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May 14, 2013 by Karin 10 Comments

When You Pretend

Frazzled.

Frazzled and frantic.

We all have those times, don’t we?

If I could just pull it together… just keep moving.

That’s it, isn’t it?  The real goal.  Keep walking and just. don’t. faint.

dress up

Never mind this false illusion of control and perfection… even when we pretend that is not what we are doing.

It really is, you know.  Pretend.  False control, false perfection… or something like it.  Pretend.

The real goal.  Keep walking… with Him… toward Him.  And just don’t… faint.

Mama…

He looked at me with those sky blue babies that stole my heart over a decade ago.

You are really good at being a mom.

This red-head spinning around.

Are you kidding?

Like a child offered a prize… the best prize of all.  It couldn’t be a true statement.  Must be a jab… a joke.

Me.  Running frantic fixing 6 different meals for 6 different palates.  Just trying to get out the door.  On.  Time.

No, I’m serious mom.

I was listening to the precious ramblings of my 6-year-old, his little brother.  Little blue-eyed boy was telling me something so very important.  I was responding in the uh-huh-uh-huh-yea-wow-really-oh-boy-that’s-great mode.  My oldest boy.  He noticed.  I scrambled and scratched food together… trying to scramble and scratch and keep it all together.

You do everything without complaining.

You are doing all this and listening to him.

And you do it without complaining.

My eyes brimming, as he continued,

Unlike us.

He smiled and laughed easily at his own joke.  They don’t help without a good deal of cattle prodding.  Most of them, anyway.  We all need a good bit of cattle prodding along the way, don’t we?

That’s probably the nicest thing that anyone has ever said to me.

I squeezed this boy grown to my chin.  Where do these years go?  The hours, they sometimes skid and swerve… but, the years.  They race and speed… until all we see is smoke and dust.  Gone.

pretend

It’s not true, you know.  I don’t do everything without complaining.  In fact, I have made many of my nearest and dearest friends through rants of complaints and crankiness.

I complain.  Sometimes to myself, sometimes to my friends, my husband, my children… and to God.  I am working on it.  This work in seeing all things in the light of grace and gratitude.  It takes practice.

For a moment, my boy noticed something in my attempts.  He noticed and he told me just what I needed to push on in this quest.  That positive reinforcement thing.  Amazing.  No amount of guilt and self-defeat, no amount of you-should-stop-complaining could bring what he brought me with those words.

You do everything without complaining.

No, I don’t.  But nothing will make me try harder than those very words.  Pretend.  Pretend that I am that very person.  The non-complainer.

Playing pretend.

princesses

We start that as kids.  We pretend to be like our moms or our dads.  We pretend to be famous or funny.  We pretend to be skilled or savvy.

We pretend to be princesses or princes.  Kings or Queens.  We pretend we are doctors or dare-devils.  We pretend to save the weak… we pretend to save the world.

We pretend.

Maybe that’s where it all really starts.  Sometimes this pretending really takes us somewhere.  It can take us to dreaded pits.  I can take us to dazzling pinnacles.

There is something about pretending that begins to sink into our bones.  It sinks and slides and settles into our very souls.

Maybe, it’s really about what we pretend.  What… who… do we really want to be?

Complainers… or gratitude givers?

Wound-wielders… or soul-soothers?

Misery mongers… or joy seekers?

Sometimes it takes a little, and maybe a little more… pretending.  We could just call it practice.

We don’t have to pretend to be princesses or princes.  We have already reached royal status.  We are already children of the King.

We don’t have to pretend to be doctors or healers.  Just one kind word can soothe a gaping wound.

We don’t have to pretend to be dare-devils.  We have every reason to be brave.  Bold.  We have the power of truth and love… and legions of angel armies on our side.

We don’t have to pretend to save the weak.  We can simply reach out and touch them.

We don’t have to pretend to save the world.  That has already been done.

Just one thing.

The only pretend that matters.  The one act of dress-up that changes everything… and needs more practice than we have time.

Pretend to be like Him.  We are not.  We will not.  We won’t even come close.  But, that’s the one that matters.

The more we pretend to be like Him, the more He sinks into our souls.  The closer we get to anything that really matters.

 I have been talking as if it were we who did everything.  In reality, of course, it is God who does everything.  We, at most, allow it to be done to us.  In a sense you might even say it is God who does the pretending.  The Three-Personal God, so to speak, sees before Him in fact a self-centred, greedy, grumbling, rebellious human animal.  But He says ‘Let us pretend that this is not a mere creature, but our Son.  It is like Christ in so far as it is a Man, for He became Man.  Let us pretend that it is also like Him in Spirit.  Let us treat it as if it were what in fact it is not.  Let us pretend in order to make the pretence into a reality.’  God looks at you as if you were a little Christ: Christ stands beside you to turn you into one.  I daresay this idea of a divine make-believe sounds rather strange at first.  But, is it so strange really?  Is not that how the higher thing always raises the lower?  A mother teaches her baby to talk by talking to it as if it understood long before it really does.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         CS  Lewis

I do complain.  I try not to complain.  But, I do.

