In Gennesaret

Mothering did NOT come naturally to me. (Does it come naturally to anyone? It seemed like my friends had better instincts about the process than I did. I could have been wrong. But I digress . . . ) When my eldest was a baby, I, of course, consumed all sorts of books and magazines to try to figure this parenting stuff out. Problem was, those experts wouldn't necessarily address the specific situation I was struggling with. And when they did, they didn't necessarily agree with each other. And when they did, they certainly didn't know me and my kid. About when my daughter hit the age of two (I believe), we found ourselves in the trenches of the Night Wars. Like many parents, we had unwittingly trained her to only be able to fall asleep with our help -- we rocked her until she was drowsy enough to go directly to Slumberland when we lay her in her crib. This made for sweet, cuddly moments with a precious darling at 8pm . . . and nightmarish hours with a screaming demon child at

Recently, my Bible study lesson asked me to name people I know who are peacemakers. And I tell you – I had to laugh for a minute. Is anybody actually trying to make peace in America these days? Anybody? I mean, at best, those of us who aren’t attacking perceived enemies are simply trying to avoid being attacked ourselves. Nobody seems to have the inclination to try to make peace right now. We're too invested in being right. But as I pondered the question, my mind gradually stumbled upon Stephanie. Stephanie is the administrative assistant at my school, the one who stays in the main office during the day. And she creates an atmosphere of peace in that space. Wanna know how? She simply affirms the value of everyone who walks in the door. Whatever they have to say is important and deserves to be fully understood; whatever they are experiencing at that moment is important and deserves her complete attention and to be addressed. That doesn’t mean every person’s words or ex

I just threw away a half-full expired container of Parmesan cheese. And I tried to stifle my shame as I did so. Because, you see, this is not something that would have happened in my pre-earthquake life. I cooked back then. I had a well-stocked, well-organized kitchen from which I could prepare real food for my family. I shopped once a week from a well-planned list derived from a collection of meal ideas that I cycled through, keeping an eye on food I had in the cabinet and in the fridge so I would be using up what I had and let nothing go to waste. I even tried to cook relatively healthy food. And occasionally, I looked for new recipes that my family would like so I could try them, too. Because that’s what a good wife and mother does. Right? I mean, I’m not claiming to be any kind of kitchen goddess . . . but I at least tried . Doing less than that didn’t feel like an option. I don’t try anymore. And there’s a lot of other stuff I don’t do anymore either. I don’t dust every week