Photo: Will Foster on Flickr

I have a confession to make: I have some anger issues.

When I was a kid, my parents were strict. They were loving, but strict. I thought so anyway. The rules and moral code I had to adhere to placed the bar just above my head and I was always striving to reach it. I was a good kid. I was never spanked (ever), but I was disciplined with a wave of guilt that only a father can bestow upon his daughter. My dad used to say, “I’m disappointed in you.” Well… he may as well have beaten me. That was usually plenty to make me change my tune. When it wasn’t, though, he yelled.

He yelled loudly.

He yelled because he loved me and hated that I was making poor decisions. He yelled because he couldn’t make me choose to behave better. He yelled because he felt powerless to fashion me in to the awesome person he knew I could be, all the while resting the idea of how well I turn out on his own shoulders. In truth I’m not sure if that’s how he felt, but it sure is how I feel about my own kids.

I yell too.

The other day I was helping out in Mini-Man’s kindergarten classroom with their lunch program (could you imagine trying to feed eighteen 5-year-olds without any assistance?!) and I saw the kids interacting with their teacher before and during lunch. I watched as they tried to stay still on the carpet, as they budged in line while waiting to wash their hands, as they poked one another and giggled. All the while their teacher was correcting them gently and moving on to the next task. Her voice never wavered.

She’s soft and firm.

See, she loves her job and is awesome at what she does; I think you have to be in order to actually survive being a kindergarten teacher. She cares for each child and wants them all to succeed, but because they’re not her kids she doesn’t need to feel any burden for how they’ll turn out as adults. I’m sure she hopes that in some way she’ll make a lasting impact on the life of each child she teaches, but I’m sure she doesn’t lose sleep over it.

She doesn’t yell.

Honestly I’d be angry if she yelled at my kid. Why? Because it’s inappropriate and ineffective. I love my kids and I love being a mom; and I care for each of my children and step-children and want to see them succeed. But I have heaped on my own shoulders the complete and total responsibility for how my children turn out as adults through my own condemnation of other parents whose children have faltered. My own judgemental attitude has set the bar way higher than any parent can hope to achieve.

What I need to do is remember that my kids are only on loan to me. I have been charged with loving them, teaching them and protecting them but I MUST remember that they belong to God; and parenting is God’s work. He is the one who bears the ultimate responsibility for how they turn out. He is the one who created them with a plan and purpose. He is the one that will work in their hearts as we scatter seeds of faith in their lives and aim, by the grace of God, to pour out the fruits of the spirit in our homes – love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.

Notice yelling isn’t on the list.

What I need to do is correct them gently each time they fall short of my own expectations. I need to lovingly show them the right way to behave and then move on to the next task. I need to hand my kids over to God at the end of the day understanding rightly that the ultimate responsibility lies with Him.

I need to parent with the grace of a kindergarten teacher and trust God for the rest.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” [Matthew 11:28-30 NIV].

Photo: Meredith Farmer on Flickr

I remember planning my move to this beautiful place and my new future with Big Mack and I was so excited. I was excited to move back to the Okanagan; I was excited to be a part of a whole family again; I was excited to live in a house with a yard; I was excited to give my sons a new dad; I was excited to quit my job and become a stay-at-home wife and mom; I was excited to spend time writing music. There’s only one thing I wasn’t excited about.

I hated the idea of leaving my church.

My church was my home. It’s where I wanted to be. It was filled with people who cared about me, people who prayed for me and listened to me when I needed to talk. It was people who held me accountable and people who stretched me and taught me to reach out for God’s truth… to get to know Him better. It was where I belonged. It was my home.

I’d visited Big Mack’s church a few times during my visits with him before we were married – maybe 3 or 4 at most. I remember comparing it to Valley Church – my home church since I became a Christian in 2005 – and feeling completely underwhelmed. I remember thinking the music was lacking and the congregation was stifled and I remember disliking the preaching I did hear simply because it wasn’t Pastor Owen. There was some social awkwardness too… or maybe it was just me. I was, after all, attending where Big Mack used to go with his now ex-wife and, well… it just wasn’t MY church.

Ugh.

I remember mulling it over. I remember asking Big Mack if he would consider moving to something a little more vibrant. I remember wanting something different… I remember saying I couldn’t feel the Holy Spirit there. I remember praying about it and I remember God telling me to stop looking at church with an expectation to be served but, rather, to look at it as an opportunity to serve others and trust in Him.

