Why Bother?

By Lori Freeland –

Some days I wonder why I bother to do anything for myself. Whether it’s reading a good book, which I’ve relegated to the quiet hours of late night. Taking a nap, which happened once last year. Or making good on my promise to write a little bit every day, which I’m attempting to do now.

I began the edit of this article at 9:30 a.m. and it’s now 11:17 a.m.

600 words. One page. Plus a barrage of questions from the three children who occupy my house. One by one, they rotate in to stand at the foot of my bed. I tiptoed into the bedroom earlier, when I thought they were not looking.

My fingers pause, suspended over the keyboard, as I grasp to freeze my train of thought for later.

The exchange goes something like this—
“Can I call Dad? I lost my tiny fairy book. The dog threw up on the stairs. Can I watch Martha Speaks? Do we have legal-size paper for my project—it’s due in an hour? Can I take a bath? Who ate all the Cookie Crisp?”

To which I reply, in order—
“Is your room clean? Did you look in your backpack? Go clean it up, it’s your dog. Is your room clean? Why didn’t you ask me this sooner? Is your room clean? Dad ate the cereal.”

Maybe a recording of my top ten answers would buy me some personal time? Or maybe I should surrender and realize I do not own my time. I may never own my time—as long as small people live in my house.

Lord, I need a revelation. A communiqué. An email. A text message. A tweet. Can nothing ever be about me?

You’re asking the wrong question.

Well, Lord, I often ask the wrong question.

Are you looking through My eyes? Do you want what I want?

Lord, I need more than Your eyes. I’m desperate for Your heart. Help me want to want Your desires. Make them mine. I whisper the verse I’ve hidden in my heart:

“Trust in the LORD…Delight yourself in the LORD and he will give you the desires of your heart…” (Psalm 37:3-5 NIV).

Failing Fast

By Lori Freeland  –

A lone piece of pizza taunted me from the cardboard box. A perfect triangle of hot and greasy heaven—mozzarella browned just so. I sidestepped the mouth-watering heap of cheese and pepperoni and grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl.

“Hey,” I yelled to the kids. “Someone come eat this pizza!”

No one came.

I peeled the banana, shoved it in my mouth, and waited a minute or two for the sound of pounding footsteps on the stairs.

The only sound came from my nails as I clicked them against the white Formica countertop, inches from the pizza box. I wandered around the kitchen, gliding past that last slice of pizza for at least another thirty seconds before grabbing the delicious, gooey pile of Pizza Hut mastery and devouring it.

Nineteen days of self-denial gone in less than a minute.

I’d like to say the pizza sat like a rock in my stomach, but it didn’t. I’d like to say I regretted eating it, but I didn’t. Heaven from the first bite—the tangy sauce danced in my mouth—the richness of the browned cheese tantalized my tongue and warmed my stomach.

How sad to trade twenty-one days of the Daniel Fast for a piece of pizza that took twenty seconds to inhale. Did my moment of weakness undo the other nineteen days? Or the TV I’d given up? Did it negate the prayers seeking God’s blessing over my writing?

Guilt slammed me. What a loser—I couldn’t even make it two more days. Deflated, I curled up on my bed and hugged my pillow.

I had given up sugar, meat, dairy, coffee, and hours of DVR. Despite the natural, healthy food and the extra hours of sleep, I felt awful. And further from God than ever.

As I cried, curled up under the covers, a verse played through the soundtrack in my head. “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened…and you will find rest for your souls” (Matthew 11:28-29 NIV).

It’s not about the food. It’s about Me. Giving up food and TV pushed you into the arms of books and friends when you were supposed to run to Me with your burdens. Not to other things.

As God whispered truth into my heart, the tears stopped running down my cheeks, and I realized my whole perspective had been off. I hadn’t understood the real reason for the fast.

“Lord,” I whispered,”I’m sorry about the pizza. Help me remember You made me to need You. Help me to run to You first because You are the only One who will truly satisfy.”

