You May Say I'm a Dreamer

Two years ago I posted a status update on Facebook that riled up so many of my friends that you would have thought I posted pictures of me killing puppies. I did not post pictures of me killing puppies. I said the Opening & Closing ceremonies of the Olympics disgust me.

Rain down fire from Heaven.  What?  How anti-American of me.  How unpatriotic.  How could I be so negative over something so beautiful and unifying?  I must hate the Super Bowl and the 4th of July too. People stopped just short of calling me a terrorist.

Let me be sure you understand something before I write anymore...I love me some Olympics.  Seriously, can't watch 30 minutes before I'm crying.  Oh and those Bob Costas packages on the athletes...ugly cry. Every time.  I love the athletes, their stories, their comebacks, their guts.  I love the events, the flag ceremonies and those video collages set to music.  Again, cue the ugly cry.

But back to the Opening & Closing ceremonies...friends, we are talking anywhere from 42 and 100 million dollars spent on the Opening Ceremonies alone.  This is not including the TENS of BILLIONS of dollars already spent preparing for the Olympics.  This, this is where I begin to feel nauseated.

Friends, please hear my heart...I am so far from having my financial crap together and/or being where God wants me to be when it comes to giving generously it gives Dave Ramsey a rash.  I am not pulling a holier-than-thou-look-how-generous-I am post one single bit.  Please, please hear that.

What I'm trying to say is that the money spent on these Olympic ceremonies every 2 years is a reflection of some very shallow and misplaced priorities of our world as a whole and the ceremonies I speak of are just an example of things done in the name of entertainment that are hugely excessive.  At this very moment there are an estimated 6.8 million Syrians in need of humanitarian assistance. It is estimated there are 153 million orphans worldwide. In Africa alone, the WHO estimates that 1 million children (under the age of 5) die annually from pneumonia.

In my beloved India, nearly 2 million children under 5 die every year--one every 15 seconds--the highest number anywhere in the world.  More than half die in the first month of life.  Babies and children are most commonly dying from preventable illnesses such as malnutrition, pneumonia and diarrhea.  Diarrhea, people. What is an inconvenience for us after indulging in too much junk food is killing children.  How does that happen? How do we live in a world where an average of 65 million dollars is spent on a nationally funded party and 3 year olds are dying because they can't get medical treatment to help them stop pooping?

I've been spending some time in the book of Isaiah lately and I think this is one book of the Bible that makes God's heart for the poor and powerless crystal clear. Bam: out of the gates, chapter 1...When you spread out your hands in prayer, I will hide my eyes from you; even if you offer many prayers, I will not listen. Your hands are full of blood...Seek justice, encourage the oppressed.  Defend the cause of the fatherless, plead the case of the widow. (vs 15 & 17) 

God is not talking to a bunch of heathens here; He is speaking to His chosen people.  He's become weary of their offerings which have become meaningless because outside of the temple they are doing nothing for the downtrodden of their society.  Later in the chapter He recalls a time the Nation was "full of justice" but now His holy anger has been ignited as the Nation's rulers "do not defend the cause of the fatherless; the widow's case does not come before them." He is a grieved father as he sees His children abandon their brothers and sisters who desperately need a helping hand.  

I don't think we need to stretch our imaginations very far to speculate His heart must be just as broken now as it was then.

This isn't going to be a blog post that offers solutions.  I think how much we give, to whom we give and how often we give is deeply personal and needs to be made within a family from the divine direction of the Holy Spirit.  With that said, if your heart is convicted even one single bit then ask God to show you the details of how much and to whom.  I guarantee He will show you.        

I will say this though: Hot Jeff and I are madly in love with Compassion International.                                                                                
Compassion International asks for $38 a month to sponsor a child in poverty.  83.6 cents on every 38 of those dollars goes to the child to help break the cycle of poverty (see their website to see directly how the money is used and the difference it makes in the lives of children).  It is an amazing organization that we proudly support (more on our beautiful Deeya later).  This is a great example of giving an amount to an entity that can do way more for the broken with $38 than I can.

Hot Jeff and I sat talking tonight and imagined what it would be like if in 2016 Brazil shocked the world and simply honored the athletes by having them march around a track and lit off some fireworks.  Before the torch was lit the President of the IOC could tell the 1 billion people watching how many kids were vaccinated with the money they didn't spend on the Opening Ceremony.  He could shout over the cheers how many adoptions had been finalized because shady bureaucracies had taken a back seat to ethical and streamlined practices because they were properly funded.  Huge screens throughout the stadium would post pictures of the faces of children and their parents who had been brought out of slums and were now living in a home with access to clean water and education because millions of dollars went to them instead of costumes and props.

In 2008, Beijing's Opening Ceremonies had 14,000 performers.  How do I know this?  Google.  What if in 2016 we were able to Google how many pregnant women received proper prenatal care with money earmarked for the Opening & Closing Ceremonies? (By the way, on Tuesday the minister of Social Development and Fight Against Hunger announced that over 16 million people in Brazil are living in poverty. 16 MILLION.)

You may say I'm a dreamer; but I'm not the only one.

If we call ourselves Christ-followers then we MUST commit ourselves to the cause of the broken, poor and needy.  If anyone has the world's goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God's love abide in him? 1John 3:17

For realsies, we must live by the principle that we are our brother's keeper.  We will be judged for how well or how poorly we do so.

Hot Tempered Mum

On a normal day under normal circumstances I am, for the most part, pretty even keeled.  While I am not a morning person, I am able to pull it together and cheerfully make The Things breakfast, pack lunches and share some sweet time with them before they go to school.