This is right where he wanted me.

I am so grateful to the Oliver Alliance Church community for embracing me wholeheartedly, for welcoming me into their lives and into their hearts, for including me in their social engagements and for caring for me and my boys through the children’s ministry. I am thankful I have been given the opportunity to serve with the worship arts ministry and that I have been encouraged and prayed with and loved on and lifted up.

I am so completely ashamed at the terrible attitude I once held about this great group of people. As I have come to know many of them – even just a little bit – I can tell their hearts are genuine, their faith strong and true. I can tell they love my Jesus as I do.

I still have close relationships with Valley Church through songwriting; my co-writers are there and I have been meeting with them about once a month since I moved here. And I always take in a service there when I’m in the city on a Sunday… I am even still asked to sing with the worship ministry there on occasion. What’s beautiful, though, is I now have a new church family and all those things I thought about Oliver Alliance before were completely wrong.

So wrong.

It’s funny how our perceptions change. I think God changes them. Where once my poor outlook clouded my vision to where I couldn’t see the Spirit moving in that place I am now moved to tears in worship and humbled by the inspired preaching. So often Pastor Jeremy manages to preach on a topic or scripture passage I was just reading or contemplating the day before, confirming to me that God is very much still at work.

As Christians, our church becomes our family. They are an extension of us – the body of Jesus. We cannot function well without those vital relationships. We must allow ourselves to fall under the leadership and guidance of a pastor and a church body for our own well-being and growth.

I’m so grateful that God put me right where I am. My heart is here.

I noticed a Facebook update from a dear friend today asking her friends to refrain from posting anything about abortion and/or gay marriage. Obviously any discussion on either of these topics becomes highly offensive to both sides.

But I want to share something about abortion; I want to share the reason why I side with the pro-life camp.

The topic of abortion hits much closer to home for me than just being an activist or spreading this stuff because I’m your friendly neighborhood Jesus freak. I don’t go and hold placards outside Planned Parenthood or any other abortion clinics and I don’t chastise women who have had abortions. I won’t hate on anyone, call you a murderer or turn my back on you. I have had some dear friends confide in me their own decisions AND the horrible turmoil they went through before, during and after their wishes were carried out. When I say I side with the pro-life camp it’s just my position on the topic. My actions consist of no more than simply not aborting a baby and asking you to consider why abortion may not be morally right under normal (or any) circumstances.

I shared a link a couple of weeks ago on my own Facebook to a movie called 180. The 180 Movie is stirring up a considerable amount of controversy for the way in which its creator – Ray Comfort – compares the abortion industry to the holocaust. The movie is quickly approaching a million views, which is quite the feat for a 33-minute movie. What’s most shocking to me about the movie itself is the revelation of the numbers that I’ve never considered before: Abortion in America has taken the lives of 60 million people. Furthermore, and unrelated to the 180 Movie, in China, the one-child policy has caused the loss of roughly 400 million more lives.

But nevermind the numbers. I’m passionate about the topic of abortion because of my own story. I was adopted. Why?

My birth mother was 13 years old.

I thank God every day that she didn’t get an abortion… that she couldn’t get an abortion in 1975. I’m grateful that by the time the pregnancy was discovered she was already 5 months or so along and no doctor would go through with it. If I were conceived today I never would have made it to this world.

I’m grateful for my own life.

I’m grateful that my life was spared. I’m grateful that my parents found two babies to adopt so that I grew up in a family where I knew I belonged and was wanted and could be cared for. I’m grateful my birth mom had parents who continued to love her while she dealt with the consequences of having a baby so young. My parents always told me I was adopted and why but I’m grateful that I have come to learn the whole story… or most of it anyway.

I’m grateful there’s a story to be told.

I’m sorry if my being passionate about this topic offends you. I’m sorry if my asking you to reconsider your own stance on abortion is offensive also. But I can’t not share my heart.

And I hope my friends will forgive me and see that I mean no harm.

Here’s The 180 Movie if you’re curious… 180 Movie

Photo: Britannia Willes

Children are a gift from God.