For a moment, my son caught me.  A moment.  A moment in which the game of dress-up, this life-long challenge of pretend… actually took hold.

The pretend became a reality and an eleven-year-old boy took notice.

And lifted his own young armor for this life journey.  Bold, brave… joy seeking.

 

1 John 3:2

Dear friends, now we are  children of God, and what we will be has not yet been made known.  But we know that when he appears, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is.

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Filed Under: A Day in the Life, Family, Joy, Perseverance Tagged With: play dress-up, playing pretend

March 30, 2013 by Karin 2 Comments

Surprise, Surprise

We’ve been waiting for it around here.

My little ones have checked squares on the calendar.

It’s here!

The first day!

They sprinted to bedrooms, rummaged through piles, and came up victorious.

Spring clothes.

T-shirts, shorts, tank tops.

Spring is here!

Finally.

We have all been ready for this new birth.

The buds shivering, ripe and ready.  Quaking at the stem.  Trembling at the last of winter cold.  Ready to burst at their seams.

Spring is here.

Finally.

Spring break.  Easter break.  The house bustling with excitement.  Time for painting eggs and preparing for all things brimming with the burning desire for new life.

The long, cold winter sliding into memory.

The noise of the house wakes me.

It’s snowing!

3 inches already!

My drowsy eyes fly open.

What?

Yes.  Spring is here.  This time to shed our winter coats and doldrums.

And, it’s snowing.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

We wanted this all winter.  And, we get it… now?

Isn’t that just the way it goes?

We want and wish and wonder.  Thinking we have it all figured out.  We know just exactly how it should work.  We know just exactly what we expect.  Our expectations seem completely reasonable, rational, and right.

Isn’t that just the way it is?  With marriage, motherhood, family, friendship… and faith.

We know how it is supposed to be.  We have painted the mural of life in our minds year after year.  Adding brush strokes.  Touching up streaks.  Changing hues.  We have painted the picture of it-oughta-be-this-way…

And, then, it is not that way. At. All.

Our expectations, our experiences, our expertise.  We have it all planned out.

Then, our well-planned, well-rehearsed, well-constructed lives are blanketed… with thick, white, wet snow.  In the spring.

The snow.  It does something.  It spreads a calm and a hush over the frozen earth.  For a moment… God whispers…

Surprise.

surprise

I love surprises.  Even in this.  This day of expected sun and warmth.  This day met with clouds and cold… and white washed glory.

Oh, this is awesome, mama!

Can we paint the eggs now?

The pieces don’t have to fit the way we thought they would fit.

It doesn’t have to be warm and sunny to paint eggs for Easter.

It doesn’t have to be winter for snow to sneak its surprise on us.

Expectations can be dashed and leave the sweet taste of expectancy.

Expectations can fall in flakes to the ground.  Expectancy is something much different…

Expectancy… knowing that He will show up.  Knowing that He is here.

Knowing that something unexpected will happen.

 

Psalm 5:3

In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly.

Karin signature

Filed Under: A Day in the Life, Faith, Joy, The Good Stuff Tagged With: expectations, surprises

March 18, 2013 by Karin Leave a Comment

When Your Day Is a Bust, and You Are One of the Lucky Ones

It’s been one of those days.

I thought these days would become more infrequent as the kids get older.

I screamed so much that my throat hurts… and I feel like I deserve it.

Why, at the end of the day, is it so hard for us to forgive ourselves?

So much for the one good year goal.  All the days gone by in achieving the goal… washed away by tears of children today.

Great job, Mom.

One of those days.

It’s St. Patrick’s Day.

We celebrate that one around here.  The stealthy leprechaun visits and leaves a trail of treasure hunt.  The end of the rainbow brings a pot of overflowing craft supplies… and overflowing joy from little ones.

Then, the downward slide.

Projects, procrastination, perpetual whining.

The volcano of mama erupts.  Not once… but over and over.

I never knew it would be so hard… to hold my tongue.

I never knew I would fail at it so frequently.

I never knew I would hurt the hearts of little ones… for whom I would throw myself into a fiery volcano.

But it is hard, and I do hurt them.  And they forgive me.  And I forgive them.  But… I am not so quick to forgive… myself.

Maybe they won’t remember…

This day of Irish celebration… a bust.

lucky ones

I read something the other day.  Something about feeding His sheep.  The words drew me in… they reminded me of what it’s really like out there.

