Is Honesty the Best Policy?

The saying goes, “honesty is the best policy.”

I’m not sure if that saying should apply to a four-year old boy when it comes to his mother’s cooking.

My husband brought home fresh artichokes from the grocery store. If you have read my previous post about the Christmas cheese log, then you will understand that I was more than baffled by the artichokes. I did not know what to do with a whole artichoke or know where to begin.

After a week of the artichokes sitting in the refrigerator, my husband says calmly, “you better do something with those artichokes.” I stared at him blankly. He said, “well, I’m sure you could find something on AllRecipes that would be good.”

I found a recipe for “stuffed artichokes.” I have made stuffed peppers before and thought that this wouldn’t be a problem. So, I got the ingredients out and prepared to make “stuffed artichokes.”

As I begin reading through the steps and the process of preparing an artichoke, I knew I was beyond my cooking capabilities. Peel back leaves, snip off the ends, scoop out the fuzzy middle. I had flashbacks to the butchered eggplant that ended up tasting like potting soil (but that’s another story).

One hour. That’s how long it took me to prepare the artichokes so they would be capable of cooking in the oven. One hour.

One hour. That’s how long it took to cook in the oven with a squishy and questionable meat mixture. One hour.

One plus one is two. Two hours is how long it took to prepare and cook the stuffed artichokes from start to finish. I worked hard on that dinner.

I cut the artichoke into quarters and put a piece on each plate–my son, my daughter, my husband, and my own.

We said the prayer and got ready to dig in. The rule at our house is–you don’t have to like it, but you do have to try it. At this point, I was hating my rule. I tried to cover up my disgust and disdain for this monstrous creation. But, I said, “okay, how does it look?!” as cheerfully as I could.

My son replied with a matter-of-fact tone, “is this a booger?”

He was serious. He was not kidding or trying to be cute. He wanted to know if his mother was going to make him try a booger.

This moment was a moment in a mother’s life that a choice had to be made. I could either be highly offended at his honesty, or I could laugh at his honesty.

In this moment, I chose to laugh.

The stuffed artichokes did look like a massive booger, and the concoction did not taste good. My family enjoyed my son’s honesty in that moment. Although the artichokes put one more failed cooking attempt in my cookbook, it created a great memory for my family.

I’m not sure if “honesty is always the best policy,” but I do think that “laughter is the best medicine.”

As my son turns five tomorrow (May 17), I thank God for the laughter and the joy my son has put in my life. Thank you God for the five blessed years with Blake.

Never say ‘never’

Have you heard that saying: “never tell God—‘never’”? I was warned to never use that phrase, but I disregarded the warning. I told God that I would never lead a school, and, certainly, I would never work in ministry. Ministry seemed like an overwhelming position, full of high expectations and personal burdens. My family worked in ministry, so I somewhat understood the challenges of ministry. I knew that ministry wasn’t always polite or kind. Working with “church” people seemed like something that I wasn’t designed for.

But, here I am. Working in ministry. Leading a school.

Leadership is not always fun. Leadership can be lonely. When celebrations come, we rejoice together. But, when disappointments come, the leader grieves alone. The leader cannot ask to be the victim when hard decisions are made. The leader cannot ask for sympathy. The leader must weather the storm with trusted companions and in the custody of God.

Paul, in I Corinthians, stated that in his time of leading churches, he was not always wise, eloquent, or persuasive. But, he was trying to fulfill his calling established by God. Sometimes we forget that leadership is a calling…it’s not always chosen, desired, or sought after. It’s hard. It’s time consuming. It’s exhausting. It’s trying. It’s never polished. It’s never perfect, and it’s not very forgiving.

So, why does God place leaders? I think leaders are chosen to complete a duty with passion, drive, and dedication despite the negative aspects. Jesus understood his calling. He knew that the end result would mean his death, his sacrifice. Mark 15 described the final moments of Jesus’ sacrifice. Jesus cried out, My God, My God, why have you forsaken me. Even with the completion of his duty, he felt pain, sorrow, and loss.

As leaders, we may feel the same sense of sorrow and loss with fulfilling our calling. Leaders do not fulfill callings because of short term glory. If only leadership was that simple. If only leadership was that safe.

But, leadership is not safe. Leadership requires risk and thus may require pain, loss, and sorrow. In order to experience the reward, we must first experience the trial and error. The times that we failed. The times that we failed others. The times that we failed ourselves. We are also called into the times of utter defeat so that when we experience the times of success, we know that our calling, our duty was worth the sacrifice.

I’m GT…no, really, I am!