They’re a gift to us; they’re a gift to this world. They’re His children, His creation… The kingdom of heaven belongs to them (Matt 19:14). He loves them infinitely more than we ever could. He has a perfect plan for their lives. Not one of them is an accident. Not one of them was unplanned. Not one of them was unwanted. Not one of them arrived at the wrong time or the wrong place or to the wrong parents.

Not one.

How we treat our children is a reflection of how we treat Jesus. If we don’t have time for our children we don’t have time for Jesus. If we yell at our children we yell at Jesus. If we smack our children we smack Jesus. Every time we sin against our children we are spitting on Jesus and mocking him on the cross over and over again.

Sometimes I feel absolutely overwhelmingly frightened at the sheer magnitude of the responsibility. Sometimes I feel like my heart is going to break when I realize that they need more than I will ever have in me to give.

Every parent is given a monumental task… a mission… a ministry. To them. To our kids. To train them up in the way they should go (Prov 22:6). To not provoke them to anger (Eph 6:4). To love them. To teach them in humility and with patience. To speak truth into their lives and to model the fruits of the Spirit of God: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control (Gal 5:22-23)… It’s a high calling and a daunting one.

But God is able.

Remember… whatever He has called us to do He will do it. He is the one who fed the crowd of five thousand with just two fishes and five loaves of bread (John 6:1-15) and so we are able to raise up our children even without the best of examples (or even any example at all!) … just God’s promises and our faith.

And yes… I’m mostly just writing this post to myself.

I have been contemplating how I can help with the famine relief efforts in Somalia and the Horn of Africa and I want to do something big.

It seems we – I? – have been apathetic to the famines in Africa for at least as long as I’ve been alive. After all, we hear about the starving children in Africa at every meal when we leave some food on our plates. We heard about the children in Ethiopia when I was a kid and now 11.6 million people are affected by this latest drought in the area spanning Kenya, Somalia and Ethiopia. I don’t even think we can really grasp how many people that is! Some of the articles I’ve been reading lately have left me in tears and wondering how on earth I could ever do anything that will actually help anyone.

What if it were my own kids?! A friend of mine recently linked to a blog post on A Fresh Chapter called What If We Were the Ones Broke Down and Torn? and it hit me like a freight train: How would I look in the faces of my children and tell them, “I’m sorry kids; there is no food. Now go find something else to do to keep your mind off your hunger.” Big Mack and I have 5 little mouths to feed. I would be gutted if I ever had to live out that reality with them. ABSOLUTELY GUTTED!

Then I saw a friend post on her Facebook page that she’d donated a pay cheque to Unicef. And then another friend posted a link to the Canadian Red Cross Horn of Africa relief fund via Miss 604 and I’m still trying to figure out what I can do that might make a real impact. I could give $20, $50, even $100 and call it day… feel like I’d done something, wonder if it made even a dent and then move on, but I really want to do something bigger than that.

So I was thinking…

I have some money tied up in a condo in North Vancouver, and I could take some of that money and donate it… IF I could sell the condo, that is. The current condo market is tough though; there are a lot of available units to choose from. So I want to sweeten the pot so that, together with someone else out there who is looking for just the right home in North Vancouver, I can contribute to something that might make a difference.

So here’s what I’m offering: Buy my North Vancouver condo for the current listing price of $314,900 (I have reduced the price by $10k also) and I will donate $10,000 to the Canadian Red Cross Horn of Africa relief efforts in your name. That means you will not only purchase a lovely updated 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom condo in the trendy Lower Lonsdale area of North Vancouver, but you will receive a $10,000 charitable tax credit for 2011.

PLUS! If we can make this happen by September 16th, the Government of Canada has agreed to match the donation so that the Canadian Red Cross will actually receive $20,000!

Here are the particulars on the condo:

• Second floor corner unit is north-west facing – cool in summer and private with a large hedge surrounding the property. Morning sunlight in the dining room and 2nd bedroom.
• Bedrooms separated for privacy; largest floor plan in the building
• Kitchen completely updated in late 2006 with custom maple kitchen cabinets, stainless steel appliances including double oven and overhead microwave, stone countertops, Italian ceramic tile flooring
• Bathroom completely updated in late 2006 with soaker tub with custom enclosure and glass door, heat limiter on bath/shower, new everything
• Other updates included lighting fixtures in kitchen, dining room and sconces in living room
• Strata fees <$300/mo. includes heat, hot water, insurance, landscaping etc.
• Unit includes one parking stall in the secure underground parking, one storage locker and use of the secure bike lock-up
• Two blocks to Lonsdale Avenue; 6 blocks to Lonsdale Quay & Sea Bus with a Translink bus stop right outside the door

See full MLS listing here.

