Looking for a great read?  The Missionary by William Carmichael and David Lambert hits shelves next week.  Or -- preorder through Amazon and get ready for a page turner.

Dave Eller, an American missionary in the barrios of Caracas has a passion for saving the impoverished children so prevalent amongst him.  While he dutifully tends to the orphanage he and his wife Christie have been called to serve, he remains unsettled with thoughts of the many others that he can't reach.  Angry at the Venezuelan government and the policies that fail to protect these children, David is all to eager to accept a questionable opportunity from a wealthy business man who promises a generous donation to the orphanage in exchange for a small favor that goes against the country's leaders.

When the deal does not go as expected, David's history of publicly denouncing the government makes him a target for an investigation that might uncover his recent impropriety. Realizing his mistake, David becomes unsure if he is helping a government operative, the CIA, or drug cartel. He quickly falls into a nightmarish reality of espionage and a covert existence that leaves him with the possibility of losing his ministry, his family and his very life.

This gripping novel presents unexpected twists and tension that will keep you holding your breath until the very last page. With vivid detail, Authors William Carmichael and David Lambert pull us into the contrasting beauty of Venezuela and the corrupt government that taints its citizen’s lives.

Not only will the novel keep you up at night and hiding in the closet for a spare moment to read, it will leave you questioning the times you've turned up the volume on your own voice louder than that of God's, who was nudging towards another path.  As The Missionary shows us, the choice is ultimately ours, even if it places us in grave danger.

Due out March 1, 2009.

        

I have always hated my minivan. 

Truly.  From the very first day we bought it until now, four years later, I have loathed it.  I still don't like the guy who sold it to me, even though I freely walked up to him and asked him for it.  I feel like a big idiot driving around in it.  Like I've totally given in to the mommy-vacuum by purchasing it.  And, I hate how I'm more concerned about trash containment of cheerios and oreos than my pre-van concerns of whether or not I would look good in red or black. 

Unfortunately, my van has taken my loathing personally.  In the span of four years, 18 things have broken on it.  From the am/fm switch cracking in half and falling off to much larger issues that have left us stranded on the side of the road.

Our last evil-minivan episode occurred over the holidays when a death in the family led us to leave town the day after Christmas.  We made our way towards Virginia and stopped what seemed like five minutes later for a bathroom break (No.  She didn't go before we left the house).  As we pulled over, smoke began pouring from the engine.  After checking under the hood, my husband quelled our fears, added some fluid and we continued on our trip.

Thirty more miles down the road, it started again.  And the crying began. Our kids were terrified of the smoking car and began a crying opera that rivaled a Pavarotti performance.  My husband checked it again, added fluid and continued on a little less sure of himself. 

"I don't want to die!"

"The car's on fire!" bellowed from the back seat. 

I wanted to join them. Instead, we stopped every thirty minutes adding fluid and waving smoke away as the longest trip in Virginia history was recorded.  We managed to make it to our destination in only twice the time, missing the evening wake.

The next day we dropped the car at a local shop and went on to the funeral.  Hours later we learned that it would be days before the car could be serviced with no idea how to estimate the cost.  Our Christmas gift to our kids was a mini vacation.  It looked as if that would be canceled. More crying ensued.

My husbands family stepped in and generously offered us a car to drive until we could come back to retrieve our own.  After his funeral, we piled into Uncle Delwin's car and headed South. It was a humbling experience driving that car.

Like everything in his life, Uncle Delwin had taken excellent care of his 1992 Lincoln.  After 16 years of use, it was in better shape and was a striking contrast to our minivan of four years.  There were no cup holders, dvd players or automatic lights.  The back seat was large enough for two small children to completely stretch out and fall asleep on.  The backseat also sat incredibly close to the front, making me realize within an hour why parents in the eighties felt the need to use "the arm" as a method of correction.  The trunk was twice as large as the minivan's storage area.  It's seats were worn, and carpet stained.  It had few amenities, yet drove beautifully. 

