But recently, I had an uninvited guest in my home. He barged right into my house without being asked, and he refused to leave even when we threatened bodily harm. Talk about stubborn and pushy.

Did I mention he was about 16 inches long, and had a checkered pattern?

The scaly creature slithered in uninvited, and didn’t announce his arrival until he was in my daughter’s room. He crawled past her foot and sent her into screams of terror unlike any I’ve ever heard. Then, he wiggled under her bed.

Now, if you’ve not had the experience of looking under a teenaged girl’s bed, you have led a sheltered life, indeed. That slimy fella must have thought he’d wandered into the Amazon Rainforest, what with all the obstacles and unidentified barriers. There were pens, pencils, papers of every size, shape and color, mateless socks, stuffed animals, paperback books, an empty tube of lip gloss, one hoop earring, two bangle bracelets, three dollar bills and a partridge in a pear tree.

Or something like that.

In a flash, he was lost to us. But we knew he was there.

Hiding.

Waiting.

We knew one of us would have to go in after him. But who?

Let me tell you, this was one time I was glad I’m not a man. I gladly played the role of the helpless female. Mark went after the snake.

Rather than crawling under the bed, he removed the mattresses. Then, armed with a hoe and a shovel, he went in.

“You stand at the door,” he told me. “Don’t let him get out.” Then, he handed me a broom.

A broom, people. As if that’s going to protect me.

But it didn’t matter. If that serpent had come within ten feet of me, I’d have been on the roof. Still, I put on a brave front and held my bristled sword at the ready.

Mark scooped and shifted the under-the-bed contents to the side, looking for the sly fellow. Time and again, he caught a glimpse of the scaly pattern, but he was too fast. A few times, he almost had him. He may have been a small critter, but he was feisty. Each time Mark tried to corner him, the snake hissed and tried to strike.

Finally, and just before I had permanent heart failure, Mark got him! “Hold the door open,” he called out, pinching the long, wriggling creature between the hoe and the shovel. I opened the front door, then moved as far away from that thing as I could. Then, on the sidewalk in front of my house, the creature lost its head.

Literally.

“We might want to keep the snake,” I told him, “so we can show it to the Animal Control people.”

“Keep him?” He looked at me like I was nuts.

“Yeah, in a zip-lock. Just ‘til tomorrow.”

Now, how that got interpreted into, “Put the snake in the refrigerator,” I don’t know. I was thinking of something more along the lines of a cooler in the garage. All I do know is that the next morning, I nearly had heart failure for the second time in just a few hours.

The snake turned out to be a harmless garter snake, according to the Animal Control people. Harmless, my foot. He nearly sent me and my daughter into the great beyond.

It kind of got me thinking, though. When a snake came into our home, we did everything we could to get rid of him! We didn’t say, “Awww, he’s not going to hurt anything. Let him stay.”

Yet, we allow all kinds of snakey things to slither into our minds. We fill our eyes and ears with slander and violence and near-pornography, whether through the television or the radio or simply standing around the water cooler. There is nothing positive about those things. If we don’t aggressively work to keep them at bay, and to run them off and behead them when they come uninvited, they’ll make themselves at home. And before we know it, we’ll have a whole nest of the nasty, sinful stuff wrapped around our hearts.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t welcome any kind of snakes into my life – literal or figurative. Let’s do all we can to keep them away, and to run them off when they show up. Let’s make sure that the only thing headed into the great beyond is the Snake himself.

2 Corinthians 11:3 “But I am afraid that just as Eve was deceived by the serpent’s cunning, your minds may somehow be led astray from your sincere and pure devotion to Christ.”

For example, when I was in school, cell was a term I learned in biology class.  Today, that term has nothing to do with mitosis or DNA. Everywhere I go, I’m being asked to answer my cell, check my cell, turn off my cell. In the old days, a cell number only applied to those who were incarcerated. Now, everyone I know has one.