To arrange for a viewing, please contact my realtor, Ruth Hanson at 604-880-5936.

I want to sell my condo. But I REALLY want to donate this money. I want to do something significant. I have been the recipient of love and grace from so many friends and family who upheld me when I needed it, and now I want to do something that will really make a mark. I know no one will notice this money in reality, but maybe… just maybe this will make some kind of difference.

I can hope.

Photo: miggslives on Flickr

You know how when you’re starting to feel kind of proud of yourself it’s like perfect ripe timing to be totally schooled? Yeah, it was like that.

The day was going so well.

Today was my first day without Big Mack but with all 5 kids for the entire afternoon from the school pickup through bedtime. So like any new and somewhat frightened step-mom I think, “Ice cream and some kind of park ought to do it, right?” So I packed up the Evans boys and headed to the school to pick up the Mack kids at the appointed time. I was greeted with smiles and a request for another friend to join us… no problem. She didn’t have to be home so what was one more? After all, I wouldn’t want an empty seat in my vehicle, would I? That would just be silly. Pack ‘em in I say.

So I took the 6 kids, including one in a stroller, to a very cramped, very chaotic ice cream shop… like a corner grocery store that seems to have cornered the market on kid-goodness: ice cream, candy, slushies etc. These guys, in fact, even mix ice cream and slushy together to create a treat highly coveted by children everywhere I’m sure. Once all 6 were happily licking away we were off to the local park that is both a playground and a beach – the best of both worlds and a place I had yet to visit. I was obviously feeling particularly cocky by this point as evidenced by my comfort with a lack of prior reconnaissance of the area. All the kids were playing nicely though; it was like a miracle was taking place. Miss Mack and her friend were doing typical pre-teen stuff: alternating between deep conversation on the swings to joining in with the younger kids at the water’s edge; and the 3 middle kids were playing nicely with mini-boy as he tiptoed into the water and hucked handfuls of wet sand everywhere. There was only a little complaining about our lack of preparedness for the beach; it was an impromptu visit after all so no one had swim suits, towels or sand toys but we made do and any complaining was so minor it was barely worth mentioning.

No one is crying and all are enjoying themselves. WIN!

They even behaved when I said it was time to go (a blessing from God Himself, no doubt, who knew what was coming up). We all piled back in to the big family wagon and made our way home… or rather, most of the way home.

And then it happened.

I could see it coming and I heard the gasps from the back seats. It was awful. There was a frenzy. I just knew when I saw the array of assorted barbecues, gardening tools and old dishes that this would be something like a monkey party with stuff flying everywhere. It was like watching a train wreck happen in slow motion and I was totally powerless to stop it. I pulled up the vehicle outside the house and the kids piled out with lightning speed.

“We’re going to the garage sale!” “I have my own money!” “Hey I don’t have any money *cries*!” “Wait for me!” “Move your bag I can’t get out!” “I want to see what they have too!” “We’re going to buy stuff!”

It was awful.

I stared, hopeless, as the 4 older kids trotted off towards the place where old lawnmowers went to die as I bid farewell to the friend from across the street who joined us for the afternoon. Knowing full well I had to care for mini-boy and make dinner (not to mention that I think the Mack kids sense my apprehension with my new role in their lives and know how to play me ever so subtly), they knew all too well I was indeed powerless against their schemes. In a moment they were gone. No one warned me about this.

Why didn’t anyone warn me?!

I had no idea how bad it could be. I had no idea they had any money!! Who gave these kids money?! I’m convinced the neighbour gave them half of the stuff they brought home. Not only one but TWO of the children bought new tool boxes for Big Mack who, incidentally, already has about six tool boxes. Now he’s a handy do-it-yourself kind of guy, but that steel box that looks like a 1967 workman’s lunch kit sure is going to cramp his style. Then there was this awesome joy stick thing that can be used to play games on the computer. “Which games?” I asked. “Any game.” I was told.

Oh but it gets better.

