Pennies and Gold

Our pastor spoke this morning about Mary's offering to Christ from John chapter 12. It was lavish, emotional, spontaneous, and extravagant. It was a year's salary poured out on the Priceless, the One with whom she was endlessly in love.

This made me think of the widow's offering in Luke 21. She gave two copper coins as the rich poured out their treasures in part. The point is, she gave all she had. She gave everything for the Priceless who she endlessly loved.

I wonder as a worshipper if sometimes we offer a widow's mite and leave the jar of costly perfume sitting on the shelf. Do we give pennies out of the blessings lavished on us? Would we stoop to wipe the feet of the King with the locks of our hair, would we give that of utmost value for the One with whom we are in love?

I've been on praise and worship teams for many years. I've been among christians for many more. Often, I hear how little we have to offer, and often I hear that what we sound like, what we give does not matter. And yes, our Savior wants our heart, but He also wants our all. If we are capable of singing like angels, if we are able to play strings like David, if we are able to put in another hour, be there with Him for another moment, able to put off our thoughts and words for His presence, why wouldn't we? Why wouldn't we meet Him with the utmost of our ability, He who fought so valiantly to win our hearts? What keeps us from really worshipping at every available moment, be it practice, performance, solitude or multitudes?

I sometimes wonder what choices we would make if we knew Chris Tomlin, Robin Mark, or Jeremy Camp was going to come and lead worship at our church for one Sunday. When would we arrive, how would we dress, how would we practice, what attitude, patience, and submission would we display? But doesn't the King of Glory, our Savior, the Holy One meet us each Sunday for corporate worship? What do we bring to this engagement? Do we bring a widow's mite when we have the wages of years to offer up?

Discipline the Parent

I thought when I had a child of my own, when I knew experientially how difficult it is to discipline, to be consistent, to be loving and just in the same breath, that I would have more compassion on badly behaving parents. I recognize that my little one is only six months and the greatest challenges are yet ahead of us. I understand that he is just now beginning the exploration of his sin nature and there are many hands on hips, eyebrows furrowed, pursed lip moments to come. But I thought I would have empathy.

I do not have more compassion. I have less. I have been tired, exhausted, on the verge of a coma, and you still have to be a parent. I have been frustrated, tearing my hair out, wanting to scream grumpy, and you still have to be the bigger person. The phone is not going to raise your child. And it isn't going to save you from having that responsibility.

Ok, I'm climbing down off my soapbox. This is why I shouldn't start composing blogs in my head in the middle of Wal-Mart.

Curiouser and curiouser

What a wiggle worm! I wish you could see my Little Man right now. He's laying on the edge of a large blanket surrounded by toys. The toys are serving not so much as amusement, but as speed bumps while he log rolls and wriggles across the nursery. I've twice already scooted him back onto the blanket, and twice he's almost collided with his swing. He is currently trying to assess the peculiar anatomy of a one-sided duck whose bottom half rattles like a snake... While trying to traverse, fittingly enough, a giant fuzzy snake blocking him on his blanket. And of course we are listening to Celtic Women. Not sure how that is related, but it seemed a useful note as long as we are setting the scene.

Little Man Noah cannot get enough information about the strange and marvelous world around him. If you ever find this world in the least bit dull, scoop up a six month old. I never before noticed how engaging my own socks are.

The trouble is, after a few seconds examination, a good slobbering on, and a swift thunk against the ol' noggin, Noah is convinced he knows everything about an object. And he wants another object to perfectly understand. He wiggles from discovery to discovery as if he were a cheetah cub in a world of mini gazelles.

Although as I say this he has been obsessed with the duck for the entire space of this post. And on his tummy even. Perhaps we have found the great riddle to occupy his ever-growing mind for a long enough period for mommy to finish half a thought... Nope, now he's trying to eat an airplane. Sigh.

