August, 2007 Sins of a Mother

August, 2007

Scripture says that the sins of a father are visited down upon their children and generations beyond. I think that this can imply the consequences of the sin are carried down as well as the sins themselves. Often, when a parent has a bad habit, the kids are conditioned to continue on with the same habits. In the same way, blessings and good habits are also passed down.

This week I was with a certain (unnamed) child who had a project due. The directions called for the project to be done on 11 x 17 white construction paper, of which we were out. Most stores were also out, but finally, a couple of errands later, we scored a pack of multi-colored paper. Two sheets of white were included. As my child began the project, I heard a desperate cry for help. It seems the package of paper was the wrong size! The label said 18 x 12.

“And the problem is…?” I queried.

“I’ll get in trouble. It’s the wrong size. It’ll never work,” said child wailed.

“So…trim it,” I said with as much sarcasm in my tone as I could muster.

“Yeah, right, Mom. How am I supposed to make 12 inches turn into 17?”

I stared, dumbfounded. This was my brilliant A+ child? I turned to the wall and in dramatic fashion began pounding my head against it. Apparently I did this too well – I had a headache for hours afterwards.

“Please tell me you are not that dense!” was the only response I had at that moment.

It was the wrong response.

Said child looked at me, with hurt deep in their eyes and promptly flew out the door, crushed. (It didn’t help that other siblings in listening distance laughed at the confused one.)

As my new headache began, I went to my room to lie down for a couple of minutes to figure out how I could scrape together the remnants of my brilliant mothering gaffe.

As soon as I lay down, a certain persistent memory returned. I was in my early teens, riding with my family to some destination that I can’t now remember when we asked the age-old question, “How much longer?” My dad asked the nearest house number and then replied that it was two and a half more miles until we got there.

“How’d you know that?” I asked.

My dad looked in his rearview mirror, dumbfounded, before grunting out a gasp of disbelief and responded something to the effect of, “Well, everybody with a brain knows there’s eight blocks to a mile.”

Maybe it was because I held my dad’s opinion in such high esteem that I wanted him to think highly of me. Maybe it was because every blossoming teenager wants to be seen as smart. Whatever the reason, that response dug deep into my soul.

As I lay on my bed, God brought that back to my mind so fast, it made my head spin. (Or maybe it was the headache?? Whatever.) I realized I had just pierced my child’s soul with the sword of my sharp tongue. I went to apologize but, right then, said child wanted nothing to do with me. So I went back to nurse my pounding head. As I lay staring at the fan spinning overhead, God’s gentle Spirit again returned with his sledgehammer.

Five months ago, we decided to get a dog for my son. The intent was to give him more responsibility as well as a playmate of the male variety. (It was much cheaper than the brother he was asking for.) When we went to pick up the dog, Mike and I discussed that his sisters wouldn’t like the fact that he was getting a dog when they had been the ones pestering for one. Long story short, we ended up with two new puppies to go with the older dog we already had.

Unfortunately, it turned out I was quite allergic to the girls’ dog. We ended up having to give the sweet thing away, but we told the girls we’d try to get them another. We just didn’t realize how peaceful the house would be with one less puppy. And we went through way less food. And had fewer messes to clean up. It wasn’t long until Mike and I were trying to figure out a way to get out of obtaining another dog.

God’s Spirit brought this all back to mind. “But, God, we didn’t promise!”

His Spirit responded with a question of our intent.

Well, I suppose we intended to replace the dog. But we never intended to get the dog in the first place. She had been a spontaneous purchase.

I wrestled for quite a while over the guilt of my lousy parenting. Broken promises. Skewered spirits. Would I ever get the stupid mothering thing right? Needless to say, we are getting a third dog. And when my wounded child was ready, I approached with a humbled spirit.

Later that same night, another child emptied her bank to bring all of her money in to school in response to a need for a family that had had a fire. I remembered my parents making comments about me giving away everything so that I’d have nothing left for myself. I smiled. I’d much rather have a kid inherit my spirit of generosity instead of my sharp tongue. I let her know she was doing a good thing. “Thanks, God. I needed to know that I had a few good character traits that would be passed down as well.” Just like God to bandage my own wounded spirit.