Mini-man bought a remote control. “It just needs batteries,” he tells me. So now if I want to turn on the NOTHING it came with I will have no trouble doing so. How thoughtful. And I know we’ll all get a lot of use out of that NBA game for PC they brought home. Oh yeah, and there were baseball cards… or was it hockey cards, or basketball. Honestly I don’t care. I found myself praying: “Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do.”

I find myself with my own childhood flashing before my eyes and a sudden appreciation for my dad and his tempered reaction to my own awesome garage sale finds. In fact, I’m a little remorseful if I’m being honest. Sorry dad. I had NO IDEA.

So much for that commitment Big Mack and I just made to stop buying more stuff. I think we forgot to pass on the memo.

And now I’m sitting, and looking around at the boxes of stuff I still have to unpack and find homes for and I find myself thinking, “We should have a garage sale.”

Photo: mumchancegaloot on Flickr

I have been writing music for quite some time now, meeting with a group of friends and collaborating to create. I suppose it’s almost shameful to say it’s been nearly 3 years that I’ve been doing this because I have yet to really share anything of what I’ve written with even my friends let alone the public at large. It’s just that doing so feels like that dream… the one where you’re at school and you realize you’ve forgotten to put any clothes on at all. So there you are standing stark naked in front of hundreds of children laughing at you. Yeah… I’ve had that dream.

But this has been a long time in the making.

Long before I became a Christian I was drawn to gospel-centred music. I went to a Christian camp when I was 12 years old; it’s where I first heard the gospel. I’d never been to a church before and had no idea what they were talking about to be honest. But I did love the music. And there was a guy at this camp that had recorded a tape of his own original Christian music and I bought it. I left there listening to it day in and day out… the messages were beautiful.

When I was 16 I worked a part time job with a Christian woman who always played Christian music in our work area – again, I loved it. She turned me on to Amy Grant. Actually, I came to love Amy Grant’s Christmas tape (yes, dating myself I know… what are tapes?!) and listened to it every Christmas for years to come. In fact, any time I heard gospel music I couldn’t help but be drawn to it.

Something about it just captivated me… actually it continues to captivate me.

When I came to faith at the beginning of 2005 I found myself in a very vibrant church. From the moment I walked in the first time, the music spoke right into my heart and I knew I’d come to the right place. Within 6 months I was asked to join the music ministry there and sing with one of the worship bands and I’ve been so blessed. I’ve also made some amazing friends who have become my collaborators over the last few years now.

I think it was late 2008 when I started meeting every other week at a friend’s house to write with 3 friends. It became our de facto home group church meeting – we would have coffee and cookies, talk about stuff, create some music and pray together. These guys have become a huge part of my life… like brothers to me.

See… I love to write music. I get inspired with lyrics and melodies and can hear in my head what chords I want to put to them to an extent, but my musical background is 25 years of playing the trumpet. That’s not exactly conducive to writing contemporary pop music though I think it lends itself well to hearing all the melodies, harmonies and counter-melodies all swirling around in my head at the same time. My piano skills are limited to the 5 years of lessons I took when I was 5 years old and I can’t play the guitar to save my life. And so my co-writers bring life to my lyrics and my melodies by weaving the fabric of the song together underneath them.

But it’s the idea of sharing what I’ve written that makes me want to throw up just a little; it feels so vulnerable.

At this very moment my friends, Joe and Randy, are in the process of recording some of the songs we’ve co-written. I write most of the lyrics and melodies and they create the music that brings them to life. When I got married and moved away from my collaborators I didn’t want all our efforts to simply vanish into the history of our individual stories; I wanted to keep a record of the time we’d shared and record some of what we created in order to share our art with our friends and our church family. After all, we all felt like God was calling us to create these songs together… like it was what we were meant to be doing with our lives. At the same time, the prospect of sharing this stuff with anyone else is like bearing my very soul to the wolves. It feels like I’m standing naked in front of hundreds of laughing school children.

When you create any kind of art – writing, music, visual art etc. – it’s so very personal that the thought of receiving critique, or worse – ridicule – makes death feel welcome. At least it does for me. But here I go. There will be 5 songs coming on the EP currently in progress and a new draft I’ve shared on my Michelle Evans Music MySpace Page called “Why did He”, which is my first collaboration with Big Mack.

If you enjoy them, awesome. If you don’t, they weren’t written for you. I’m okay either way… or at least, I will be.

Photo: Allogist on Flickr

It’s Mother’s Day today.

