Being Known

Hockey Boy has been waiting for the baristas at Starbucks to "know" my drink. I guess he thinks it is as cool as I do when someone knows your drink as soon as you walk in the door. Especially since I have a complicated drink order. If it is not too hot, I order a single, grande, hazelnut, nonfat, no whip, mocha. Ordered in the correct Starbucks-ese because I have been trained properly. Right now though it is too hot to drink a hot drink so I am trying different iced concoctions. I am not as loyal to my drink in the summer. I guess the sun brings out the adventurous spirit in me.

Unfortunately, none of the baristas have learned my drink order yet. I cannot blame them. I live in a triangle of Starbucks and depending where I am going, I will visit different ones every day. Also, I am really enjoying sleeping in and being lazy these last few weeks and just making coffee at home. So I am still not known. I am still anonymous. And Hockey Boy is a bit disappointed by this. Someday, when school is back in session, I am sure I will develop a routine Starbucks, a place to grab coffee after dropping the boys off at school. I may even get to know the baristas names and recognize a few familiar coffee drinkers in line.

But the anonymity, the not being known, is okay for now. Because while I may not be known and the stores may look different, Starbucks still feels like my place. I read an article about Howard Schultz, the founder of Starbucks, recently and he said, “We’re not in the coffee business.  It’s what we sell as a product but we’re in the people business—hiring hundreds of employees  a week, serving sixty million customers a week, it’s all human connection...”

I love the distinction. "We're not in the coffee business." I am not in the laundry, carpooling, homework helping, dinner cooking, time out giving business. I am in the people business. I am building a relationships with my kids. I am helping them to be known. Known personally, in a busy, hectic, over crowded world.

I know my kids' drink orders. I know them. And I don't ever want to lose that. In a world full of anonymity, my kids are known.

My Story - Swimming Pools, Broken Legs and Birthday Dirges

As always My Story is from my point of view. You can read my disclaimer here.

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My earliest memories, my own memories and not mirages made up of the stories of my family, are set in Simi Valley, California. Simi Valley was once a set apart suburb of Los Angeles, a town that required driving a freeway that was surrounded by grassy hills to get into Hollywood where my father worked as an engineer for a tv station. Simi Valley was not only home to my family but also Big Sky Ranch where Laura, Mary and the Ingalls family filmed Little House on the Prairie, my favorite television show. 

My early memories are full of kids. There was always someone to play with. Sometimes it was the neighbors, often it was one of the many foster kids that lived with our family over the years. Once my parents settled down in Simi Valley and my dad had his job in Hollywood, they began to take in foster kids. First one teenage girl. At some point a family of three kids. My parents taught us that God commands his people to take care of the widows and orphans. They took that teaching seriously and literally as they opened our home, our rooms, our lives to abused or neglected children who needed a safe place to live. I don't know how many kids my parents took care of over the years but I know it is too many for me to remember. A few names and faces stick in my mind. Philip and Molly, Stephen and Michael, James. It is sad that I don't remember more of them because when they were in our home they were my siblings. 

In my preschool years, I felt like I had an idyllic childhood. We did things together as a family, as one big family. I remember drives to my Aunt and Uncle's house in northern California. I remember stopping at Ghirardelli Square in San Francisco for ice cream on the long drive north. I remember camping in a tent in their yard one summer. Playing in tree houses and visiting the beach. I remember a free flowing of kids, animals and grown ups enjoying open summer days. I loved being with my cousins. 

I have good memories of playing with my neighbor friend Tony, swimming in his pool and running on the grass in our front yards. Days were spent playing and being together. I think I was with Tony, running through the kitchen, when I fell down with a spoon in my mouth. Blood poured everywhere and I was rushed to the emergency room. Thankfully I was fine, no stitches needed, but I can still feel the dent in the top of my mouth with my tongue. You would think I would have learned my lesson but just yesterday I was walking around Costco with a spork in my mouth. 

I also remember something really bad. I was four and I did not know what had happened but I was sent to my parents room where I sat on their bed waiting for someone to come tell me. It was evening and then night time. Eventually someone came to tell me my brother had been hit by a car. He was 8, I think. He and Philip were going somewhere together. That was back when you could let kids go to the corner market for an ice cream sandwich. My brother decided to run across the street and ended up in the hospital for almost two months with a broken leg, traction and eventually a body cast at home for a few months more. I remember visiting him in the hospital, my mom having to sneak me in because kids were not allowed to visit. Or maybe we just had missed visiting hours. More often I remember standing in the courtyard visiting him through his window. I adored my older brother and missed him dearly when he was away. He recovered and went on to be quite a successful high school soccer player and eventually a PE teacher so I guess his leg turned out just fine. He also is the main reason my boys are really good about not running into the street. Because whenever they get too comfortable around cars, I remind them of their Uncle who got hit by the car. Suddenly little boys are walking a little closer to mommy and checking a few extra times for cars. 