It made me think a lot about Uncle Delwin and his priorities.  As an aerospace engineer for NASA, he was so unassuming, you would never know that he'd spent his career doing things of which most of us could only dream.  His house contained awards and items of recognition in such inconspicuous places (behind the basement bookshelf), that you would never come to know that he'd been inducted into the Aerospace Hall of Fame, or won awards for developing Hang Glider technology, if someone else had not revealed this information to you.  His priority was his family.  Nothing else mattered.

Though he easily could have lived in a larger house, driven new cars every few years, and spent lavishly on anything he wanted, he didn't.  I began thinking over how hectic our lives had become, the many bad financial decisions we'd made over needless purchases, and why the rest of the world seemed to mimic our steps more than some one more deserving.  Someone like Delwin. 

In the seven hour trip down to Florida, I began to make a new plan for my family.  I wanted to be like Delwin.  I wanted to be more concerned with the big things than the little things.  I wanted to stop being so ungrateful for the things I did have.

Then, it happened.  Fifteen miles from our hotel, the Lincoln died.  As we pulled over to a side road, my kids hit a new level of inconsolable. And I began to join them.  As I sat crying in the passenger seat, watching my husband melt down outside of the car, I looked up into the clouds as the words "Jesus Loves You" formed in airplane writing across the skies.  I kid you not.  That happened.

Hebrews 13:5 says "Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said 'Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you."

I realized in that moment that I had not been content in my life.  Like many others today, I'd spent years chasing after things that truly had little significance.  The reason I'd been so taken aback by Delwin is because he so resembled who I longed to be most like : Jesus.

As it turned out, the repair on the Lincoln was very minor.  Something even the Fedex guy that helped us push it out of traffic was able to diagnose.  However, the redirection I needed would not be as easy.  But, I'm focusing on it.  After years of living without thinking, I'm forming a new plan of how things should be.  And, it's all thanks to Uncle Delwin.  I miss him now more than ever.

        

    I can't sit still.  

    It's ingrained in me and I can't make it stop.  (Please, someone make it stop!) Not that I don't enjoy downtime, or vacations or the like.  But, if I'm at home and everyone has what they need, I'd much rather be doing something with my time than sitting still.  If I'm watching television, I'm also reading a book.  If I'm cooking dinner, I'm also unloading the dishes or folding laundry.  If I'm laying down with my kids at night to help them sleep, I'm also going through a writing idea in my mind.  

    I have an internal agenda that can get in the way of everything if I let it.  My to-do list is to be outdone by no other than a computer repair manual.  It goes on for pages and is updated daily.  I have to literally keep myself in check constantly, making sure that what I am doing is what God would have me to do, not what I feel I should do.  

    It seems as if my mind is on a 20 hour schedule that my 16 hour body struggles to keep up with.  Even when I force myself to stop "doing", my mind keeps at it long into the night. And I find that it is often during my busiest times that I realize I'm listening too much to my own voice and not enough to God's.  

    Why can't I just get out of my own way?

    I love the words in Psalm 46:  "Be still, and know that I am God!" I like the image of that.  Being still.  Letting God take over.  Having someone else carry the load for a change.  But is God asking us to be still so that He can do all of the work, or is He asking us to stop in order to pay attention?

    In Exodus 14, God led the people of Israel towards the Red Sea and instructed them to camp beside the shore.  Then He hardened Pharoh's heart to the point that he decided to chase after the very slaves that he had just freed.  As Pharoah approached them, the Isralites began crying out to Moses saying "Why did you bring us out here to die in the wilderness?  What have you done to us?"  In response, Moses told them "Don't be afraid.  Just stand still and watch the Lord rescue you today.  The Lord himself will fight for you.  Just stay calm."  That would have sounded great to me.  Just hang out here, let God take care of your needs.

    But, as they were waiting on the Lord to move, He said to Moses "Why are you crying out to me? Tell the people to get moving!"  It was only then that Moses raised his staff and the Red Sea parted.  It was only after their action, their part in the plan, that this miraculous work of God took place.

    I love this part of the story.  It shakes me up.  It makes me realize that although God loves us and has promised to take care of us, our relationship with him is not passive.  He calls us to play a part in His plan.  "Why are you crying out to me?" He says.  "Tell the people to get moving!"  Get a move on, so His work can be completed.