Decades of bringing up my father’s gaffe over and over finally got him to apologize profusely for his outspoken remark. And many years later he even admitted that the eight-block rule doesn’t apply to every locale. It has become something of a family joke but all of my children will know that there are eight blocks to a mile. And though he was long ago forgiven, I’ll continue to hold it over his head whenever it is to my advantage. I just hope my own child is more merciful.

Like a rock,

The Submissive Despot

Amy Louise

Amy Shane

July, 2007 Treasuring the Time

July, 2007

I keep telling myself that I am doing this right. I mean, it was my intention to raise my kids to leave, so why am I so surprised that she is ready to go? My kids have to leave before they can cleave and I’ve figured it’s my job to get them ready to fly. So why am I so sad that it appears I’ve been successful? In all honesty, if my child weren’t ready to go, I’d consider my work a failure.

Abby has one year left here in the nest, yet the look in her eyes tells me she’s ready to go now. Why does she have to be that ready? The anticipation comes through in nearly every conversation and is almost palpable when I watch her around her friends at church or school. Though I love all of my five children, the truth is that with each additional one, a little less individualized time goes to the others. So this summer, I decided to take a one-on-one trip to Italy with my oldest daughter. Our time was incredible as I watched this beautiful young woman handle various situations with grace and maturity. I listened to her dreams, watched as she explored, sat amazed as she demonstrated amazing photographic skills, and followed dutifully as she shopped. Then toward the end of the trip, she began to gravitate toward the others on the tour who were more her own age. My heart was torn – happy that she was so joyful doing what teens do best (socializing) and yet grieved to realize that it was no longer I who was the object of her admiration.

I returned home with a renewed and deepened love for my precious daughter. And now I find myself wanting to milk every moment that I have left, suck the marrow of our time together, lick the bottom of the frosting bowl of this last season… You get the picture. Unfortunately, habits that I started early on in my parenting are now coming back to bite me. When Abby was a toddler, I didn’t want her needing a story to get to sleep. No bedtime rituals. You go to bed, you go to sleep. It worked. She’s still sleeping soundly.

I also have been the type to hit the floor running, burning myself out by about six o’clock so all I could do was fall into bed two minutes after the kids. I rarely tucked them in, just hollering good-night from my own bed over the intercom. And even though I had read many times that bedtime is the best time for talking, that it is when they let down their reserves and are most open and honest, I was too pooped to try. Now I find I want to be more intentional about saving some energy so that I can be there to talk, lingering before they drift off; I want in on those thoughts and dreams. I still have a chance with the other four, but I am afraid it may be too late with Abby. Her independence is deeply ingrained and her personality is one that doesn’t open up easily. Yet she is such an amazing person, I find I want to know her more. Sometimes I feel such pride in who she is becoming that it literally makes my chest ache. I hope she knows that. (Maybe, after reading this, she can tuck it in a corner of her heart.)

Everyone told me that the time with your children flies by quickly. And in one sense I acknowledged the truth of that statement, yet the truth of it didn’t change how I approached my parenting. (Yes, Mom, you told me so.) My to-do list is still too long and I’m always trying to cram in “one more thing” which makes me always run a little late. I am trying to take more time and smell the roses with my kids these days. And I am seeing that Abby is not the only child of mine that is amazing. How could I have gotten so blessed? I am just grateful that I am learning these lessons while I still have one year left with Abby and before the others are all grown and gone. Now if I can just nail Abby’s feet to the floor….

Like a rock,
The Submissive Despot
Amy Louise

Amy Shane

P.S. If you’ve got more than one child, I highly recommend the one-on-one trip, whether it is to Europe, to another state, camping near home, or to a local McDonald’s. There’s something about that focused time that opens new avenues of communication and makes it very special.

June, 2007 Vengeance

June, 2007

I just finished up yet another sermon series on my iPod. I love listening to a series because it motivates me out for the next run. This last series was one on Proverbs.