When I was growing up, I went with my brother to pick blackberries. When the berries were ripe, we had to wear long pants and long sleeves so we wouldn’t get scratched to bits, and our hands were purple by the time our buckets were filled. We’d sample the berries, to see if they were sweet or sour. Then, we took them home and Mom baked them into a delicious cobbler, and the whole kitchen smelled heavenly.

Now, the only reason a Blackberry might turn your fingers purple is from bruising, due to overuse. A ripe Blackberry is one that is fully charged, and if it has a weak battery, it is called sour.

I used to look forward to the cold weather, so I could kindle a fire in the fireplace. Now, for the low, low price of a few hundred bucks, I can Kindle any time I want. No matter how hot or cold it is.

And what is the deal with the letter E? It has become the most important letter in the alphabet. It’s become its own prefix, for goodness sake! All you have to do is add an e- to the beginning of a word and it changes that word’s whole meaning.

We used to check our mail in the mailbox and wave to the mailman. Now we have e-mail. Which we read on our cells and our Blackberries. We used to go to the library to check out books. Now we read e-books. On our Kindles.

I’m still waiting for an e-cobbler. Something tells me it would be calorie-free. But first, someone’s going to have to invent e-taste-buds and e-scents.

And, my word, why doesn’t someone create an e-gym with e-exercise equipment, so that I can do an e-workout and lose that ten pounds I’ve been trying to shed?

The letter I is almost as bad. In my native tongue, a pod was something which contained several peas. But an i-pod has nothing to do with fresh produce. And when my children started asking for an eye-dog for Christmas, I worried that I needed to take them to the optometrist. Then I learned that no, they didn’t want an eye-dog. They wanted an i-dog.

Sheesh.

In the good ol’ days, I looked forward to chatting with my girlfriends over a nice cup of tea. Then I’d tell all my other friends what a nice chat I ‘d had, and invite them to come along next time. Now, I could chat with anyone in the world, any time, night or day, in a chat room. But then I’d have to deny I chatted, because no one ever admits to going in those rooms.

So, as I struggle with this new language, I take comfort in knowing that there is one language that will never be altered. God’s Word speaks love, mercy, and compassion to all. His Word means the same, no matter the dialect, no matter the tongue. God’s e-love is just as powerful as His love, His i-mercy is every bit as overwhelming as His mercy. No translation needed.

“The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God stands forever,” Isaiah 40:8.

I have long been a loyal customer of yours. Over the years, I have bought multiple bags of every variety of your delicious cookie. After mastering the technique of consuming your original product, I’ve moved on to the chocolate filling, the strawberry filling, and the granddaddy of them all, the Double Stuff. I’ve even enjoyed your reduced-fat variety.

Mr. Oreo, your name has become such a common topic in my household that I think of you as a close relative. You’ve had an honored presence at birthdays, holidays, picnics, little league events, and as after-school snacks. You are a part of me, a part of my family.

You’ve been good to me over the years. This is why it pains me so to write you this letter of complaint. But if I don’t let you know of my recent hurt and disappointment, how will you be able to make amends? I’d hate to think that a relationship which has endured the decades would end over one mistake. Yet, it was such a major mistake that I cannot let it slip by. So, with a sincere desire to maintain our long-standing friendship, I write this from my heart.

I was recently excited to be presented with one of your Oreo 100-calorie packs. My mouth watered, and I smiled as I reached for the small package that carried your name. Oreo, old friend, you are wonderful. You’ve created a product just for me. Now I can enjoy your ooey goodness without blowing my diet.

In anticipation of your velvety, melt-in-my-mouth filling, I tore into the package. The chocolate scent wafted through my senses, and I reached into the bag. My fingers grasped the tiny cookie, and my taste buds prepared for your creamy goodness. I pulled out the cookie and . . .

Wait. This can’t be right. Surely I’ve ended up with a dud.

I reached into the bag again and again, only to find they were all duds. Each and every tiny cookie was no more than a dark, dry cracker. No gooey filling. No creamy goodness.

Mr. Oreo, that is just plain wrong. False advertisement at its worst, in my opinion.

Oh, yeah, sure. Closer examination of the package showed your product’s complete name – in miniscule print. Oreo Cookie Crisps.