    The "being still" isn't so much that He wants us to physically still our bodies, as He wants us to still our racing minds, our need for control, our unending to-do list that not only can distract us from what He is trying to do, but can keep us from taking our part in His plan for us.  We are directed to "Be still, and know that I am God" because it is only in our stillness that we can see that what is being accomplished in our lives is not of our own doing.  Though we play a part in His plan, we can not control it, or manipulate it, or delegate it to a list.

    God is honored when we allow Him to work His will in our lives.  When we allow Him to do the things for us that meet His agenda, not our own.  When we let Him use us in the way He wants to, rather than to just sit back and hope that He acts on our behalf.

    Yes.  The Isralites needed to still themselves from the probable chaos that was going on in their camp.  Yes, they needed to refocus and realize that they were God's people and that He was with them.  BUT.  They had to take action in His plan.  They had to get up and move!
.
    As the holidays draw nearer and your calendar gets squeezed, don't forget to be still.  Don't forget the purpose of this season or the miracle that God has laid before us through the story of Christ.  Take part in His story this Christmas.  Be a blessing to others.  Show the love of God to someone in need.  Not because it's on your list.  Not because you feel pressure.  But, because God has placed you somewhere in the wilderness of life, poised to take part in His plan like no one else can.  Be still enough to realize it when your turn comes. Then... get moving!

        

Last night, as I watched the results pour in from the 2008 election, I was stunned.  Not that McCain was obviously losing, but that so many people were chosing a candidate who went against so many of my personal beliefs.  Was I alone?  I sat in silence (which doesn't happen often at our house) and wondered how our country had wandered so far away from the belief system on which it was built.  Beliefs that are at their core, good things.  Moral things.  Things built upon the laws of God.

I went to bed despondent and wondering if God was turning His back on us after all the many times we have gone against Him in this country.  If he was "turning His face against us" as the Psalmist says?

I tossed and turned all night.  I awoke more than once by the cheers and screams of victory of Obama supporters as my husband continued to watch in the other room.  I felt hopeless. I felt isolated.  And I felt very far from God.

This morning I prayed as I got ready, drove my children to school, and then home to work.  I listened to the radio hoping to be inspired.  I looked through the clouds overhead hoping for a glimmer of something.  Hoping for some sign of well, hope.

When I got to my desk I reluctantly checked my email knowing that there would be many comments on the various loops I subscribe to that I wouldn't want to read.  But of course, I was compelled to. 

There were many elated comments.  There were equally as many deflated.  There were comments about racism.  There were comments about gender bias.  Many angered me.  Several made me profoundly sad.  None made me feel any better.  But, I began to realize that if nothing else, this election motivated.  Motivated many of us who have sat back for too long watching from the sideline.

Slowly... a glimmer flitted across my mind.  One word kept coming to the forefront: trust. Trust.

A new energy began to build in me as I tried to look at it from someone who is called to trust God with everything.  And I thought: maybe this is as it should be.  Maybe the very best thing that could happen to a follower at this point in our history is to be shaken to the core.  To be slapped with the reality of what is truly at stake before us.  And to see that we can't continue to glide by hoping that "someone else" will stand up for our beliefs.  For God's commands.

In the next four years, beliefs that Christians hold deepest in their hearts will be challenged under this president.  The right to life.  The protection of marriage.  Freedom of speech.  Freedom of beliefs.  And we are ALL on call.  Not just the leaders of our communities or nation.  It is under our watch this time.  And we must stand and act.

It reminded me of David as he positioned himself to stand up against Goliath.

"I can't go in these," David protested.  "I'm not use to them" he said as he turned away the offer of solidiers armor that he was not accustomed to. 

Like David, we may not be accustomed to the methods of battle that will be used against us.  But it shouldn't keep us from getting in the fight.  We must face our giants as he did.  Not by meandering around in the hopes that someone else might get to them first.  But by rushing to them!  Just as when Goliath moved into attack, David quickly ran out to greet him!  Quickly! Wholeheartedly.  Shouting with confidence that he came "in the name of the Lord- the God whom you have defied".