One final memory I wanted to share because I was reminded of it this week when my father left a singing voicemail for my birthday. At our house, birthday cakes were always accompanied by candles and the singing of not one but two birthday songs. The first was the traditional "Happy Birthday to You" but the second was a unique family tradition. As soon as everyone finished the first song my family would break out with our own birthday dirge, a sadly sung deep voiced song.

Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday. Death, misery and despair. People dying everywhere. Happy Birthday. Happy Birthday.

It is a disturbing song. My husband was not able to get on board with our family continuing the tradition once the kids were born. But for me, it brings a smile to my face every time I hear that song.  

In Christ Alone

It has been interesting looking back at my life, at My Story, and I am realizing that the series is probably getting longer by the blog post. So I am going to keep writing those but think I will try to post those once a week, hopefully on Wednesdays, so that I can still have space to write the random things that come to mind. So on Wednesday I will write about my early memories, including the story of my brother being hit by a car.

Nice tease there. :)

Today though I wanted to take a minute to remind my dear friends, my fellow Christians, that you are loved, that you are forgiven and that you are forever more children of God. 

I write this because I have been hearing more and more people sharing their very real pain over not feeling worthy of God's love. I don't know where this lie comes from, actually I do. I know it comes from the depths of hell to keep God's children in the dark. To force them to live lives that are less than. Because when we become focused on past sins, past decisions that were disobedient and rebellious, when we define our lives by what we have done in the past and who we were, we miss out on the true gift of being saved. The gift of being defined simply as a child of God, redeemed and reborn. And then living in this freedom gained by grace. 

There is scripture after scripture that points to God's forgiveness and love. There are countless scriptures that remind us we are not a compilation of our decisions but that we are simply defined by the act of Christ on the cross. 

"I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me." Galatians 2:20 

"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness." 1 John 1:9 

“There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus …” Romans 8:1 

“Come now and let us reason together,” says the Lord, 'Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.'"  Isaiah 1:18 

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away, behold, all things have become new.” 2 Corinthians 5:17

We know these verses. We have read of God's forgiveness throughout the old and new testaments. And yet, so many cannot really believe these words deeply. I am slowly realizing that my confidence in Christ's work in my life, my confidence in being His child, new and worthy, is a gift that God gave me. I don't know why He did, but I have never doubted God's love for me. I have certainly doubted my value in the world's eyes. But not in God's eyes. Even when I mess up, when I stray away, I know He loves me and holds me close. I know my Father loves me no matter what I have done in my life. 

And I want that so desperately for my friends. I want them to walk in confidence as God's children, deeply loved and forever forgiven. I want my friends to see themselves as God sees them, white as snow through faith in the cleansing work of Jesus. I want my friends to let go of the haunting parts of their pasts. So many hold on to things they have repented, continuing to seek forgiveness when it was already given. They are weighed down by guilt and self flagellation. Unnecessary and so incredibly destructive. No matter what they do, there is still this part of them that holds onto who they were, what they did. It is a sad place to live. 

I heard this song yesterday morning in church and the words were clear. 

For I am His and He is mine
Bought with the precious blood of Christ
No guilt of life, no fear in death
This is the power of Christ in me

In Christ Alone - Lyrics

In Christ alone my hope is found
He is my light, my strength, my song
This Cornerstone, this solid ground
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm
What heights of love, what depths of peace
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease
My Comforter, my All in All
Here in the love of Christ I stand

In Christ alone, who took on flesh
Fullness of God in helpless babe
This gift of love and righteousness
Scorned by the ones He came to save
‘Til on that cross as Jesus died
The wrath of God was satisfied
For every sin on Him was laid
Here in the death of Christ I live

There in the ground His body lay
Light of the world by darkness slain
Then bursting forth in glorious Day
Up from the grave He rose again
And as He stands in victory
Sin’s curse has lost its grip on me
For I am His and He is mine
Bought with the precious blood of Christ

No guilt of life, no fear in death
This is the power of Christ in me
From life’s first cry to final breath
Jesus commands my destiny
No power of hell, no scheme of man
Can ever pluck me from His hand
‘til He returns or calls me home
Here in the power of Christ I’ll stand

My Story - Baby Me

As always My Story is from my point of view. You can read my disclaimer here.