One of the last sessions was on repairing relationships. In it, the speaker, talking about anger and forgiveness, quoted the old “ ‘Vengeance is Mine’, saith the Lord.” Ten years ago, I went through an extensive amount of “spiritual surgery” and learned a lot about forgiveness. But this speaker said something in a new way that smacked me right between the eyes.

He talked about how we typically interpret that verse to mean God will take vengeance in the future. And it does. The anger we feel for having been wronged will be poured out on the perpetrator when God takes vengeance. But then the speaker gave another way of looking at that verse, saying it could mean “Vengeance is mine”, in that God would receive the vengeance. That anger that I feel has been directed at and poured out upon Jesus. God took the vengeance from my heart and poured it out on His own Son at the cross. I don’t need to wait for the vengeance in the future. It’s been taken.

I kept backing up the recording and re-listening to it. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that angry. Is that how angry I should be? Or maybe it is that the vengeance being poured out on Christ is in response to the sins I’ve committed against others??? I’ve never thought of myself angry enough to exact that kind of vengeance. The amount of vengeance that would kill a man on a cross is so, well, so. . .ugly. But maybe that’s because I’ve never really been horribly wronged. I’ve lived a life of privilege and ease.

There are others who have been cheated or have had stuff stolen. There are those who have been lied to and betrayed. There are precious souls who have been abandoned and abused. Across the globe, there are people who have been tortured, raped, or have had family murdered in front of their eyes. Three weeks ago, we visited the Holocaust museum and witnessed just that. Even today, similar atrocities continue. These people, not I, have a right to be angry. And God promises to avenge those evils as well.

It just got me thinking. To picture God as angry is weird for this pampered American. Yet, in as much as God cannot be more loving, He also cannot be more angry. He is perfectly all-love, all-mercy, all-justice, and, yes, all-anger. We are truly “sinners in the hands of an angry God”. Yet this same God chose to channel that anger upon His own Son. No wonder David in the Old Testament said he’d rather fall into the hands of God instead of the hands of man.

I’m not going to argue the theology of whether Christ’s death absorbed the vengeance for all sins or only those who accept Him as Savior. If He absorbed all vengeance, it’s done. If it is only for those who accept Him, it will be done. He’ll exact vengeance for the rest later. The point is I don’t need to seek my own vengeance because God is a better record-keeper than I. (Keeping track of the stars, sparrows, and hairs on my head give Him a credible track record.)

So, if we have a perfect record-keeper and a perfect vengeance-taker, why are there circumstances where we prefer to lick our wounds and keep them fresh? There are days when I’ve been hurt and have started to nurse the wound and the Holy Spirit prompts me to surrender it over to His record book. I then attempt to ignore His promptings. I figure I’ll forgive later on, after I’ve wallowed just a little bit more. Maybe all I need is an afternoon. Just let me hang on to it for a little longer, God. Sometimes it feels good to curl up with a ball of self-pity and nurse it a while. Not long enough to take root. Just long enough to feel it. Of course, I can’t stand self-pity in others. And I can only tolerate it in myself for a short while. Usually, the nagging of the Holy Spirit greatly overshadows the good feelings I get from holding onto a grudge.

There are two things that I’ve found really help me get a grip on my anger. The first is to have a really good friend who walks with God that I can talk to. I find talking through things with another prevents me from harboring secret grudges. Wearing my feelings on my sleeves keeps me from harboring them in a closet of my heart. And the light reveals things for what they really are. The friends I have chosen will call me on it every time. The other is to have a deep understanding of who God is – that He cannot love me anymore than He already does; that He sees my wounds and bottles my tears; and that He is the perfect vengeance-taker. Now I can also add to these a mental picture of God taking the anger that I feel, putting it in a bucket, and pouring it out on the head of Christ on the cross. I can hear Christ yell out, “It is finished!” The sins done to me have not gone unpaid. Nor have the ones I’ve committed. Imagine, a God who, in perfect justice, will take vengeance on my behalf. And a God who, in perfect mercy, will receive it. On my behalf. What a God.