I started reading when I was three years old. I finished Kindergarten at the top of my class. I graduated high school when I was 17 years old. I earned my doctorate by the time I turned 30 years old. I am GT.

GT is commonly defined as “gifted and talented,” usually referring to one’s aptitude. Another definition could be, taking something simple and making it harder. My mother says that being gifted and talented comes with its challenges. My special challenge is the kitchen.

The first month I got married, I called my mother because the Pasta Roni box eluded me. I was stumped on the first direction. The direction was…if you have a gas stove, then…or, if you have an electric stove, then…. I was stumped. How could you tell if you had a gas or an electric stove?!

After my mother stopped rolling on the floor, she politely told me, Look at your burner. Turn the knob on the stove. Do you see a blue flame? No? Then, you have an electric stove.

From unboiled mashed potatoes to cement brownies to soupy chocolate mousse, I have made my fair share of silly mistakes. After eleven years of married life, my husband has eaten unique creations. Over time, my kitchen blunders have become fewer. Today, I am proud. I have made it! I successfully made a cheese ball.

Thus, I can enter my mid-30s with my head held high with the quintessential cheese ball on a pretty platter at the next holiday party. I can dazzle the 20-something females (no offense) with my beautiful creation of cream cheese, scallions, and cured meat rolled in chopped pecans.

Christmas Urgency

As a child, Christmas time couldn’t come quickly enough. The day after Thanksgiving, I looked forward to putting up the tree, decorating the house, looking at Christmas lights, seeing presents pile under the tree, and getting Christmas cookies sent from Grandma.

As an adult, Christmas couldn’t come slowly enough. The day after Thanksgiving becomes a whirlwind. Putting up the tree, decorating the house, hanging Christmas lights, wrapping all of the presents, and baking all of the cookies…in three and half short weeks after Thanksgiving. Christmas sometimes feels like Straight No Chaser’s The Christmas Can Can…running so fast that we cannot enjoy the season.

The Christmas story, as told in the gospel of Mark, recounts a sense of urgency. The urgency was to see the new-born King. Shepherds and wise men raced through the evening, followed a star, and found the baby wrapped in swaddling cloth. The purpose of their journey was to worship the new King.

As centuries have passed, the purpose of our journey to Christmas Day has been lost. We rush through the days leading up to Christmas to deliver special packages to our loved ones. We don’t rush through the days to worship our Savior, to celebrate His birth.

I am making a concerted effort this year to stop, to breathe, to focus on the purpose of this Christmas journey–to the birth of my Savior, Jesus Christ.

Merry Christmas!

 

 

The year of the glitter baton

It was the year of the glitter baton. Every girl, under the age of 13, coveted the glitter baton. So, when I had to bring an item to my fifth grade Christmas exchange party at school, I knew what I had to bring–the glitter baton.

I brought my glitter baton, dutifully and meticulously wrapped, and placed it under our class Christmas tree. I spotted other gifts that conspicuously looked like other glitter batons. In my head, I desperately wished that I drew the right number. I thought, “God, if there was ever a moment to bless me, now is the time. I know I don’t ask for much, but if you would grant me the right number to possess that glitter baton, I will be the happiest 10-year-old in the class!”

As I reached into the bag to draw my number, the number that would seal my fate, I said one last plea. “Please, God, please!” Number 19. I scanned the table for Number 19. As my eyes quickly scanned the gifts, my heart began to sink as Number 19 was not attached to anything resembling a wrapped glitter baton. As I anxiously and excitedly looked for my treasure, my eyes stopped on Number 19. My lip quivered. My heart dropped. My eyes filled with tears.

Number 19. A single unwrapped candle. It was a white votive-sized candle that apparently had been used already. Small bits of dried wax clung to the sides of the candle. The wick charred black from previous use.

I picked up my treasure and took it back to my seat. I placed the candle on my desk and stared at it.  As I watched my classmates play with their new things, the girls swinging their batons, the boys doing whatever it is that boys do…I sat and looked at my candle, wondering, “What do I do with it? I don’t even have any matches to light it!”

When I got home, my mom asked me, “How was your Christmas exchange? Did you have a great day?!” After choking back tears, I could no longer contain my sorrow. I sobbed in my mother’s arms. As my mother held me, she tried to explain the reasons behind my misfortune. Maybe the family forgot it was Christmas exchange day. Maybe the family didn’t have any money to buy presents.

At the age of 10, neither of the answers renewed my spirit. But, as an adult, that experience has become an icon, a moment in my life that I wouldn’t change. I often reflect on that moment. That moment reminds me that Christmas is not about me. It’s not all about the cool, trendy presents we receive.