He didn't let the taunts of Goliath stop him.  He didn't let the rumors of failure stop him.  He didn't even allow his own family to stop him as his brother tried to send him home.

No!  He rushed to greet him!  Even as Goliath taunted "Why are you coming to fight?  I am the Philistine champion, but you are only the servants of Saul."

We are only the servants of God.  We are ONLY the servants of God.  We are only the servants of GOD.

SERVE him with honor.  SERVE him with joy.  Rush to greet what is coming before us. 

In David's day as it is in ours:  "This is the Lord's battle, and He will give you to us!"

God will prevail.  We must stand with confidence as His own knowing that if we show up to the battle in His name, He will be there to fight with us. 

We will have to do that.  We will have to take a stand.  We will be forced to face the giant moral questions being posed by our nation.  Rush to greet what is coming before us.  Be ready.  And trust.  Trust.

 

        

When my daughter was still a toddler, I watched one day as she took a pink magic marker and drew a big squiggle on a piece of paper I had given her.  To me, the squiggle looked like a giant S - her first initial.  I was amazed at her ability to accomplish that at such a young age.  I had her draw on paper after paper, making sure that it was not an accident.  It wasn't. 

Being someone who loves to draw and paint, I began to wonder if she might have a gift.  I went out and bought new magic markers and crayons as excited as if it were my own first box.  At following holidays and special occasions, I gave her gifts that would help her explore her artistic side.  I even bought a huge art table, complete with a little lamp that would shed the light she needed to create her masterpieces.

The only problem was:  she didn't want to. 

Not willing to give in so easily, I tried to encourage her in other ways.  We would sit together at the kitchen table and draw as a team.  Well, I would draw while holding her hand and pencil together in mine.  That's the same thing...right? OK, not exactly.  Which is why I often would get frustrated, throw the pencil down and let her move on.

As much as I longed to have a child that shared my passion, she simply was not interested any further than most children her age.  She preferred to cut the hair off of her Barbie dolls and dress up with every item hanging in her closet.  The art table was used more often to change baby doll diapers than to channel new art.  And, as it turns out, that squiggle expressed the mainstay of her talent for quite a while.

I hate to admit it, but I was totally disappointed when she was not interested in pursuing my passion.  Not only that, but my feelings were hurt.   A hurt that I couldn't really explain and certainly was not her fault.  But it was there.

Eventually, her true gifts did begin to surface.  Like most things about her, they were nothing like mine.  I realized that nothing I might do could sway her to my way of thinking.  I had to let my hope for an artist go as I let her become who she was meant to be.  It was hard for me to give up that control.

Through the years I've found myself in similar situations with friends and acquaintances.  Over, I'm embarrassed to say:God.  I've seen friends take a mild interest in a conversation we were having and assumed that they needed more information than they ever wanted to hear.  I've given out books that were probably never read.  I've offered up open doors in hopes that someone would come knocking.

The problem was: too often, no one did.

As much as I've sometimes longed for certain people in my life to understand and share my passion for my faith in God, they are not always able to meet me there.  Sometimes they are not ready.  Other times maybe not willing to take a risk at that particular point in life. 

And as much as I hate to admit it, I've been completely disappointed by more than one person who was not interested in pursuing my passion.  Not only that, but my feelings have been hurt.  A hurt that I often can not explain and know that it is not the other persons fault.  Yet it remains.

Recently, another wonderful friend of mine pointed out to me that when it comes to bringing others along in our passion for God, our duty is to be the sower.  To throw some seeds out and then let God do the work of helping them to take root and grow.

As much as we may want to push them in, water them, or even bring a little light overhead if need be, we can't.  And we aren't supposed to.  It is our duty to sow the seed.  That's it.  The rest is up to God in His own time and according to His own perfect will.

Each in their own time.  Each with their own gifts.  People will discover their calling and who calls them on their own.  It is not for us to decide. It is not something that we can control.

The best we can do for them is throw.  Just throw.