Like a rock,

The Submissive Despot

Amy Louise

Amy Shane

May, 2007 World Peace Spa

May, 2007

The sign on the door said something like “Welcome to the World Peace Resort and Spa”. I laughed. When pressed what I wanted for Mother’s Day, I had followed a cousin’s lead and told the family I wanted world peace. Or at least peace in my world. So I was not surprised when Mike took me out for Mother’s Day…with no children. It was kind of weird. I mean, I like romantic lunches, but on Mother’s Day, you kind of expect to be with your kids. But they had other plans. They were busy at home, preparing.

I arrived home to find the house spotless and my five children dressed in “uniforms” – matching khaki shorts and white shirts, each sporting a name tag. As I looked closer, I realized the names were not theirs, but rather each child’s nametag bore the name I had wanted to give them, the names that Mike had vetoed before they were ever born. My son, “Howard Winthrop” (Hey, I liked the name…), offered to take my bags and escorted me to my room. There, “Edna” and “Nora” waited outside my bedroom door, now labeled “World Peace Resort, Suite #269” (or some other number, I can’t remember). The beautiful hostesses opened the door with a flourish and I entered another world.

The light from about fifty candles danced around the room where rose petals were strewn on the floor, bed, and chairs. The bed was turned down with a chocolate on the pillow. “Hannah” escorted me along the path of rose petals into my bathroom, where a massive bubble bath was drawn. It, too, had rose petals floating atop the mountain of bubbles. Classical music poured from a CD player nearby. Iced water and grape juice in crystal goblets sat on the ledge by the tub as well as salted pistachios on a crystal plate. Scented candles flickered and filled the room with a wonderful smell. Magazines and DVDs sat near the tub, should I prefer those over music alone.

My attendants checked on me approximately every 6 and a half minutes (“Is there anything you need, Madam?”) as I rested in the bath. After I was done, I was treated to a pedicure, complete with sugar scrub, foot massage, and polish by my 14-year old daughter. Not long after the polish dried, a real masseuse showed up at the door (idea by children, paid for by hubby). I basically oozed off her massage table onto the bed when done and didn’t stir until morning.

Not even two weeks later, we were in Denver for a massive party where my brother feted his lovely wife for her 40^th birthday. Every aspect of the weekend was one of extravagance: the decorations, the gifts (not for her, but for the guests!), the food, the dancing. And not just for us – but for our children as well. It was like going to camp for the kiddos! Every time we thought the height of generosity had been attained, they surprised with yet another gift. It was deliriously decadent.

Coming from the Midwest where hardships are expected (drought, flooding, pestilence, tornadoes, 10-month winters…) and people who have or receive blessings are eyed suspiciously, it has taken me a long time to be able to enjoy being given gifts. As mentioned in previous newsletters, Midwestern birthdays were downplayed lest someone begin to think themselves “special or something”; standing out in a crowd was to be eschewed at all costs. Steak was something that was eaten in secret. Instead, hamonbuns served as the public face of celebrations. (For those not familiar with hamonbuns, maybe it would help to see the word written: ham-on-buns. Because this is served at every wedding, every graduation, every funeral, and every church picnic, it is more like a single word. It is never turkey on buns. Nor is it ham with cloves. That would be over the top since it would necessitate plastic forks or something. It is hamonbuns. One word. One meal. Every time.)

There was a group of us native Midwesterners sitting at breakfast one morning, discussing how hard it is to receive. We all seem to have this instinctive drive to try to pay back a gift. But the last couple of years, God has been teaching me a lot about Grace, about His Love, and about the extravagance of it all. I told them of how my children had taken a thing of beauty – a rose – and had torn it apart, leaving it lying all over the floor for me to walk on. Imagine, one of man’s greatest symbols of love, and it was merely used like I would a throw rug. How much more God’s gifts to us – this earth He designed, created, fashioned – for our use and enjoyment. So many things He created simply for us to enjoy! You would think we’d be better at it. I remember coming across a flower in the woods one day and wondering if I would be the only person who ever got to see it. The God of the Universe made it to sing of His Glory. And only I had been given the privilege of glimpsing His Glory through its presence in the world.