Crisps?

Puh-leeeeease.

Nobody buys your cookies for the crispy part. If it’s only a crisp, it’s not an Oreo. If there’s no creamy filling, it doesn’t deserve to carry the esteemed Oreo name.

Honestly, Mr. Oreo, you are better than that. Such a dirty trick is beneath you.

So there you have it. Now you know how you’ve teased and tortured me and thousands of other dieters. Now you know how you have deeply wounded your most faithful customers.

I have faith in you, Mr. Oreo. I know that you will make every effort to rectify this wrong. I will accept a formal letter of apology, along with a year’s supply of Oreo Double Stuff. All the calories removed, of course.

May God bless you, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,

Renae Brumbaugh

“If your brother sins, rebuke him; and if he repents, forgive him,” Luke 17:3.

Now, this will be a difficult transition for me. After all, you know what stay-at-home moms do. We lie in bed and eat bon-bons all day. We watch soap operas and read mindless fiction. Then, we talk on the phone to other stay-at-home moms, so we can discuss our soap operas and our mindless fiction.

Ahem.

Actually, when I think of all the jobs I have done during the last dozen or so years, including short-order cook, nurse, chauffeur, maid, seamstress, counselor, referee, gopher, and teacher, I’m looking forward to a less strenuous job description. Or at least a shorter one.

Plus, with this job, I’ll actually get paid. Real money, with pictures of real U.S. presidents. Amazing.

This week, as I sat in a teacher inservice, I was reminded of some of the keys of good teaching. One of the first things we were told to do, when planning a lesson, was, “Keep the end in mind.”

In other words, what do I want my students to accomplish at the end of the lesson? What are the goals for the end of the period, the semester, and the year? Once I’ve determined the goal, I need to make sure everything in my lesson plans leads toward that end. Teachers who keep the end in mind usually end up seeing a higher rate of student success.

I should really end this story right here and now. After all, I don’t know who will read this, and I honestly don’t want my principal or the superintendant or the school board president to know that, as I sat in teacher inservice this week, my mind wandered. So if any of those people are reading this, please disregard the remainder of this article. The end. Thank you very much.

But for the rest of you, I have to admit. My mind wandered. While I was supposed to be paying attention and hanging on every word and taking notes, I got stuck thinking about keeping the end in mind. And I wondered, what do I want my ending to look like?

At the end of my life, what do I want to have accomplished?

At this point, I’m not sure my goal of being a multi-billionaire is really feasible. At least, not unless teachers get a gi-normous pay-raise. Even then, when word gets out that my mind wandered during teacher inservice, my chances for that kind of raise are pretty much shot.

My goal of being a Pulitzer-prize-winning novelist is still a possibility. Not a probability, but still. A girl can hope.

But those are just secondary goals. Sure, being filthy rich would be nice. Being recognized for my outstanding contributions to the literary world would be pretty awesome. But those aren’t my primary goals.

When I get to the end of my life, I want my children to know they were loved more than life itself. I want my family to know that they were more important to me than anything. I want the people around me to know that I cared. I want people to look at me and say, “There is a woman who loved God and loved people.”

It’s funny, though. When I look at my primary goal, I’m not sure all of my daily lesson plans are leading up to that point. I’m afraid that too much of my time is spent on things that don’t have anything to do with my desired outcome. Perhaps I need to make some adjustments.

Maybe I need to turn off the television, so my children will know that they are more important to me than HGTV. Maybe I need to take a few deep breaths and answer gently, instead of responding to my family with impatience. Maybe I need to spend more time focusing on the things that matter to other people, instead of being so wrapped up in myself.

Ouch.

It’s not always easy to make adjustments in our lesson plans. After all, many of us have been using the same plans for years, and changing them means . . . work. And who wants to do that?

But if we want to see success, we truly need to define our goals. We need to keep the end in mind, and make sure all of our steps are leading to that point even if it means tossing out all the old plans and starting over. I think, somehow, it will all be worth it in the end.

“Straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus,” Philippians 3:13 – 14.