When they get home from school at their respective times (Thing 2 is only half day) I am happy to see them and have genuinely missed them.  Its kisses, hugs and stories of the day all around; I'm a regular June Cleaver.

By dinner I begin to break down.  The pressure of homework, breaking up arguments, monitoring screen time and listening to The Things bitch and moan about dinner starts to weigh me down.  I'm still (mostly) patient and loving but there is an edge to my voice.  Thank you sweet Jesus that Hot Jeff is home by this time in the evening and I have someone to help get the 101 things that need to be done in the 2 short hours between 5-7 done.

And then it happens.  Without fail.  Every. Single. Night.

7:00pm.

Friends, its hard for me to explain what happens at 7:00pm but it looks kind of like this.  I go from this:

To this:

The goal is to head upstairs at 7 so Thing 2 is in bed by 7:30 and Thing 1 is in bed and reading from 7:30-8.  As The Things' bedtime rolls around and its time to head upstairs and start brushing teeth, getting pajamas on, saying prayers and shutting out lights I become a crazy monster.  I am unrecognizable even to myself. Any half ounce of patience I had left over from the day is shredded along with my shirt.  Grace and kindness is swallowed up by my roar.  Every single thing outside of silent obedience pisses me off; it doesn't matter if its simply shooting a basket with dirty socks into the laundry hamper or defiantly ignoring me and doing their own thing.  In fact, "pisses me off" is inaccurate because truthfully, I just get pissed at 7pm for no good reason.  If the kids are home and need to be put to bed--I'm pissed.

Most nights, I'd say 6 out of the 7 nights, I can seethe my way through without blowing up.  I bite my tongue. I use a sugary, syrupy voice that they know is phony baloney but prefer to screaming at the top of my lungs. I close my eyes and count to 10.  I remember while the days may be long the years are short and these bedtime routines are passing before my very eyes and I shove down my insane, selfish anger and I pray blessing over those babies like its my last night on Earth with them.

On that 6th night though...

I lose it.  I yell from the first second they ignore my exhortation to head upstairs until the last god-forsaken, effing minute I storm out of their bedrooms threatening them with 6 weeks of hard time if they even so much as ask for a drink of water.

Tonight was that night.

After a wonderful evening of reading together, being silly and having a dinner no one cried over I cheerfully (really cheerfully) told Thing Two to head upstairs to get her pajamas on and her teeth brushed.  I told her either Daddy or I would be up in just a couple of minutes to assist.

You see, they were starting to get pretty hyped up right around 6:30 so I knew if we all went up together it was going to be a definite blood bath.  So I took a deep breath and had Thing 1 start some quiet reading downstairs.  Thing 2 dutifully went up and Hot Jeff followed but I'll be a freaking monkey's uncle if I didn't hear Hot Jeff up there riling her all up.  They were wrestling and having a gay ol' time and I swear on my favorite pair of Spanx I almost exploded.  Literally exploded. Like my head almost unattached itself from my shoulders and landed in the other room while my arms and legs kicked and wailed until they fell right off. "IT IS BEDTIME YOU A-HOLES.  I WANT TO HAVE SOME PEACE AND QUIET.  I WANT TO WATCH TV. I WANT TO BLOG.  I WANT TO HAVE SEX. I DON'T WANT TO MOTHER ANYONE FOR 12 HOURS. GO. TO. BED."

At that point I was done.  Done.  Thing 1, who hadn't done anything wrong except still be awake, was sent upstairs to "play with your Father."  Because "apparently its party time."  Sarcasm dripped from my tongue at their Father's betrayal.

See how short my fuse was?  After Hot Jeff got around to tucking them in, I stormed upstairs to grumble a goodnight.  Know what I saw? Lights were back on and Thing 1 was clipping his toe nails and Thing 2 was out of bed and inspecting her beta fish.

For the love people.  For the love.  I screamed.  Of course I did.

"Get in bed.  You know this time of night is hard for me.  You know I have no patience for disobedience.  You know you are not supposed to get out of bed.  GO TO BED."  I stomped downstairs threatening no playdates for 2 weeks if I heard them even breathe loudly.

So here I am.  Do I feel guilty?  No.  Should I?  Probably.  What's the solution to this nightly problem?  I don't know.

I've tried reasoning with them; explaining that this is the time of day where Mommy has a hard time being gracious and kind.  Patience is hard for Mommy at the end of the day so its their turn to show grace on me and be good listeners.  It works about 6 out of 7 nights.

I've tried having Hot Jeff do the majority of the bedtime routine but he wearies of it after every night and I really do miss praying with them after a night or 2 off.

I've talked to my mentor about it.  I've talked to God about it.  I've read books and blogs about it.  The only thing that has gotten better is that I've gone from 4 out of 7 nights to 6 out of 7.

I guess that's progress.

I think it boils down to me wanting to be perfect.  I want to be the patient, gracious, kind Mommy 24/7 365. I'm not.  I'm not even close.

Tomorrow morning I will tuck my tail between my legs and my hair behind my ears and I will look them both in the eye and tell them how sorry I am that I lost my cool with them.  I will ask them to forgive me and they will and then they will mock me and my screamy voice until we're all in hysterics over our cereal (Thing 1 does an impressive impression of me).  Love covers a multitude of sins.  It sure does.

Can I get an amen?

Sadly, Thing 1 and Thing 2 are learning adults screw up and need forgiveness too.  I wish they weren't learning it from me but so far I don't have a solution for my cray-cray, 7pm Hulk turning self.  I will continue to pray and count to 10 and by God's redeeming grace I will be batting 7 for 7 by the time they decide they don't need to be tucked in at all and especially not by a raging lunatic.