Someday we will be in Heaven, where one of our most precious commodities – gold – will be the asphalt we walk on. I think Heaven will be a continuous exploration of His Goodness and His Generosity to us. Of course, we already enjoy His greatest gift, His beloved son, sent as a sacrifice for you and me. How can we not also be generous to each other? Perhaps, even as that flower existed to sing the Glory of God for me, I am to be a flower that sings the Glory of God to another. We need to show His love and beauty, extending it generously to others. And we need to graciously accept it and celebrate His Glory when we are the recipients.

My brother and sister-in-law shouted His Glory to the heavens as they extended God’s Grace to all of us at their party. And my children whispered His Glory into the depths of my soul at the World Peace Resort and Spa.

Like a rock,

The Submissive Despot

Amy Louise

Amy Shane

April, 2007 Plasticized Spiritual Life

April, 2007

Last week, Abby and I, along with some friends, went to the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago to see the BodyWorlds exhibit. This exhibit is one where they have taken whole cadavers, infused the muscles, blood vessels, etc. with some kind of a plastic resin to preserve them and then put them in various realistic active poses. All have the skin removed to reveal the inner structures. Some display the respiratory system, others, the skeleton. They are tastefully presented and speak to the creativity of our God.

But as we walked around, I found I had to make a conscious effort to not think of these bodies as real people who had lived real lives, who had had souls, who had run, breathed, laughed, cried, hugged, and suffered. As long as I compartmentalized that fact I was able to enjoy the exhibits and the fascination of the complexities of God’s creation. This wasn’t too hard for me, but my friend found it impossible to not think about their souls and found herself grieved over the potential of their not being in Heaven, over the pain that some suffered. (Though most were completely anonymous, there were a couple that told a little bit of their stories, including one that had drowned herself when she was pregnant and spurned by the father of her child. Her family, refusing to give the girl a proper burial, donated her body, and consequently that of her child, to science.) My friend allowed herself to be touched deeply.

As we were leaving, we talked abut if we were to donate our bodies what position we would want to be posed in. I thought that it should be a natural position, something I do all the time but folding laundry wouldn’t make the mast interesting exhibit. I finally came up with playing the piano even though I don’t do that much anymore.

This week I thought some more on the subject. “Maybe I should have said I’d like to be posed on my knees by a bed, in the position of prayer.”

“Why?” The still small voice within me asked. “Is that what you want others to think, that you pray all the time?” He went on gently, asking me about the real state of my spiritual life. I thought about it. If God were to remove my skin to reveal, instead of musculature, my spiritual life – what would be exposed? The reality of a posed, plastic spiritual life began to take form in my mind. The conversation continued.

“Is that what I look like, to You, God? It’s not what I want – You know that!”

“Let Me breathe life into it.”

“How, God?”

“Embrace the pain of others.”

“But God, You know that would drain me. I don’t have time. I don’t have energy. I’m busy.”

I thought about what He said and how tough that would be. You see, I’m into self-preservation. I have my life all arranged at the level I can handle. I portion out time for my work, time for my family, and even time for other people’s pain – but it is kept at arm’s length, in amounts I can handle. Even my compassion is planned, doled out when and where it works for me. To embrace other’s pain would put it on their schedule; to truly have compassion would be to put myself at their disposal, where and when they need me. I went back to God. “I want to have compassion, but I don’t want to feel the pain myself. That would cost me too much.”

“I know. I paid the same cost for you.”

Ouch. I thought some more and God brought Scriptures back to my mind. (This is what happens when you memorize it when you are young – He is able to use it when you are old…whether to convict or comfort.) God calls each us to a deeper pain, to weep with those who weep – on their schedule. To carry one another’s burdens when they need it. It is this path through pain that leads ultimately to joy.