Me: Foster, would you like to go and visit the fire station today?
Foster: No, thank you.
Me: (Surprised.) Really? I thought you’d love to see the fire station. You’ll get to see the firemen and the trucks up close.
Foster: (Around a mouthful of cereal.) Naaaaa. But thanks.
Me: It’s a special day, today. They are having a party at the fire station. There will be clowns, and a bouncy house. They’ll serve hot dogs and popcorn and snow-cones.
Foster: I’d really rather not.
Me: (Perplexed.) Foster, why in the world don’t you want to go to the fire station?
Foster: Because I heard you and Jay’s mom talking, and I know it’s all a big trick. They’re giving shots there, today.

That is one smart kid. Brilliant.

But in spite of the protests from both of my children, we visited the fire station. We ate hot dogs, popcorn, and snow-cones. We saw a clown. And, yes. We got our immunizations.

Well, I say we. But I mean they. You don’t think I’m gonna let somebody poke me with a needle, do you?

And in spite of all the pleasant distractions, the shots still hurt. But I was impressed with both of my kids. They were braver than I would have been. They didn’t even cry. Much.

Later, Mark and I decided that our kids deserved a treat. I mean, in addition to the bouncy house and the snow-cones. So we took them to Chuck E. Cheese’s. By the time we were finished eating, the kids seemed to have forgotten all about their immunizations and were running around playing every game they could get their hands on, contributing whole-heartedly to the decibel-breaking noise level, and winning tickets left and right.

Personally, I’d have rather had the shots. But this isn’t about me, and the kids loved it. I think they would probably even say the shots were worth it, just so they could go to their favorite eating establishment.

Later, in the car, Foster asked, “Mom, what is an im . . . im . . . iminemation?”

“Well,” I responded, “an immunization is a teensy, tiny bit of a disease. It’s like a bad guy. But when your body sees the bad guy, it makes a bunch of super-duper high-powered fighters, called antibodies. They are the good guys. Then, the good guys run off the bad guys, and they stick around to make sure they never come back. So if that disease ever enters your body again, they’ll be ready.”

“Oh,” he said. “They hurt.”

“I know, Buddy.”

Truth be told, as much as it hurt me to see my children in pain – however brief – I was relieved to know that they are now protected from such nasty diseases as chicken pox, rubella and diphtheria. The immunizations themselves weren’t pleasant. But the results of those immunizations created something far better than would have been possible without them. It created strong, healthy children who will not be affected by any number of nasty diseases.

Sometimes in life, we have to get our shots. They come in the forms of all kinds of nasty situations. A nail on the side of the road may cause a flat tire; a poor economy may lead to a job loss; for no known reason, we could be diagnosed with cancer, or worse.

Yet, if we let God have His way, He’ll make sure the bad guys work like immunizations to our spirits, calling forth the strength that may have been lying dormant within us, a strength that comes only from God. And before we know it, we’ll find that we’re handling our problems with a greater peace and serenity and faith than we ever thought possible.

Yeah, the shots hurt. No question about it. But when God’s in control, He’ll use those things to make us stronger, wiser, better people. And in the end, we’ll often end up saying that yes, the shots were worth the pain.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance,“ James 1:2 – 3.

I baked a homemade apple pie, with fresh apples from my very own tree, and made homemade vanilla ice cream to go with it. Perfection, I’m telling you. Sheer and utter perfection.

The ice cream was ready just five minutes before I pulled the piping hot pie from the oven. The pie was bubbling, the mixture of sugar and cinnamon spilling over the sides of the pan, the scent of baked apples filling the air. My family stood around me, waiting anxiously for their slice of the heavenly creation.

And it was beautiful, let me tell you. So beautiful, I almost didn’t want to slice it.  After all, you can’t have your pie and eat it, too. “Take a picture of it, Mom,” my daughter suggested, and I did. I’m thinking of enlarging it to poster size, then having it matted and framed. It was that beautiful.

Finally I did the honors, serving generous slices, topping each with the ice cream, watching it melt and run down the sides of the pie. I don’t know for sure what heaven will be like, but I’m pretty sure we got a little taste of it that night.