I’ve never been a big fan of Hallmark holidays but I am a huge fan of my own mom and so I want to wish her and every other mom in my world a happy Mother’s Day. I also want to share a little about my own journey into motherhood.

I just got home from church where my pastor preached on Hannah, the mother of Samuel from the book of 1 Samuel, chapter 1. Hannah was barren and in her devastation, she prayed to God: “O Lord of hosts, if you will indeed look on the affliction of your servant and remember me and not forget your servant, but will give to your servant a son, then I will give him to the Lord all the days of his life, and no razor shall touch his head.” (1 Samuel 1:11)

So God gave her a son and she called him Samuel. And when Samuel was weaned, the book says, she took him to the house of the LORD at Shiloh and gave him back to God as she had promised.

As I sat listening to the story told and the sermon preached I felt tears well up over my own experiences with my son. I know how Hannah felt. I’ve always related what happened to me and to Mini-man to the story of Abraham laying Isaac on the altar, but the story of Hannah is fitting too. And I know I have written about this before when I wrote about my postpartum depression, but I wanted to tell the story as the main point of this post because it was such a momentous time of testing and a huge defining moment in the development of my faith.

When my oldest son was born his birth wasn’t without complications. I was induced at 41 weeks; my blood pressure was rising and I had gestational diabetes so there was some concern he could have been large in size. The induction seemed to go well albeit slow: it took 30 hours for me to dilate to 10cm. Alas, after 3 hours of pushing there was no baby in sight and he came into the world via surgical birth. Dave and I took him home on day 3 – a Sunday. All continued to be well despite a growing bruise on his head. But he had a HUGE cone head (on the side lol) because I’d been pushing on him with his head turned sideways for 3 hours so the nurses chocked it up to a rough birth. I had been recovering well and baby was nursing fine; we were exhausted and elated at the same time, and Dave had to go back to work the next day.

On his 5th day of life I noticed a black eye forming. I had a follow-up appointment with my obstetrician set for that afternoon anyway so I waited it out. As soon as she saw the black eye she had us admitted back to the hospital where they ran all kinds of tests on him as they suspected a bleeding disorder. After running all the tests they found nothing wrong except for low hemoglobin from the bruising and, once again, chocked it up to a rough birth experience. After a month of iron supplements his hemoglobin was back into the normal range – albeit the low end – and we were told we were free to circumcise him.

Now I know I have friends who are completely anti-circumcision and I hope you can look past that to get to the heart of what I’m sharing here. I had read the arguments both ways and eventually handed the decision over to my husband as I couldn’t come to a conclusion for myself. He decided it would be best if we did it.

So I made him an appointment for the circumcision with “the” circumcision guy of Vancouver – Dr. Pollock. Because Mini-man was now 5 weeks of age we had to go to his New Westminster office to have the procedure done. So I took him and my closest girlfriend and the diaper bag and thought we’d be in and out.

That day changed my life forever.

After the procedure we were asked to wait for 10 minutes and the doctor would return. Well I managed to calm Mini-man down by nursing him in the office and all seemed well until the doctor opened his diaper. “That’s not normal,” he says. There was quite a bit of blood. I could see his concern and I started worrying. I told him of the iron situation and the low hemoglobin and he immediately requested the test results from the pediatrician we’d been seeing. He left the room and went to get them off the fax machine. When he came back he told me he had called for the paramedics to take us to Royal Columbian Hospital. The bleeding wasn’t stopping and he didn’t know why.

I rode in the ambulance with him and called Dave. He came to meet us at the ER. It was awful. What was supposed to be a routine procedure was anything but and no one knew why this was happening. They’d run tests for bleeding disorders when he was 5 days old and had found none. So as the doctors and nurses are running around us I was beginning to realize this was one of those situations. It wasn’t just a little problem. No one seemed to know what to do. I was holding the baby and they just kept wrapping more gauze around the wound. The gauze was soaking up more and more blood and no one was even applying any pressure… at least I knew enough about first aid to know to do that much so I did it myself.

Finally I shrieked for someone to help us. He was turning quiet and grey in my arms. His eyes looked empty. One of the nurses took him from me and they frantically worked to get an IV in him. I cried out, “Don’t let my baby die!” She replied hesitantly, “I don’t think he’s going to die.” I’m feeling the adrenaline of that day just as I type this out. I was so scared. Dave and I were both bawling at this point.