As I thought about this tendency toward self-preservation, God gently brought His Word back to my mind. “Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” (Matt. 10:39)

I don’t want a plastic spiritual life, posed for others but protected for myself. I want it dynamic, living, breathing. I want it touching others, allowing the breath of God Himself to flow through me into others’ lives.

Like a rock,

The Submissive Despot

Amy Louise

Amy Shane

March, 2007 Defense of Martha

March, 2007

Anna must have gotten hold of that list of questions (that I mentioned last month) because last night she asked me one of them. “If you could invite anyone to dinner (except Jesus and Dad) who would you invite?”

I wasn’t prepared for such a question. I was expecting one on algebra. Thinking a bit, I finally responded.

“Martha.”

“Why?” she asked.

Why. Well, probably because she’s been on my mind so much lately. And maybe because I see, oh, let’s just say, a few similarities. I would want to know if it bothered her that her name has become synonymous with an un-Christlike character while her sister, Mary, gets all of the accolades due the faithful. I’d want to know if she were jealous of Mary because Mary got the “Satisfactory” grade in citizenship while Martha was stuck with “Needs Improvement”.

Frankly, I think Martha’s gotten a bum rap. First off, my understanding of the ancient Near-Eastern cultures is that hospitality was a priority. When a stranger needed a bed, one was supposed to invite them in and feed them as well. The New Testament is replete with references to this. Luke says it was Martha (not Mary) who opened their house to Jesus. And Martha fed the crowds. To not provide food (or a foot-washing or a bed) would have been an insult. It was because Martha opened her home to Jesus that He was even there. It was because Martha did the work that the rest could sit comfortably and enjoy Jesus’ presence and teaching. Had she not fed them, they would have had to leave early to get dinner.

Maybe if Mary had gotten off her duff and helped, perhaps they both would have been able to spend time with Jesus. Every mother knows that in order to have your children grow (physically, socially, intellectually, or spiritually) it often involves giving up the same for yourself. My interpretation is that Mary was selfish and maybe a little lazy as well. I realize a mom needs to be sure her own well is full first or she’ll be running on empty, but I know a lot of women who run on empty. If they could hire help or if their husbands or kids could step up to the plate, it seems those moms could keep their wells a little more full.

It seems to me the problem is not so much with Martha’s doing but rather with her attitude about doing. She’s fed up and upset with Mary’s couch potato status and allowed a bit of bitterness in. And she’s worrying. And then she whined. That’s what I can’t stand. If you’re going to be a martyr, fine, but don’t wear it on your sleeve and whine about it.

Unfortunately, there’s a small problem with my interpretation of the situation. Jesus just had to speak up. If He hadn’t told Martha that Mary desired the better thing, my interpretation would stand. (And a lot more work would be getting done around the world.) But He had to go and make it clear that Mary was the one with her priorities straight and so now we task-oriented types are left to deal with it.

Thankfully, the story doesn’t end there, because Martha and Mary are mentioned again in the book of John. Mary previously was lauded for sitting at Jesus’ feet, but here it says Jesus loved them both. Mary and Martha. Relationship-oriented and task-oriented. He loved them both. And that means He loves me.

And what I like in this story of their brother’s death is that Martha is the one who flies to Jesus first. While Mary is still blubbering at home, Martha runs out to meet the only Source of Hope. And there she states her rock-solid belief that He is the Christ, the Son of God. Granted, Mary also hurries out later, but this tells me that Martha knows. Her practical side doesn’t disappear – she’s out of air-freshener and knows the tomb will stink – but SHE KNOWS!

The next time we see the sisters, they are back at their normal status quo again. Mary is at Jesus’ feet, this time anointing them with expensive perfume while Martha is again making it possible by doing the serving. But this time I know she knows. She knows she is giving a gift to Mary even as Mary is giving her gift to the Lord. And she’s not whining about it.

Martha gives me hope because, in spite of her natural tendency to get caught up in the daily tasks of life, she still knew Jesus, deep in her heart, and she did her best to help others hear Him for themselves. And she helps me remember that though He may at times rebuke me, Jesus still loves me.