Last year, my extended family started a Christmas exchange on Christmas Eve. We draw numbers and choose one present. A small, used, white candle made it to the Christmas exchange.  And, I have a feeling that it will make its way back this year. With its presence, it reminds us to be humble. To be thankful. To keep our thoughts on the true meaning of Christmas.

Spelling “red” may be a lofty goal

When my daughter was three years old, she attended a local preschool. One day, as we were driving home in the car, she started singing:

R-E-D, Red, R-E-D, Red

I can spell Red; I can spell Red.

Stop signs are Red, Firetrucks are too.

R-E-D, Red, R-E-D, Red.

When she finished her song, I said, “honey, that’s a great song. How do you spell ‘red’?” Without hesitation, she shrugged her shoulders, got a confused look on her face and said, “I don’t know.”

At that moment, the flaw in our educational design became clear. We create activities without connecting it to purpose. I fell into this same trap as a new teacher. I was excited to teach high school Language Arts, so we could discuss the complex themes present in classic literature. I imagined engaged discussions about character analysis and how the greater themes connected to our world. Idealist? Absolutely.

What my lessons turned out to be my first few years as a teacher were far from my vision. I had the students read chapters. They completed study guides, vocabulary lists, and other activities. At the end of the novel, the students completed a project on the themes, from posterboards to dioramas to shoebox visuals. Not exactly the astounding teacher I thought I would be. I, essentially, was making my high school students sing the “R-E-D, Red” song. They were going through the motions without translating them into applied knowledge.

Students were making good grades, participating, attending school but I’m not sure what benefit they took from my class. As my philosophy started changing, the structure of my classroom also changed. When we studied an energy unit, we studied it from the perspective of an architect. The problem: to create a home that conserved the most energy for the least expense. Students understood what energy was, how it was used, what items used the most energy, and how it connected to our global, regional, and local economic communities.

But, with this shift, the parents did not shift with me. The students brought home less grades; there were fewer take-home items. The parents equated fewer items, fewer homework with less learning. Their value of education was in the grade received, not necessarily with the learned outcome. And, I don’t blame the parents. As an educational culture, we have groomed our parents to equate education with grades or test scores.

I just want something more than that. I want my daughter, after she sings a “red” song so beautifully to know how to spell “red.” I don’t want my children going through the motions of school. I want them to be able to see the larger picture. To understand how everything fits together. At the end of my children’s education, I will be less concerned about their grades and more concerned with: are they critically-thinking, capable adults who can search out meaning to solve problems. A lofty goal? Maybe. But, shouldn’t we have lofty goals for our children?

I would love to hear your thoughts. Please comment on shifts in education or goals for our educational future.

Hi, I’m a recovering control freak.

My kids are full of “why” questions.

Mom, why is your belly squishy?

Mom, why do we have to brush our teeth?

Mom, why can’t I have twelve  cookies tonight?

Mom, why is your daddy in heaven?

With a sigh, I respond to each of my children’s questions of “why.” Sometimes I can answer their questions with ease.  The question about brushing teeth is much easier to answer than why my belly is squishy or harder yet, why my dad is heaven rather than here on earth.

As the questions progress, I wonder when the thunderstorm of questions will cease. Or, should I even want them to cease. But, isn’t that our nature as human beings to wonder why?

Routinely, we ask “why” of our heavenly Father.

God, why did this happen to me?!

God, why did this happen to my child?!

God, why don’t you stop my pain and struggle?!

I wonder if God sighs. I wonder if He wonders when we will stop asking questions. I have asked God “why” on numerous occasions. God, why can’t I have children? God, why did you take my father? God, why did you put this pain in my path?

What I quickly understood is that I was asking the wrong question. The question should be “what.” God, what do you want me to learn from this experience? In each circumstance that brings pain, God also brings revelation. While the revelation may not be something I want to hear, it is always something I need to hear.

I desire control. I need control. Control over the direction of my life. Since I was 16 years old, I had my life mapped out with goals and their appropriate time frames. I was going to graduate college at 21…check. I was going to have children by26…check, barely. I was going to receive my doctorate by 30…check.

Since 30, my life map has become more clouded. I have been diagnosed with a heart condition and told I can have no more children. The stark yet not remarkable discovery was: I am not in control. I cannot control every event of my life, but I can control how I react to it. I can face my circumstances with an open heart. I can face my circumstances with courage. I can seek out what I need to learn from the experience.

And, that, is the only control I have.

Hi, my name is Rebecca, and I’m a recovering control freak.