We prayed right there in the emergency room.

I felt a strange sense of calm wash over me and the clearest of all thoughts came to me. I thought,

“If the only reason I conceived this child and grew him in my belly, gave birth to him, nursed him and loved him for 5 short weeks was to usher him back into the arms of Jesus, then that’s God’s plan and I’ll trust in it.”

I shared my thought with Dave. We prayed more. We cried. We knew we were having that moment… the moment where time feels suspended. We knew our son was on the edge one shift in the wrong direction and he would die. The precipice. He was right there.

A few moments later the nurses were able to establish an IV and get him to pink up a bit. He was still eerily quiet and his eyes looked placid but I was no longer fearful. Once he was stable enough they transfered us to BC Children’s Hospital where they put him under general anesthesia to surgically close up the wound. We were kept overnight and within 24 hours we had a diagnosis: he has Hemophilia.

I feel like God used that moment to find out just how committed we were to this boy, to our marriage and to creating a family that would go through the valleys together. But I feel like He also wanted to know that we trust Him. I feel like it was a test and we passed. I feel like our faith was rewarded and we got to keep our son. But I will never forget that helpless feeling. I will never forget the clarity of that revelation. I will never forget the closeness of God in that moment.

That experience has given me a special sense of freedom with my kids. Over time I have come to appreciate that our children belong to God. They are not ours to keep. God loves our children more than we do!

but Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 19:14)

Now in practice I suppose I worry as much about my kids as the next mom. In fact, when Dave died I can tell you my very first thought was for my kids and how they would have to grow up without their dad. The thought of that killed me… like a knife to my heart. I felt like keeling over every time I thought about it. But even in everyday stuff I believe my kids are set apart for God. I trust in that. God can use our children to test us and grow us and shape us into the people we were created to be. He can use them to increase our patience and our mercy and our perseverance. He can use them to nudge our conscience and to make us laugh uncontrollably. I no longer worry that my son will die from anything unusual because I figure if God had wanted him in heaven He had the perfect opportunity. I no longer worry about how he’ll fare without his dad; God has brought him an awesome new dad. I no longer worry about whether or not he’ll grow up damaged from my imperfect parenting. No, I believe God has a much bigger purpose for my son.

And I believe God has a much bigger purpose for your kids too.

You can give your children over to God and trust Him with them. You can trust Him to supply their every need. You can trust Him to be everything they lack. God loves them more than you do. And I know if you’re a mother, you love them more than you ever thought you were capable of loving. So sit back and enjoy them. Enjoy their smiles and their laughter, their cuddles and their curiosity. Enjoy their carefree outlook and the risks they take. Enjoy every day with them. They are truly a gift from God.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Photo: Road Fun on Flickr

Today is Friday.

My friends are rejoicing for the weekend has arrived. The work week has come to an end, school children have finished their educational endeavors for time being and the sabbath rest begins.

Except… well, now I have no Friday. Because I have no Monday. I’m learning a whole new way of living that I haven’t experienced before. And while it’s somewhat similar to the ever-changing life I once lived in college when random classes and shiftwork formed the core of my existence, I am now walking in uncharted territory. Or so it seems.

As a stay-at-home-mom my schedule – or lack thereof – is dictated by the schedules, work and school cycles of those in my household. Gone is the mundane. Gone is Monday to Friday. Gone is the weekend.

And I love it!

When I started working a full time salaried position back in late 1999 I went through a mourning process. I mourned the variety of shift work. I also mourned the cyclical nature of the university school year marked by fall semester, Christmas, spring semester, May long weekend, summer break, Labour Day weekend… each season bringing new anticipation of change… new courses, new jobs, new activities. The Monday to Friday, 9-5 (or 8-6… whatever) lifestyle had its definite drawbacks: most notably, you have to run all your errands on the weekends with everyone else when business hours are reduced already. Aside from that, however, I missed the days when I would work a 7am-3pm shift and feel like I had a full day still ahead of me once I got off work. Similarly, I missed the occasional shift where I didn’t start until 3pm because I could go out late the night before and not worry about having to get up early. I missed having days off in the middle of the week.  The shift to office hours really seemed to make life quite boring.

Of course I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the benefits of that boring schedule: you always get your weekends free, life with young children can be easier… it’s certainly easier to find and coordinate daycare anyway, and you know exactly how much money you’ll get and when – a benefit I’ve come to value greatly over the years.