        

When you are still in the young years of raising children, wanting to go through the first year all over again is akin to wanting to suffer through the teenage angst of high school once more.  NO one wants to go there again!  You are glad to be rid of bottles and diapers and multiple changings of clothes in a day.  No more sleepless nights.  (Well, fewer anyway.)  You look back on it all with a sigh of relief and a boost in your parenting ego that you made it through.

The first year is tough on everyone.  And I'm starting to think that it is why no one REALLY tells you about how parenting will be, until you are one.  I mean, we hear about the sleep deprivation, the messiness of it all, the way it has of attacking your bank account.  But, we tend not to divulge that this tiny person will swoop in and complete consume your every waking moment for the next year.  A monopoly of time that will actually cause you to sweep through entire months without truly remembering what happened in them.  Except of course, when you had to buy "fleets".  NO ONE EVER FORGETS THAT.  If you don't know what I'm talking about here, you are a very, very lucky parent.

Still, as my youngest reaches his second birthday, I'm starting to miss those baby days.  What used to be he and I tackling our days in tandem is edging more towards him pushing off ever so slightly on his own.  With our oldest now nine, I can see more than ever how quickly he will grow.  And it makes me miss that first year.  It makes me think that I wouldn't mind going back to 2 am feedings.  That boiling bottles might not be so bad.  That baby crying (which is different from toddler and certainly tween crying) sounds so sweet.

It makes me miss those days.  And yet, I know I have wonderful things to look forward to.

Our middle child just started Kindergarten this week.  By day two, he would not let me walk him inside.  That's not what you do at big school.  I love that the thing that impressed him the most was the cafeteria...which is also the gym.  Priceless.

My daughter is coming into her own sense of self as she begins to stand up for things she believes in.  I love watching her grow in this way.  Confident.  Unsteady at times, but growing more sure every day.  She and I are starting to have the kind of talks I always wanted with my daughter. 

All of these are beautiful things in the lives of parents and children.  Gifts.  Gifts to be enjoyed and cherished at every stage.

If you are struggling through the first year (for the first time, or for another round), try to remember the small things.  The way a child finds that perfect fit between your shoulder and neck.  The way they smell after a bath.  The slope of their tiny necks.  The way their eyes flutter in their sleep.  The feel of little fingers holding onto yours.  The wide eyed glances at everything new. 

You will miss it.  You will want it back.  Really.  I do.
 

        

    This weekend we attended the funeral of my husband's great aunt, an event that was both tearful and filled with moments of joy.  It's funny how funeral's can be that way.

    On the one hand, there was the obvious loss:  a wonderful wife, mother, aunt, sister and friend taken from our midst.  On the other hand, there was a feeling of longing to be in her place:  meeting Jesus for the first time.  But mostly it seemed a hardship to those of us remaining here without her.  Her husband, who is terminally ill, was stunned that she was taken from him.  Her boys (grown men) still longed for their mother.  And the rest of the family missed what had become our matriarch.  It can be quite sad and quite lovely all at the same time.

    Of course, sprinkled in with all of these people were small children who always mingle in large families.  Children who were almost totally unaware of what was going on before them.  Happy to be surrounded by so many people making such a fuss over them.  Giggling with joy as countless family members went on and on about how cute their toes were, what sweet smiles they had, and what a blessing it was to have them there.  They could not comprehend the great sadness that surrounded them.  Nor did they understand why we were gathered.  They just knew that they were surrounded by loved ones, and were happy to be so.  

    When someone nearby was in tears, you were more likely to hear an "uh-oh!" from the little ones than an "I'm so sorry".  The beautiful rendition of "How Great Thou Art" that was sung at the ceremony was met with a loud "Yea!" and even louder clapping by one joyous young attendee.  And later, at the house of our beloved aunt, the children were more interested in being with their cousins and enjoying their family than mourning.  And truly, I believe that this is how God intends it.

   There is something precious in childlike faith and understanding.  Just as Jesus points us towards becoming more like children in order to enter the Kingdom of God (Mark 10:14), , I think He often uses children around us to gently teach us that there is joy in the midst of our sadness.  There is hope when things feel hopeless.  And, there are people who love you completely no matter what you are going through. 

