms.

Mom rested the baby right on the new mother’s tummy and waited until the cord had stopped pulsing to tie and let the father cut it.

“It’s a boy!”

I couldn’t help but getting teary at the elation of the new father and mother. I concentrated on straightening a few things up.

Mom did the baby’s first check up. He got a good APGAR score. “And you deserve a medal,” she winked at the mom.

A few minutes later, a little girl came stumbling into the room. Once she noticed her new baby brother, she was wide awake, and stared at him the rest of the time we were there.

Overall, it was under two hours before we were driving home again, letting the family get to know their new bundle of joy.

“They don’t always turn out like this, do they mom?”

“Nope, hon, sometimes I’m with a laboring mom for 24 or more hours straight. Dad says I go down the rabbit hole, cuz he doesn’t hear from me for a while.”

I wondered if I’d have the stamina to do something like that. Somehow, I don’t think so.

“It’s amazing how smoothly you delivered that baby.” I thought back to my own births, lying on my back at the behest of the doctor, trying hard to push against gravity to get the baby out.

“The mamma delivered the baby. I was just there to catch it.” My mom smiled.

Over the years, my mom has clocked thousands of miles, driving from one town to another in a 150-mile radius as a home birth midwife.

Her vision is to open a birth clinic in the city, to give mothers a natural and healthy option for delivering their babies.

She and the midwives she works with are some of the most amazing and dedicated women I know. They give all they have for mothers, fathers and babies to have their ideal birthing experience. Every mother deserves to give birth in the way she is most comfortable. Will you help them in their vision?

[Search for A Time to Be Born in Mission: Small Business. They are awarding grants to up to 12 small businesses, and your choosing A Time to Be Born just might make it possible to help many women see their dreams come true. The deadline is June 30^th, coming up fast, so please don’t wait!]

The Mouth of Babes

When my daughter was three and my son was one, the kids would often have play-school together with some co-workers’ kids. One couple had three sons and we would sometimes exchange the care of our kids so they could get some time off.

After one such evening, we returned to pick up our kids. I noticed the wife seemed a bit intense or exasperated and I was worried. Had my kids acted up?

I casually asked how everything went.

“Your daughter really needs to learn some manners. After everything we did for her, I can’t believe what she said to me.”

Now I was really worried. What could a three-year-old say that was so offensive to an experienced mother?

“She said I had a big tummy!”

Now it was clear. I tried to suppress my laughter. This woman was perpetually commenting on the “fact” that she was overweight. In actuality, grading on the curve, she wasn’t more than a bit chubby. She was, however, very sensitive about her weight and if anyone even agreed with her self-deprecatory comments, they’d be on her blacklist.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I apologized profusely and wholeheartedly for my daughter, who was already sleeping, otherwise I would have had her apologize as well.

The next day, my daughter saw me in my workout outfit, which had a very short top. “Chubby tummy,” she said, and started giggling.

I laughed too, because (at the time) my tummy was more concave than convex. I realized she must have picked the phrase up from somewhere, maybe the three brothers she had been hanging out with the previous evening; she was just repeating something she had heard. I explained to her that it isn’t so nice to draw attention to certain parts of people, such as their weight, or if they wear glasses or walk funny. I’m not sure if she understood completely.

I also wondered if I should let my co-worker know that my daughter had called me chubby as well.

I decided against it.

If we can’t take what comes “out of the mouths of babes” with a grain of salt and a smile, maybe a subscription to the gym wouldn’t be a bad idea.

[Image by © LWA-Sharie Kennedy/zefa/Corbis]

The Best “Thank You”…

…Is Always Expressed by a Child.