Six Months

My six month old Little Man is napping in his crib. He won't nap in your arms, doesn't like being held like a little baby, and log rolls out of snuggles first thing on a Saturday morning. Despite this resistance to being held like an infant, he is incredibly affectionate. He'll grab your face with both hands and pull you close to him. When he's sleepy, he'll throw an arm around your neck and bury his face in your shoulder. During playtime he wants kisses, and zurberts, and tickles galore. As long as you remember that he is a whole six months now, and not a baby anymore.

Oh my Little Man. You are forevermore my baby. When you take your first steps, I will beam with pride and bite my lip with nerves. When you go off to school, I will smile and wave with joy and fight back tears. When you have your first heartbreak, I will sing Dashboard songs for you. When you pick a career, find a job, a wife, have little ones of your own, I will laugh, love, help, guide, and try not to meddle.

And I will pray and worship.

I will worship because you are of infinite worth. Regardless of the choices you make or the paths you tread, the fact that you are made in the image of our Captain makes you endlessly valuable. On every journey you will carry the marks of our Maker. In every dark place you will have the opportunity to share in the Light. I will love you because you are mine, a blessing and a gift. I will love you, and by loving I will worship.

And I will pray. Because though you are forever my baby, the object of my motherly affection, a human being of incredible worth regardless of how you choose to live, I know you have free will. I will pray that you grow to be a man like your father and even more a man like your Father. I will pray that you live fearlessly and in the fear of the One who most loves you. I will pray that you are brave, truthful, and strong in a world of cowardice, lies, and weakness. Above all, I pray that you will know Him who is unknowable. That you will meet the God of the Ages in this brief moment of your life.

And I will pray that somehow I can be part of this amazing adventure on which you are headed. That somehow I can show you the best way to live in our humanity, and the best way to live for eternity.

Happy six month birthday my Little Man. You may think you are all grown up, but we both still have a lot of growing up to do.

My Motley Crew

For day five of my Seven Days of Valentine's the Husband got me my very own pirate crew!

They are the very best sorts of pirates: rough to look at, but all sweets inside. I swear the man is fattening me up like Gretel, to have an Abi sandwich. We are basically living in a candy house.

And on that note: don't go see Hansel & Gretel. Terrible waste of money. And we went for free!

Seven Days of Valentines

Thursday afternoon I sat rather unsuspecting in my half demolished cubicle, resting my work computer on my lap and balancing a box of Lean Cuisine Sweet n Sour chicken in my one free hand. (Wow, there is nothing I'm proud of in that last sentence... except maybe my incredible sense of balance. Proprioception to the rescue!) Our office door squeaked open and a voice that probably belongs on a crabbing boat in the Bering Sea asked if there was an Abi Ririe here. 'No, Abi Ririe is off looting with pirates somewhere in the warm Caribbean. This husk typing numbers into Excel cells is merely a place holder.'

Mr. Gruff Voice then handed me a box and asked me to sign for it. Suddenly, Abi caught the first flight back from the Caribbean to reality land, confused and somewhat surprised that she would receive a package on a day so random as a Thursday. The box was from Pro-Flowers. For a brief moment I had a sinking feeling. The husband has been so busy, and stressed, and sick, and tired, and sick. Maybe he just forgot what day Valentine's is? The poor guy really needs a few weeks in Fiji.

Opening the box I was greeted with a beautiful, heart-covered vase, gorgeous fresh tulips and Irises, and a box of chocolate truffles. My cheeks all aflush and a smile threatening to tear me in two I pulled out the card. "The start of seven days of Valentine's!!!! -Jnoster". The other women in the office gravitated to my desk and oohed and awed with sufficient joy and envy. Several of the guys walked past with a sneer that said they were still recovering from the mistakes of Valentine's past. I was elated. I probably smiled to the point that my face might have stuck that way in the cold.

"Who's 'Jnoster'?" one coworker asked. I replied that I had no idea. I was 99 percent sure it was some nickname from the Husband that I should understand. The lingering 1 percent was terrified that I might be getting seven days of Valentine's from a secret (creepy) admirer. About 30 minutes later I realized it was all my boys names combined like a short-lived celebrity couple. Adorable.