Our pastor says he likes to think that after the resurrection the reason Mary is not mentioned is because she’s up in Galilee, waiting right where Jesus said He’d go after He came back to life. Personally, I think if this is indeed true, it’s because Martha booked the donkey transportation, packed lunches, secured rooms at the Inn of Galilee and got them both there in time to wait for Jesus’ arrival. Together.

Like a rock,

The Submissive Despot

Amy Louise

Amy Shane

February, 2007 Mentoring

February, 2007

I love the concept of mentoring. To have someone just ahead of you on life’s road, a half of a generation older, a “half-click” up the ladder that you can go to for advice is tremendously helpful. These mentors inspire me to keep on keepin’ on, showing me that it is actually possible to get where I want to go. I look for mentors or heroes in just about every area of life. Last month, I mentioned my Grandma and her incredible prayer life. I’ve got friends who are more faithful in their devotional lives and others that I look up to in their writing. My husband runs just a little bit faster. (Well, ok, a lot faster) My daughter has read more classics. My girlfriend is more patient (or better at hiding impatience) and my mom is better at meal planning. There are those who represent a quieter, gentler pace of life while others hold up the speed and efficiency model – I just choose who to go to based on what I feel I need that week. Last week I spent time with one friend that I hold up as my marriage and parenting mentor. We went to a writers’ conference with our teenaged daughters.

These conferences are not only a place to hone your writing skills, but also a place to network with editors and publishers. I found, however that I spent a lot of my “networking time” helping my daughters get where they needed to go. I encouraged them to meet with editors and listened to them dream. But what I really enjoyed last week was how my friend drew my daughters out in conversation. She carries a card in her purse with a bunch of open-ended questions on it, designed to kickstart or deepen conversations and give you insight into another’s thoughts and life. It was too cool.

Who do you think you are most like – your mom or your dad? Why? Listening to my daughters’ perspectives on how they view Mike and me and how they see themselves was simultaneously frightening and rewarding. They compared their strengths and their weaknesses to ours. There were a couple that made me rather pleased, but, yuck, I hated realizing I had passed on a couple of the less desirable ones as well.

What one thing would you change about your parents? Well, it had been fun going through these questions. Unfortunately, my daughters were brutally honest in their answers. Ouch. Do I really resort to yelling that much? (And no excuses just because I have five kids and a big house.) Mental note: work on that one.

What is something that you’d do differently from your parents? Well, this one was easier to swallow since I had had a few things on my own list growing up. Now I sound so much like my mom it’s scary. And I know someday it will hit them that they sound just like me! Every now and then one of the girls would glance at me to make sure they weren’t hurting me with what they said. I tried to keep a look of encouragement on my face. Seeing their hearts laid out was priceless. And, in reflection, I realized those things that cut deepest were probably the most true.

My friend keeps this question card on her to have ready at any opportunity. She uses it with her own children, her kids’ friends, and even peers. The results of using this tool means that she can always take a conversation to the next level. It also means that she knows her children intimately. When she uses them on other people, it means they feel loved and cared for and they respond accordingly.

I watched my friend at this conference engage people at the tables. By the end of every meal she had people ready to give her their firstborns. I asked her for a copy of the list of questions. And though I think tools like that card are helpful, I wish I could have asked her for a fistful of her passion for people.

Mike’s mom always says “Life is full of dailies” and sometimes I feel like that is all my life is: Daily Cooking, Daily Tidying, Daily Driving, Daily Nagging. With five kids, I often feel like people drain me dry. I realize that God has been working on me in this area this past year – to get past my task list and to focus on relationships. (How could I not realize it? It’s been the topic of half of these newsletters!) The question is HOW do I get from Point A to Point B?

It is my plan to start taking time just “relating” with my kids, asking the deep questions, learning more about each of them and what makes them tick. It’s also my plan to answer the same questions from that card in my journal to God and to try to figure out how to spend time just “being” with Him.

My kids (after they read this) have my permission to remind me of my commitment. And you, also, have my permission to hold me accountable.

Like a rock,

The Submissive Despot

Amy Louise
Amy Shane