But now, in leaving the corporate world for my new domestic position I am thrust back into a world where every day is different and there is a little something to look forward to in each.

Big Mack works a 4-on-4-off schedule and his shifts always change so each block starts at a different time. This weekend, just as all my friends are celebrating Friday, Big Mack is getting ready to start the dreaded graveyard shifts. He’ll work 9:30pm-8am for the next 4 nights straight, and this is the first time he’s done this with me and the minis here so we’ll see how successful he is in attempting to sleep during the day. I’m sure everyone who does this kind of work is grateful for black-out-blinds and ear plugs, not to mention coffee and red bull.

However, as bothersome as graveyard shifts can be for him, there’s something exciting about an ever-changing schedule to me. With Big Mack’s work schedule, the Mack kids in school Monday to Friday and at their mom’s at random intervals and the Minis here every day, each day is different. It is, of course, also awesome that after factoring in vacation days and such, he actually works less than half the days in a calendar year. That doesn’t suck at all if I’m being honest. But I have come to love the school days when all the Mack kids are here and Big Mack is on days off. I get time to get out with the Minis for a walk or a play at the playground and Big Mack and I have been getting a lot of stuff accomplished around the house. Then, when the Macks get home from school, they play with the Minis and I love watching them all together while Big Mack and I hang out and cook dinner together. When the Mack kids are at their mom’s it’s quite a bit quieter and there’s definitely less mess – I usually have the Minis playing in the play room or outside and, thus, contain the mess a little more than when all 5 are here – but it’s so nice having them around.

But this weekend, the Macks are at their mom’s and Big Mack will be sleeping during the day and working at night for the next 4 days. I will be alone in the evenings and making every effort to keep the minis quiet during the days. I guess I just like the variety of it all. I’m looking forward to using my evenings to work on my songwriting – something I only like doing alone or with my co-writers – and using this empty(ish)-house time to get some much-needed cleaning and tidying done.

I guess my point is that the workload just ebbs and flows now. It’s fast-paced at times and relaxed at others, but each day of the week is different from the next. And while my work week never technically ends, I don’t miss Fridays. I love my job so much… plus, it has an amazing benefit plan.

I am so grateful.

Photo: ahhyeah on Flickr

I used to be the mom that was scared to death to stay home with my one child but would much rather be at work where life is much, MUCH easier. Yep. That was me.

Well here I am now with two kids home full time and as many as five children in my home at any one time and it’s starting to look a lot like fun and a lot like chaos at the very same time. Planning activities as a family can be a trick, though. I am ever so grateful that Big Mack has a job that has a 4 on 4 off schedule so he’s home half the time.

The other day we found ourselves out enjoying a sunny day after the three oldest kids got out of school. We picked them up from school and went to the little path that runs alongside the river channel between Vasseau Lake and Osoyoos Lake… it’s a beautiful paved path that runs for about 20-30km or so where anyone can go for a walk, a jog, a bike ride etc. Well it was a simple plan: the kids would ride bikes and Big Mack and I would run with the smallest in a jogging stroller.

Sounds easy, right?

Well we managed to get out the door with the two smaller kids, appropriate clothing, diapers, a bottle of juice and a change of clothes for the toddler, nutritious snacks, all necessary bikes with helmets, jackets in case the wind picks up, lots of water and one jogging stroller. Yeah… you know what happens when you have a family of 7 to get out to enjoy an afternoon? You have to employ the use of a support vehicle.

Yep. That’s right.

It’s a good thing Big Mack has a minivan with removable seats. We’re able to pile all the kids into one vehicle and use the other as a support vehicle with all our gear. No, I’m not kidding and we will no doubt have to employ this strategy if we ever get up the nerve to take all these kids on a camping trip.

But a good time was had by all… Mini-Boy got soaked playing in the puddle at the bottom of the slide that was left over from last night’s rain and Mini-Man lost one of his training wheels and was SUPER bummed. But the other two enjoyed about a half hour of bike riding and all celebrated a job well done with a nice romp in the playground.

All in all I’m starting to enjoy having a large family. The house is most certainly in more of a state of disarray when everyone is here, but it sure is fun to see all the kids playing together. Having said that, I think our next vehicle will be a bus.