My family begged for seconds. Begged.

Now, in order to more fully appreciate the pride that filled me at this accomplishment, you’ve got to understand something. I’m no Martha Stewart. Not even close. As a matter of fact, Martha would probably be deeply insulted that her name is even associated with mine in this article. After all, I consider Hamburger Helper to be a gourmet meal. Macaroni and cheese – the boxed kind – is a staple in our home. And in my opinion, frozen dinners are like manna from heaven.

Martha Stewart, as a dear friend of mine pointed out, would not only have made homemade ice cream. She would have carved the ice cream maker herself, from oak she salvaged from her tree.

I didn’t even make my own piecrust. Mrs. Smith did.

Still, for me, it was a mountaintop experience. Mt. Everest, to be exact.

Now is the time that you’re expecting me to tie this experience to some important life application. But I have a confession to make. There is no moral to this story. No words of wisdom. I really just wanted to brag about my pie.

Then again, taking pride in ourselves isn’t always a bad thing. We should take the time to pat ourselves on the back every now and again, to say, “Well done.” After all, it’s often those little pats on the back that keep us motivated. And as long as we don’t over-do it on the ego thing, a little pride in ourselves and our accomplishments will help us stand a little straighter, work a little harder, smile a little longer. So I guess, after all, you really can have your pie and eat it too.

I did, anyway.

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men,” Colossians 3:23.

Not my idea of a friendly pet.

Yet, in spite of their ferocity, you’ve gotta have some compassion on the poor guys. After all, there they were, swimming along, minding their own business, headed for the underwater McDonald’s for their dinner, when all of a sudden, KABAM! An earthquake strikes, swirls them around, and spins them out of control. Before they knew what hit them, they were floundering around on the shore with some strange two-legged creatures poking and prodding them.

Well-meaning passers-by tried to drag the creatures back out to sea, but the squid were too heavy and sprawled out to drag very far. They just kept washing back up on shore. To my knowledge, most of them died.

May we share a moment of silence, please? . . .

Okay. Now that that’s done, we should really talk about this earthquake problem. I mean, I used to think that if those crazy Californians chose to live on the edge of the earth, that was their business. But last spring, Dallas residents experienced a 3.3-level earthquake. Yes, you read correctly. That’s Dallas, Texas.

Apparently, there’s a minor fault that runs through the area. And yes, if there is a fault, there will be earthquakes.

Now, that’s just plain wrong. If I wanted to live on the edge, I’d go live in Hollywood. But when I have chosen to play it safe and live in cowboy country, I shouldn’t have to worry about the earth opening up and swallowing me.

I mean, really.

I guess it just goes to show that none of us is truly safe. We can do all the right things, mind our own business, go to work and pay our taxes and do everything right. Just like those squid. And still, we can’t protect ourselves from disaster. Sometimes, earthquakes come. Tornadoes blow through. Cancer strikes, or someone hurts us when we didn’t deserve to be hurt. There are some things that are simply out of our control.

Then, before we know it, we wake up, dazed and confused. And like those squid, we have One who will show us compassion and mercy. The difference is, while the would-be squid-savers were mere humans, our rescuer is the Almighty God. Oh, He might not shelter us from every disaster. But He promises to stay with us through every storm. He promises to give us the strength to endure even life’s most difficult hardships. And He promises that, no matter what, His love for us will never, ever fail.

“Though the mountains be shaken and the hills be removed, yet my unfailing love for you will not be shaken,” Isaiah 54:10

I have joined Facebook.

Now, if you have to ask what Facebook is, never mind. I don’t want to tempt you with the sordid details. I don’t want to be responsible for your fall from innocence. But for those of you who have long ago joined the ranks of social networking, who have felt the pulls of addiction to this book of every friend that you ever knew from preschool through the present, here I am. I am one of you, now.

I’ve actually had a lot of fun in the short time I’ve been on Facebook. I’ve reconnected with old friends and made lots of new friends. I’ve networked, which is a fancy way of saying I’ve made some casual business connections. And I was really enjoying the whole experience until . . .