Love on Him

By Lori Freeland –

“I hate night class. My throat is on fire—”

During the lengthy pause, I wondered why I had answered my cell.

“—and I got a 65 on the test.”

Kyle’s cranky attitude set my stress on fire.

Twice a week, he griped about Spanish night class and twice a week I lectured about ten key ways to study for college.

I gripped the phone. The semester ended in a few weeks. Not much time left to pull up his grade. “Come home and we’ll talk about it.”

He cut our connection with a typical, “Whatever.”

What did he expect? You have to work hard in college—even if you are still in high school. His college transcript reflected these grades. That’s what dual credit meant.

That’s not what he needs to hear.

Lord, of course that’s what he needs to hear. Slacking off is not an option. Where’s his drive? His motivation?

Love on him. No lectures. No advice.

Over the last year, I’d given a lot of advice in an attempt to fix him. Study more. Use better time management. Make a plan. Beg for extra credit.

Love is the fix.

This has nothing to do with love, Lord. Love doesn’t motivate him or push him to try harder. Look at all the mistakes I made when I was seventeen. I didn’t realize my choices then would affect my life now.

This isn’t about you. Love on him.

The garage door opened with a slow grind and a few seconds later, the back door slammed. Kyle wandered in, dropped his backpack on the couch, and kicked off his shoes in the middle of the hallway. I opened my mouth—

Love on him

—closed it and wrapped my arms around him. Taller than me, he rested his chin on the top of my head. Where was my little boy?

He shivered. “I’m cold and my throat hurts.”

Ah, there he was.

Love on him. Say the opposite of what you want to say.

I wanted to say, you were sick last week. Instead, I hugged him tighter and mumbled into his chest. “Do you want to take a hot bath? I can make you some hot chocolate.” I waited for his standard, “Whatever.”

It didn’t come. He pulled back and lifted the corners of his mouth, just a bit. “A bath and hot chocolate?” His smile deepened. “You gonna run this bath and make the hot chocolate?”

I headed into the kitchen and grabbed a mug. “Right now.”

“We’re not gonna talk about the test?”

“Nope.” I filled the cup with milk and stuck in the microwave.

He picked up his backpack and shoes and headed for the stairs. “Cool. Be right back.”

I slumped against the counter. You were right, Lord. You always are.

Kyle needed loving, not fixing. He needed understanding, not pressure—so he could relax, renew, and recharge.

Exactly the way I do when Jesus loves on me.

Now, Lord, help me remember that next week.

“Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God” (1 John 4:7 NIV).

Jeffrey’s Wheel

By Lori Freeland –

3:00 A.M.

I can just make out the small green numbers on the cable box. Why did I think this couch would be more comfortable than my bed? My body pillow hangs off the cushions and the blanket tangles around my legs. At least I’m free to toss and turn without heavy sighs from my husband’s side of the bed.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

Jeffrey scampers inside the blue plastic wheel hooked to the bars of his hamster cage. For the last hour, I’ve been tossing and turning to the rhythm of his relentless, nocturnal quest. The wheel spins faster and faster. Jeffrey goes nowhere.

Pushing my head into the pillow does nothing to block out the squeak of Jeffrey’s wheel. Restless, I can’t get comfortable. How am I going to clean the house, get to the grocery store and back, make snacks for Maddy’s Brownie party, edit Alek’s World View paper, help Kyle study for his Spanish test, and still get schooling done  by 5 o’clock, in time to make writer’s group? Especially if I don’t get any sleep tonight?

How did I get so busy? Homeschooling. Charities. Teaching at co-op. Dinner. Cleaning. Laundry. Worrying. Am I praying hard enough for protection as Kyle backs out of the driveway? Did I make a mistake not pushing Alek harder towards sports? Is Maddy boy crazy at the age of nine? Can I be a better wife? Did I call my mother this week? My mouth is dry. It hurts to swallow.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

Can you WD-40 a hamster wheel?