I thanked the Husband profusely when I got home. He'd asked if I'd ever seen that Simpsons episode. Not for the last time I looked at him deeply confused. So yes, he got the idea from the Simpsons, but I don't care because I feel so special and loved and sick on chocolate. He's amazing. More than I could ever deserve.

So if anyone has a great idea for Valentines gifts for a guy, who is absolutely remarkable and wonderful, please let me know. I've only got two days left to figure something out.

SnowBall

This weekend the husband and I played in a SnowBall Tournament. For those of you who have never heard of a snowball tournament, allow me to explain. First move to Utah, make sure it is early February so that there is an 80 percent chance of snow ready to come blizzarding down on 2 feet of permafrost. Allow the sun to appear just long enough to melt the top two inches of solid infield and turn it into a mud-wrestling ring. Then bring on the snow. Once the feeling has completely left your hands, pick up a solid metal bat coated in semi-frozen mud. Request that a man who looks like he subs for tugboats in rough harbors lob a softball at you. He will do so after he dances around like he's got ants in his underoos for half a minute. Contact said ball with said bat. Listen to the joyous sounds of every bone in your hand shattering into a million pieces, whilst feeling the ringing slither up your arm muscles into your teeth. Run to first base. Correction: Slog toward first base, get stuck, slide, watch your life flash before your eyes. Make it. Hurrah!

I was going to begin this post with some comment on how SnowBall is the ultimate in male ideology, how testosterone and cold weather don't mix, how male blood flow to male brains must be hampered by the onslaught of February.

But there I stood out in the middle of the field with the rest of the dinks. So really I have no room to talk.

And really, is there anything he doesn't make look good? Up to our knees in mud, wearing eight layers of mismatched pajamas, so cold our eyes are watering, tummies rumbling without breakfast, and he looks like a Greek god.

Whereas I have an enormous eight-layer Nacho Libre wedgie.

The Cup Game

We used to have animal planet and no children. I watched a lot of gazelles being eaten by lions, super fishermen using themselves as pirannah bait, and stupid pet tricks. In some ways I feel my son has saved me from a mind-numbed fate. There was one show called "It's Me or the Dog" with a British dog trainer named Victoria. Victoria could take an untrained junkyard dog with neurological issues and have him sipping tea from a porcelain cup and peeing in the toilet... with the door closed... and washing his paws with little rose shaped soaps when he was done.

Victoria never met Dumpster.

Dumpster is an Olde English Bulldog, and a living testament to his name. He reminds everyone who meets him that once his kind was used to herd bulls, primarily by latching onto their throats and dragging them into a pen with a righteously indignant 'Woof'. He is a purebred, but we can't breed him. We took care of that a few years ago in hopes that he would mellow out enough to stop eating our apartment like it was made out of ginerbread and peanut butter. A tally of what this dog has consumed would include: two couches, three dining room chairs, several feet of drywall, three choclate chip cookies, a string of Christmas lights, inumerable shoes, and about 18 remote controls. Honestly, it is like the remote control graveyard in our basement. If Dumpy barks too close to the TV, the channel changes.

Dumpster weighs approximately 80 pounds, 90% of which is centered in his shoulders and head, giving him a battering ram look. If the orcs broke Grond trying to smash down the doors of Minas Tirith, Dumpster would be a good substitute. And then, once inside he would lick all the Gondorian soldiers to death. Despite his ferociousness toward remotes, he really is nothing but a big sweetheart. BIG sweetheart. With claws that he can't seem to control.

There was a bully on "It's me or the dog" who was similarly sized to Dumpster and played very rough. Victoria suggested a new kind of play for this dog that discouraged tugging, jumping, and maiming. She called it the cup game. The idea is, you place down three cups, one with a treat under it. Slide the cups around to mix them up, puppy tries to guess where the treat is, and when she figures it out, happiness ensues. Excitedly I got my cups and a little treat, set everything up, and called for Dumpster.