I, called to feed His sheep… spent the day feeding my woes.

With my full pantry.

With my full house.

With my full closets.

With my full belly.

With my full arms.

With my full heart.

Poor, poor me.

We feel quite helpless sometimes.

We watch the terror enveloping our world.

We watch our economy like a growing snowball… plummeting down the steep mountainside.

We watch as people suffer, and starve, and die.

We feel the pinch to our own purses.

We feel the tug at our hearts.

We feel the fear and the frustration.

We watch it all happen… and we feel pretty helpless.

Don’t you sometimes have the urge… to do something?  Just anything… that matters?

When you feel like the day is a bust, and the world is busted… don’t you just want to do something?

We did.  Today.

The day was a bit of a bust (in mama’s mind).  Things just didn’t go the way they were planned.

Then, the moment.  A moment of peace.  Eyes went to a face on the screen.

A pretty little face.  A little girl in a white dress with a big fluffy pink bow crowning her shiny dark locks.

She has been waiting 228 days.  Almost. One. Year.

For months and months she has waited for someone… anyone… to pick her.

She needed a sponsor.

Our eyes… captured by hers.  

Her birthday… the same as my oldest baby’s.

We are the lucky ones.  

It is St. Patricks’s Day.

I yelled too much.  Kids whined too much.  We planned too much.

We. Have. Too. Much.

When He called us to spread our luck… which we know is the nickname for blessing… we listened.

I can’t wait to write her!

Oh, she’s so sweet. 

I think she will be so excited to hear she has a sponsor on St. Patrick’s Day!

My own little one gleefully exclaimed as she pranced around the room.

We are the lucky ones.

We just forget sometimes.

Our new friend across the oceans just reminded us.  She is the blessing.  She just doesn’t know it.

Her name, of course… is Irish.

Not an Irish name.

Her name. is. I.R.I.S.H.

She is the one waiting at the end of our rainbow today.

 

John 21:17

The third time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?”  Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time, “Do you love me?”  He said, “Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.”  Jesus said, “Feed my sheep.

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Filed Under: A Day in the Life, Compassion, Faith, Forgiveness, Motherhood, Patience Tagged With: lucky ones, one of those days, sponsor a child

March 14, 2013 by Karin 10 Comments

When You Want to See the Real Picture

I got another one in the mail.

This time I rolled my eyes and tossed it in the overflowing basket.

I’ll look at it later.

Maybe there will something inspiring in there.

You know what frustrates me?

Parent magazines.

Then there are the Sports Illustrated Swim Suit issues.  Or any swim suit issue for that matter.  They bring the swim suit issues of any woman to light.

The real culprit is… Photoshop.

I have a friend who happened to share a beach with models for a swim suit photo shoot one day.

The pictures are touched up!

He couldn’t believe it.  Snapping pictures of his own, he sent a few for us to see.

Look!  That’s how they really look.

That’s not what they look like in the magazine!

No kidding.

The thing about this is… the women are beautiful.  What is there to touch up?

Then, the parent magazines.  You know the ones.

The mother with her pearly smile and gorgeous shiny locks.  She is dressed impeccably (even in sweats).  Her loving gaze falls upon a perfectly dressed, perfectly behaved, perfectly beautiful child.  No messes to be seen, no food on her clothes, no spinach in her teeth, no wrinkles on her brow.  The precious little one shows no signs of tears, sticky fingers, smeared food, or shrieking defiance.

Then.  The bullet points.  The many valuable tips on how you can get your life to look… Just. Like. That.

Pretty amusing… and frustrating.

The problem with this is that I can’t count the number of times I have tried to re-create a magazine moment.

Baking cookies.  Riding bikes.  Playing hide-n-seek.  Strolling in the park.  Throwing the football.

I want the moment to shine like the glossy page I see in front of me.

But, it doesn’t.

Water, or juice, or milk spills on the glossy page as it gets ripped from the magazine and torn to shreds by bickering siblings.

It’s. Not. Real.

The glossy pages are touched up.  Photoshop.  Lives in magazines… are photoshopped.

We see it.  For a minute, we believe it.  We think it might just be real.

Maybe what we see with our eyes is more deceiving than what we can’t see.

Mommy, it’s hard when I can’t see Him.

My blue-eyed baby boy muses.  It’s prayer time.  Just before covers are tucked and lights are dimmed.

It’s hard to talk to Him when I can’t see Him.

I smile, knowing there’s nothing more true than these thoughts from my six-year-old.

It is hard, sweetie.

It’s called faith.

We can’t see Him with our eyes.

But, He lets us see Him in other ways.

We just have to pay attention.

His gaze goes to the ceiling.

Yea.  I know He’s here.

It’s still hard.  And, kinda weird.

I laugh.  It does seem kind of weird.