Until yesterday.

In spite of the fact that I vowed never to take one of those silly quizzes they send around, yesterday I saw one that caught my eye. It was titled, “Which Book of the Bible are You?”

“Well,” I said to myself. “That can’t be too harmful. I’ll just take a minute to answer the questions, and see which book it gives me. Just for fun.”

Ha.

It asked questions like, “What kinds of books do you like to read?” and “What is your ideal retirement home?” and “What kind of window coverings do you prefer on your windows?”

Well, I grinned as I answered the questions, because I knew. I knew I would end up with one of the glamorous books. You know. Song of Solomon. Esther. Or maybe Ruth.

Finally, I answered the last question, and with a cat-ate-the-canary smile, I pressed the send button. It only took a few seconds for my results to be calculated.

Do you know what book that confounded quiz compared me to?

Numbers.

Ho, hum.

The book of Numbers, where it counts stuff, like how many people there were.

Now, that’s just mean. And to add insult to injury, it gave me a personality description. It said I’m staid. Well, actually, it said that I give off the impression of being staid, though I probably have some shocking quirks.

Okay. I have to be honest with you. I was pretty sure I knew what the word staid meant, but I had to look it up just to be sure. I was hoping I was wrong.

Nope. Staid means exactly what I thought it meant. “Of settled or sedate character. Not flighty or capricious. Proper. Serious. Solemn.” In other words, boring.

Dad-gum, confounded quiz. I wanted to be Esther.

I shared my devastating results with my husband. He found a lot more humor in it than I did. Dad-gum, confounded man.

He has not taken the quiz yet, but he informed me that he thinks he’d be Proverbs. You know, because he’s so wise.

I agreed. He has always been a wise guy, in my opinion.

So there you have it, friends. I am staid.

But then again, I have shocking quirks. The quiz said so.

Hmmm . . . I wonder what they are.

It’s funny how a two-minute quiz can claim to know your personality, how it can claim to understand your deepest thoughts and desires. That’s just silly. There’s nothing deep about the fact that I like gauzy curtains and filtered light. I just think they’re pretty.

But though a quiz can’t know me, there is One who does. He created me, He knows my thoughts, and He knows the number of hairs on my head. And He doesn’t even require me to take a quiz, so He can figure me out. He knows all that stuff just because He loves me. He’s interested in me. And He wants to have a close relationship with me.

There’s something comforting about that, don’t you think? Most people, if they knew all the crazy thoughts that swirl around in my head, would run the other direction. But the One who knows me better than anyone is the One who loves me the most. He thinks I’m worth knowing. He thinks I’m interesting.

Even if I am staid.

“Oh, Lord, you have searched me and you know me . . .” Psalm 139:1

Duh. She could clearly tell I had laryngitis. Even I knew that.

“Breathe deeply for me,” she said.

I obeyed, and was sent into the nastiest, most pitiful coughing fit you’ve ever heard. I sounded like an eighty-year-old man who had smoked for sixty of those years.

“Hmmm . . .” she said.

“What is it, doc?” I asked.

“You have a nasty case of bronchitis and laryngitis. I’m ordering you to complete vocal rest. Do you have any allergies?”

“No, I can’t think of –“

“Shhh. No talking. Have you ever taken a codine cough suppressant before?”

“No, not that I – “

“Shhh. I said no talking. Are you on any medications?”

I shook my head.

She handed me a prescription for some super-duper-high-powered antibiotics and a codine cough suppressant.

“Thank –“ (cough!) “you,” I told her.

“Shhh! No talking.”

Obviously, the woman didn’t know me very well. She had no idea what she was asking.

This week, things have been very quiet around my house. One child visited Mimi and Poppy. The other child went out of town with Mark. And for perhaps the first time since I have given birth, I have had the house completely to myself.

Oh, happy day.

I have rested when I wanted to, eaten my meals when I wanted to. I have read books I’ve been wanting to read, but haven’t had time. I have cleaned the house top to bottom, and it has stayed clean. Glory, hallelujah.