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It was 38 years ago this weekend that I was born. At least I think it is 38. I seem to be forgetting how old I am a lot lately and then have to do the math when someone asks. 20?? - 1973 is not easy math. It involves borrowing numbers. 

So 38 years ago this weekend, my mom was anxiously awaiting my arrival. I was already three weeks late. At one point in the pregnancy, I guess I thought I would try to come out early. The doctors were not keen on that and after some medication and rest, I decided to stay put for the duration of my mom's pregnancy. Maybe I was so offended by not being let out early that I decided to make them wait instead. 

My mom had spent the day walking around the zoo with my older brother and family friends. She was really tired by the end of the day so when she woke up feeling like she had to go to the bathroom she did not recognize those as labor pains. (Funny enough with my second son, I also kept getting up to use the bathroom every 10 - 15 minutes all night long unaware that those were labor pains. It took my water breaking to get me out the door.) Thankfully my mom's friend was more aware and took her to the hospital where I was born. All 6 pounds 10 ounces of me. At three weeks late. I am thinking the math might have been off on that one because my brother was 9+ pounds. Little babies do not run in our family as I found out with my boys. 

My dad was not there. He was at a conference, a plane ride away. I was already 3 weeks late and my mother insisted that he go on the trip because I didn't seem to be planning on making my entrance any time soon. So my dad went. It turns out it was not a big deal because back in those days, the dark ages, dads were not in the delivery room anyway. My dad instead saw a note tacked to a bulletin board at the conference letting him know his baby girl had been born. 

All I know from my early years are the stories I have been told and the pictures I have seen. I remember seeing a picture of my brother feeding me a bottle while I am in a bassinet or infant seat of some kind. It is not the usual picture of the big brother holding his baby sister in his arms all precious even though you know there is an adult standing off to the side all nervous that the big sibling might drop the baby. 

I am not sure what my brother thought of me. He was almost 4 when I was born. Old enough to know that there is a new center of attention in the house, at least for a while. Old enough to know that the baby is fragile and makes weird sounds. One morning I was crying and my older brother did what he saw my mother do countless times when I was crying. He picked me up and put me on the changing table. He then went back to watch cartoons. I, of course, fell off the changing table. Thankfully I turned out to be somewhat bright and literate or this story would not seem funny. At least it seemed funny until I started having babies. 

Now when I look back at that story, I wonder where my parents were that my brother had enough time to hear me cry and be bothered enough to respond. He was watching cartoons so I can only imagine he was not jumping up quickly to deal with the baby crying. I don't know if he tried to get one of our parents first or if he just thought that he could solve the problem just like Mommy did. I do know that times were different and that my generation of moms have been trained to be uber-safety conscious. Also I know I was not the first or last baby to fall off a changing table. 

As I started having babies more details came out about how my parents managed the stresses of having a new baby around. I was mentioning something about having a hard time sleeping with the baby monitor next to my bed because I heard every noise and turn Hockey Boy made. My mom mentioned something about putting one of us kids, not sure which, in the basement so my dad could sleep. 

It is interesting what we choose to tell kids about their birth stories and about them as infants. I have been fascinated hearing the stories my mom told change as I became a new mom. The words of advice and attempts at comfort brought out stories that surprised me but also explained a lot of my childhood family's dynamics.

When Middle Man came along, my mom was trying to help me navigate the whole sibling thing. She joked about telling my older brother, who was 4 mind you, that babies can be annoying. Like they were in it together against this annoying baby who cried and fussed and got in the way. She would then get up and play with me in the middle of the night so my older brother wouldn't get jealous. I have always thought of myself as annoying to my big brother. I have always felt like I needed to take whatever attention and time he gave me and then leave him alone and not be a pest. I have always felt like he really doesn't want to be with me but thinks I am annoying. Turns out those were not his words. 

I don't want my kids to see each other as competition for my attention. I want them to know they are all wonderful parts of our family and that we are all better because of each other. When Middle Man came along Hockey Boy was only 15 months old. He was pretty unphased by the whole new baby thing. But when Little One came along both the boys were not sure they wanted to share my time with this new baby. Instead of hiding my love for the new baby, we took some time to show the older boys pictures and videos of me cuddling and feeding each of them. We talked about how we took care of each of them in the exact same way. Babies may need extra attention but each of them had their turn as the baby. 

I don't think I have any memories of my own until I was 3 or 4 and living in southern California. I have heard the story of leaving the east coast on my 1st birthday, heading west. We lived in Denver at one point, Fresno and I think a stint in San Diego where all my grandparents lived before finally settling down for a bit in Simi Valley, California. That is where my first memories take place.