You know what’s even more weird.  The magazine pictures.  The pictures of perfection.

We can see it.  We almost believe it.  But, we know it’s not real.

We do this.  I do this.

We photoshop our lives.

The photos of smiling, glass-clinking party-goers.

Behind the photo, what we don’t see… they had a horrible fight and she is wearing inches of make-up to cover her tear-stained face.  The drinks are just enough to numb the pain of being in the crowd.

The perfectly shaped model.

Behind the photo she is only 18-years-old… and starving herself so that she can even slightly resemble the editor’s clicks on her photo.

The lovely fireplace mantel showcasing the latest in home decor.

The photo ignores the disaster behind the photographer, who is a mom slowly going mad in the mess.  She points the lens at 12 square inches of clean space, trying to capture a moment of order and beauty in front of her.

It’s okay to have beautiful pictures.  They bring peace.  They bring order to our frazzled minds and drive us toward the beautiful light and perfection we know exists, but will never completely realize on this earth.

real picture

(these beauties are real. no Photoshop. just an iPhone and flowers. but… you should see the mess behind them)

Our stories of brokenness and messes are what show God’s redemption.  There is no need for redemption… when there is perfection.  There is no perfection… not here.

I don’t want a photoshopped life.  I do like order, cleanliness, well-behaved kids, peace.  But, I don’t want the picture perfect.  It’s not real.

We need to show the broken and messy parts of ourselves.

Someone desperately needs to hear it… and see it.

We can inspire with beauty, with photos, with our attempts to make it all good.

Don’t forget to show the real picture.

It is what binds us together.  Our brokenness.

The torn pieces of the photograph.

When they come together… the real picture.

The real picture… is a masterpiece.

 

Colossians 2:17

(Freedom From Human Regulations Through Life With Christ)

These are a shadow of the things that were to come; the reality, however, is found in Christ. 

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Filed Under: A Day in the Life, Faith, Motherhood Tagged With: faith, messy reality, the real picture

March 6, 2013 by Karin 2 Comments

And Then There Was Life

It’s only Tuesday.

I keep thinking it’s Thursday.

Not that it really makes much difference.

I just lose track.

It’s only been two days.  

My life friend lost her mother.  Her mother was a second mom to me in college.

It’s only been 3 months.

Her dear daddy passed.  Just 3 months before her mom.

It’s been almost a year.

Our third musketeer went home to Him.  She was too young… and her kids are just… kids.

Then there’s the little one my family loves so much… my 3-year-old’s bestie.  Her headaches are back.  Her little body fights.  We don’t know if it’s congestion, or the shunt.

Then there’s the anniversary of her mama’s passing.  Almost a year ago.  Her family fights on.  Her new mommy warms her new mother arms with little ones.

Then there’s the family who just lost their daddy.  He was too  young.  His children may not even remember him.  His wife…  I can hardly bear the thought.  It’s just too much.

Story after story after story.

Then the news.  The mess out there.  The fighting and bickering… and we are on the same side.  I think.

Sometimes it’s just too much.

My dear friend… she can barely muster the will to go to her own mom’s funeral.  It’s all just. too. much.

And we feel lost… and alone… and broken… and afraid… and just plain exhausted.

Then I read the most beautiful story about sheep.  A story about what sheep do… and how the shepherd comes for the neglected ones.  He comes for the broken, lost, and abandoned ones.  He cares for them and releases them.  These little sheep love him the most.  But, he loves them all the same.

He brought us light.  He saw that it was good.  Sometimes we get lost in the shadows.

He brought us love.  Sometimes we accept it.  Sometimes we are just too busy to notice… or too blind to see it… or too hurting to feel it.

life

The morning my friend’s mother passed into the Ages, her two young daughters were baptized.  They didn’t know their Nanny had passed.  The baptism was scheduled weeks before.  There are no coincidences.  Only God’s timing.  Even when it hurts.

When the girls heard of their grandmother passing… the words of their daddy,

the morning your names are written in the book of the Lamb…

is the morning your Nanny passes into His arms.

There are no coincidences.

He brought us light.

He came here.  He died here.  He rose again here.

He brought us life.

Sometimes it’s all just too much.

But, just when it feels like it’s all just too much… He brings us life.

He brings us a new life.

When we feel like we can’t take one more step… he picks us up…

and breathes life.

 

Romans 6:3-4

Or don’t you know that all of us who were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death?  We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life.

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Meet Karin

Hi! My name is Karin Madden. Writer. Warrior wife. Mom of six pack. Homeschooler. German-blooded southerner. Welcome to the place where I explore what it means to grow stronger - spirit, soul, and body. I write to inspire and encourage - to remind you we are not alone. By being bold with grace and speaking truth in love, we can become who we are meant to be. I'm glad you are here.

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