If it weren’t for this pesky laryngitis and bronchitis, I’d feel like I was at an exclusive spa. But still, I’ll take what I can get.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my family with all my heart. And I like having them around. But every once in a while, it’s nice just to be alone. To be still. To be quiet.

In the quiet this week, I have gotten some much-needed rest. I have listened to the birds, and talked to God. And I’ve wondered why I didn’t decide to get bronchitis and laryngitis a long time ago.

Just kidding. Sort of.

I’ve made a decision. I’m going to try, to the best of my ability, to work some quiet time into my schedule each week. Perhaps I can wake up before everyone else, and just enjoy the stillness of the house. Or perhaps I can send the kids to their rooms for a mandatory siesta each afternoon. (If that doesn’t work, there’s always duct tape.)

(Just kidding. Sort of.)

God likes us to stay busy. He doesn’t like laziness or idle hands. Yet, He also knew the importance of rest, of a little peace and quiet. After all, He’s, like, God. And even He took a day off. A full day, every week, to do nothing but rest.

Who knows? Perhaps my lack of rest, my lack of quiet, my too-busy schedule is the reason I got sick to begin with. But from now on, I’m going to remember the importance of rest. Of stillness, and peace and quiet.

“Be still, and know that I am God,” Psalm 46:10.

Did I mention he is seven years old?

From the time he could walk, Foster has “helped” his daddy mow our lawn. He faithfully pushed his Little Tykes mower behind Mark, trying to follow in his father’s footsteps. For years now, he has dreamt of the day when he could do his daddy’s work. And now, with supervision, he can.

And he does a great job, too! Mark has patiently taken the time to teach him how to start the mower, how to mow in a straight line, and how to overlap the edges so stray pieces of grass aren’t missed. Foster is proud to be doing a man’s work. And Mark is proud to have a son who wants to be like his daddy. As he watched Foster mow our lawn the other day, he smiled and said, “That’s my boy!”

But the Daddy imitation doesn’t stop with the lawn. Foster wants to hunt like his daddy, fish like his daddy. We’ve even caught him preaching sermons like his daddy on more than one occasion. He admires his daddy, and he wants to be just like him. I think that’s probably about the biggest compliment a child can give a parent, don’t you?

It’s natural for a child to want to be like the parent. I can remember longing for the day I could wear lipstick and high-heeled shoes, like my mama. I can remember wanting to touch the sky like my daddy. (Yes, in my mind, he could touch the sky.) I hope I turned out with some of their wonderful qualities.

As much as it brings joy to my heart to see Foster imitating his daddy, it also brings a question.
Am I imitating my Father?

Oh, I say I want to be godly and compassionate and merciful and kind. But all too often, I find I am just the opposite. I find I am ungodly. I gossip. I judge people. I respond harshly, instead of with patience and compassion. Though I want to imitate my heavenly Father, I often fail.

But then, I remember the years when Foster followed Mark with that Little Tykes mower. I remember he often lost interest after a few minutes. Sometimes, he would trip and fall. Though he wanted to imitate his daddy, he didn’t do it perfectly. It took him a while to learn. He’s still learning. And though Foster wasn’t a perfect replica of his daddy, it still brought joy to Mark’s heart, just to know that Foster was trying, just to know that he wanted to be like his dad. Mark has patiently taught him what he needs to know, and now Foster shows great promise as a lawn boy.

I think God must be that way, too. He knows we aren’t perfect. He knows we are going to get distracted and make mistakes and fall down sometimes. But He sees our hearts, and when He sees that we truly want to be like Him, it makes Him smile. He patiently picks us up, sets us back on the right path, and continues to teach us. And somehow, miracle of all miracles, He looks at a heart that longs to imitate Him and He sees promise. He sees potential.

I want to be like my Father. I really do. And I hope that someday, somehow, I will be able to make Him proud as He says, “That’s my girl!”

“And He said to them, ‘Why did you seek Me? Did you not know that I must be about My Father’s business?’” Luke 2:49