Jeffrey’s persistent quest continues. Half his body slides off, but a last second foot maneuver saves him and he catches the wheel and keeps on running. Give it up already. Face it, Jeffrey—it doesn’t matter how fast you run—you’re still going nowhere.

Despite the amount of body hair he sports, Jeffrey and I aren’t that different. We both run. Neither one of us getting very far. Day after day, commitment after commitment, mini crisis after mini crisis, Jeffrey and I race ahead,  never bothering to slow down long enough to look around and realize we haven’t moved at all.

What are we running for? What are we running toward? I can’t speak for Jeffrey, but my motto is Make It Through. I rarely stop and ask God what He wants me to do. I forget life is the sum of each moment. As I run past those moments, I’m wasting them.

In Matthew, Jesus confronts Peter on his wheel, challenging him. “Get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the concerns of God, but merely human concerns” (Matthew 16:23 NIV).

Uh oh. That’s harsh. My entire wheel spins with human concerns.

In that moment, God reaches down and ever so gently lays the tip of his finger on the top of my wheel, slowing it down carefully, so I don’t fall off.

Okay, Lord. I don’t know what to give up and what to keep. What plans do You have for my kids? For our homeschool? Give me peace to let go of my human concerns and fall in line with Your plan. Weed out the distractions. Help me treasure each moment and not waste this time You’ve given me with my kids. Time I will never have again.

I roll to my side, snuggle into the softness of my body pillow, embracing the relief that always comes when I stop moving on my own power. Jesus, thank You that I don’t have to figure it out on my own. You know what You want from me.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

Oh, and could You please put Your finger on Jeffrey’s wheel, too? Or at least make him very, very tired?

The Other Side

By Lori Freeland –

My eighth grader slumps at the kitchen table, his mouth curving down into his frustration frown, as I leaf through his unfinished homework.

Tears fill his eyes. “Dad didn’t help me while you were gone. He played Wii every night.”

Heat rises from my chest, up my neck. Settles into my face. My, “What?” comes out a strangled half cry-half scream as I lunge for my cell. Before my hand touches the phone, a small voice breaks through my fury.

Wait.

Wait?

Wait an hour.

Are You crazy, Lord? An hour will douse the flame of my anger. In an hour, I will forget all the nasty, witty accusations forming in my head.

Have you considered the other side?

There’s another side?

His side.

Hmm. I ponder that. Just a little. Because right now, my side screams at me to run off on a tirade of what did not get accomplished this last week while I was on my girl’s only cruise. The cruise my friend, Gwyn, dubbed our chickation.

I don’t want to remember that he encouraged me to go. Crying and carrying on about how I feel punished for taking this time for myself seems a better idea. I want to throw the unfinished homework at my husband when he comes through the door while I yell about the unopened emails pertaining to the week’s activities. Like the basketball team photos my daughter missed.

Remember, the other side.

I have spent the better part of my life as half of a whole, married to the same man, for twenty years. Throughout our many conflicts, the other side lurks. Just waiting for my attention. I don’t like to listen. In the center of my frustration and anger, looking at the other side means letting go of my own hurt and resentment.

Take my chickation. I don’t want to remember my husband taking our children to a movie on Monday just to hang out with them on his day off. I don’t want to admit he forgot the basketball game and team pictures because he cleaned the house as a welcome home present. For me. I don’t want to think about how he changed the sheets on our bed on Friday, in honor of my clean sheet fetish, and slept on the couch to keep them fresh for my return on Saturday. Or that he made a special trip to Central Market to concoct a fabulous dinner while I unpacked.

I want to keep my anger. And if I think about how he not only paid for my weeklong chickation, but also encouraged me to have a good time while he took on all my jobs for the week in addition to his own, I can’t keep my anger.

During my wedding, I recited Corinthians 13:4-5. “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.”

Hmmm. Is not easily angered.

The other side. His side. I allow myself to think about the good and release the bad. I don’t even need to wait the hour. Suddenly, I don’t feel like making that phone call. I think I’ll wait until he gets home, wrap my arms around him, and whisper thank you in his ear instead.

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