He bounded into the kitchen, stepped on one of the cups, and gave me a giant slurp across the face.

Okay, no plastic cups. I got out real cups, showed Dumpster the treat (this heated things up real quick), showed him how I was 'hiding' it under a cup, mixed them up, and then let him at them. At first things seemed to be going well. He sniffed vigorously at each cup. Then he sniffed the floor around the cups, under the table, and his own backside. I felt sorry for the big dummy. I removed one of the cups and let him try again. He was equally confused. Somehow mommy just had a treat and made it vanish. No fair! With a shake of my head, I removed another cup, showed him the treat again and put the cup down over it. He sniffed circles all over the kitchen, ran headlong into a dining room chair, and then started sniffing off into the living room.

I stared at him with astonishment on my face. My dog is too dumb for the cup game! One cup! There was only one cup to work with, and he couldn't handle it. In shock I lifted the cup and allowed Dumpy his treat.

So we are sadly back to tugging, jumping, and maiming as our primary form of play. Now that I think about it, though, maybe if we put a remote control under a cup, we would have better success...

And if anyone needs to buy a us a present, a Best Buy giftcard is always welcome. Or a new remote, we generally buy Logitech. Dumpy finds it has a nice battery acid bouquet.

(We don't make a habit of putting clothes on Dumpy. He would just eat them. The hat was a gift, and it stayed on for about 5 seconds.)

I'm fine; I have a giraffe

It's hard to blog when you have a family. At the moment I'm trying to compose a story in my head before putting it down on paper and Noah is shrieking just to hear his little lungs work, the husband is rattling off big words from his nursing homework, and Dumpster is trying to steal a monkey rattle from Noah without anyone noticing. It is like a really bad orchestra primarily composed of out of tune bagpipes in here. . . And I just heard a sound that suggests it will not smell so lovely in this room in a few seconds. I'll be right back...

I suppose it would be hard to blog without a family too. No fodder for the story beasts.

For Christmas we gave Noah a walker, and it is his primary joy in life after milk. Or to put it more correctly, running over Dumpy and mercilessly chasing him down is a primary life joy. (Don't feel too sorry for the great Bully. All he has to do to escape Noah is step onto the carpet. As he isn't clever enough to figure this out, I declare him too stupid to defend. He deserves a good chasin'. More on my beloved Bully's stupidity later.)

Mounted on either side of the walker are two plastic giraffes standing like great stone Argonath guarding the river of cereal flowing beneath them. At first these two giraffes were a cause of great concern to my little one. He swiveled his wrecking ball noggin from one to the other, unable to keep a wary eye on both. They encircled him like terrible velociraptors (see below), with those big, uncanny smiles painted on unfeeling, yellow faces.

Now that he has grown accustomed to the arrangement of his favorite gadget and realized that giraffes will not strike without extreme provocation, Baby Noah has put these creatures to use. He grabs them both like gear shifts pulling and pushing first this one then that. He drives his walker like a bulldozer, and I see a bright future in construction or gold digging on a Discovery Channel show ahead for him. And if, heavens forbid, he gets stuck on the carpet and his giraffe controls are unable to propel him anywhere, he greedily stuffs one into his mouth, gnawing on his horn, throwing a wicked look at the other as if to say, "Shape up, or you're next." Prey becomes predator in the wild kitchen jungle.

My son's life seems inextricably linked to these tall, spotted, Savannah creatures. At our baby shower he received a book about a dancing giraffe, and it remains one of his favorite. When given a Little People Noah's Ark, he immediately snagged the giraffes, two by two, and started teething on their heads. His great uncle Bob gave him a stuffed giraffe for Christmas and he was inseparable from it all day. So I imagine one day, my sweet Noah will be in an open jeep, cruising the plains of Africa, a sketch book in one hand and a tempting green shoot in the other.

But right now he's actually crying, not just screaming. The giraffes will have to wait until their destiny has his bath.