    Though it is entirely too difficult to describe losing someone you love, it is befitting I think, to surround yourself with those who are more able to celebrate in the midst of sorrow.  It is a celebration, to think of someone we love finally, FINALLY, reaching home. 

    And, I have a feeling she may have been doing some clapping and "Yeas" of her own.  

   

        

Raising a wild child can be tough on a mom.  The constant fear of their safety.  The sneaking feeling that everyone within fifty feet of said child is secretly glancing at you in disapproval.  The plethora of comments made by others all too ready to point you in the proper direction of a taming session.  It's enough to wear you down.   To a nub.  I've been there.

I've sat in horror as my little wild man has knocked over a presentation screen in a room full (did I say FULL) of adults waiting for the presentation to start.  I've listened  as his always-at-full-volume comments about the large people in front of us made me want to back quietly out of the supermarket and never return.  I've panicked as his lack of fear for his own little life has led him out into parking lots, busy streets, and yes on one very bad day - oncoming traffic.

I've wondered more than once if there was something wrong with him.  I've considered even more often that there might be something wrong with me and my mothering.  I've prayed that God help me keep this uncontrollable child safe.  And I've secretly asked if He realized that I was the mommy He accidentally dropped this bomb on. Surely this gift was wrapped for another.

The difficult thing about raising a wild child is that when they are in action, you are on trial.  Every passerby, onlooker and mother in the midst seems to have an eye out for you when the action revs up.  Then, when your little one has reached the third tier of the Walmart toy aisle after you telling him over and over again to get down, someone pops out from behind you to slap a "GUILTY" sign on your back.  Well, OK, maybe not...but it often feels that way! 

There is nothing like a child you can not control to make you feel like a failure as a parent.

What I've learned over the five years (Yes!  We made it to five!) with my little wild man has changed me forever.  And changed me for the better.  The uncontrollable passion that often leads him into trouble, is the same passion that carries out in unexpectedly wonderful ways in other aspects of his life.

My little guy is incapable of holding back. Not a thought.  Not an action.  He sees nothing wrong with speaking his mind (very loudly) with whatever is bothering him about his world and whatever injustice is being inflicted on him (usually by his sister).  He can not contain his energy as he runs at me, full tackle speed, down the church aisle after children's time.  He sees nothing unusual in going up and talking to, or hugging, or just standing beside a complete stranger if he is drawn to them in some way.

Actions that at first I want to stop.  Actions that I'm quick to be embarrassed by.  Actions that if I think about them...should be carried out by myself as well.

How wonderful the world would be if more adults acted like my child.  To speak up for the wrongs.  To love with wild abandon.  To find those in our midst most in need of our love and attention.

Things that I don't want to stop about him.  Things that I'm embarrassed have made me wonder what others thought.  Things I want to emulate more. 

You see, not only did God realize the child he was giving me, I am convinced that he specifically and strategically planned it.  God is using this child in my life to teach me.  And teach me he has, I'm a different person than I was five years ago.  I take more chances.  I love more openly.  I see the world, and other mothers with similar children, quite differently.

If you are blessed with a wild child, you are just that:  blessed.  God has placed this child in your life for a reason.  He chose you for this specific task.  With this specific child.

I think it takes a special kind of mother to raise a wild child whether they are wild in action, or wild in emotion.  If handled in the right way, I truly believe that these are the children that can make the most difference in the world.  If they are encouraged instead of contained.  If they are built up instead of held back. If they are blessed to be raised by an advocate instead of an opponent.  And the choice, like many things in their little lives, is up to you. 

It's gonna' be the ride of your life, so hold on.  But pay attention.  Sometimes the most wonderful gifts come to us packed in such a way that we wonder who in the world wrapped such a thing... a wild animal? 

        

A few years ago as I sat across from my eighty-something grandmother holding my new baby girl in my arms, I looked up to see her studying me intently with a sad look on her face.

"Grandma, are you okay?" I asked.

"Yes," she said looking as if she'd been caught in a daydream "I miss my babies."

At the time, I was struggling with being a new mother.  And when I say struggling, I mean I was really wondering what God was thinking giving me something like this to take care of when clearly I wasn't ready or capable.  I'd spent the previous four-and-a-half hours riding with my daughter in her car seat screaming non-stop as we made our way across North Carolina.  I was coming home to feel like my mom's baby for a while, rather than the pink screaming bundle's harried mother.

The comment left me profoundly sad.  Not that she seemed particularly saddened by the fact that her five children were now completely grown, with children and in some cases grandchildren of their own.  But, as I looked down at the precious gift in my arms, the one that I'd longed for, the one that I was starting to begrudge, I realized what I had before me.  And I was stunned.

As parents, it's often difficult to see the blessing as we become overwhelmed with the responsibility.  Let's face it, parenthood is never what you expect it to be.  It's exhausting.  It's overwhelming.  It's all-consuming.  But it is a gift.  And, as only someone who's experienced it can attest:  there is simply nothing more wonderful.

Sure, with three children now, I have my bad days.  My sticky finger in my hair days.  My chocolate-mouth-wiped on my first new blouse in three months days.  My I'm-going-to-literally-keel-over-and-die from the bickering days.  But I also have my wonderful days.  My blessed by God days.  My these-are-the-best-years-of-my-life days.

Luckily, one of the latter tends to make up for many of the former.  And, I have a sneaking suspicion that as I grow older...maybe even become a grandmother myself...I too will miss my babies.

        

    This weekend, my daughter celebrated her ninth birthday with a gaggle of 16 giggling girls parading through our household for two days.  This event, otherwise known as a slumber party, was both exhausting and eye opening as we got to peek into the world of these little ones in a way that we are normally not privy to.
    
    I was struck, more than once, by how lucky I am to have the exact child that I have.  Though all the girls were as wonderful as a group that large can be while in our household, there were definite differences in the ways that these girls reacted to each other.
    
    Some, I would say, have spent an inordinate amount of time watching fast-to-respond-with-a-snappy-answer tv tweens on cable.  Others, I would say, were unbelievably innocent and sweet.  Thankfully, mine fell somewhere in between.

    In the weeks preceeding her party, my daughter was constantly being called down for being disrespectful to her parents.  In the midst of her peers however, I began to realize that compared to some of them, she is actually VERY respectful.  

    Is disrespect a sign of the times?  Are other parents pushing their children to be respectful as we are pushing ours?  I have to say, upon watching these girls, I wasn't sure.

    And the disrespect was not targeted to the adults.  It was pointed to each other.

    I saw enough head snapping and finger waggling to hold me through to the next millenium.  Simple questions were answered with smart remarks that would have crushed me as a young girl.  Innocent misunderstandings were ganged up on in groups of two and three.  It really was a sight to behold.  And yet, they all acted as if this was perfectly normal.  Par for the course.

    As you can imagine, I was growing weary of this as the night went on.  During games, bad sports made snappy comments to winners.  So, when my own daughter spoke up loudly after her team had won two consecutive rounds of pictionary, but then lost the third, I became very angry with her.

    "You can not be a bad sport about this!"  I said.  "Your team just won TWICE!  You have to let the others win and not cry!"

    "But it's not FAIR!" she screamed at me and kept crying.

    Getting angrier by the minute, I said "Fine!  If it's so unfair, we won't play any more games tonight.  Is that fair?"

    "No mama!" she said.  "It's not fair because Hannah is the only one who didn't get a turn to draw!"

    My heart sank.  Sweet, quiet, little Hannah.  The same Hannah that had helped me twice to clean up spills by other children.  The same Hannah that came and told on herself when she spilled water on the bathroom floor.  That Hannah was not about to speak up for herself.  

    But in the madness of a roomful of girls playing pictionary: winning, losing, clapping, screaming... my daughter had noticed one in the shadows.  One who didn't get her chance.  And, was hurt by it.

   " What a bad mother!"  I thought to myself.  I'd been around so much attitude in the last hours, that I thought my daughter was just coming into her own.  She was.  But not in the way I expected.

    Hannah got her turn.  Two to be exact.  Due of course, to a "Mommy Mess Up", where I accidently gave her the wrong word.   She was happy.  My daughter beamed.  And I?  Well, I learned a lesson in respect.