How Does God Speak to His People? (Part 2)

How Does God Speak to His People? (Part 2)

As I sit in my gated off kitchen cleaning up puppy pee every three minutes, I wonder when in the world I had time to write a whole blog about the possibility of hearing from God?? That “life of leisure” is a distant memory today.

But the new normal in this season got me thinking — can one only hear from God in the silence? In the calm seasons of life? When the conditions are perfect, the candles are lit, the coffee is freshly brewed, no kids are awake and no puppies are peeing?

Or is it also possible to hear from God in the midst of the chaos? In the storms of life?

I have to believe the answer is YES. To both.

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A Letter to Mothers of Teenage Boys

Dear MOTBs:

How do you do it?  

How do you watch the child you swaddled, nursed and cuddled grow into a young man?  The child you got down on your hands and knees to play cars with no matter how mind-numbing it felt to drive around the same track over and over again.  The child you built Lego upon Lego creation with despite your utter lack of creativity and architectural know-how. The child you kicked the soccer ball with in spite of your bum knee.  The child who looked up at you and swooned and told you you were the “best mommy in the whole world.”  

What do you do when the child who once clung to your pant leg in an uncomfortable social situation doesn’t want you anywhere around in a social situation for fear that YOU will be the one to make him uncomfortable?  I mean, I would never!  Doh. 

How do you make the shift from “leading lady” to “best supporting actress?”

My oldest is fourteen.  Gone are the days of looking down into his lake blue eyes.  Those eyes now stare down at me.  Gone are the days of lotioning his soft little bum after a nightly bath.   He would be mortified if I saw any part of him after a bath.  Scratch that - a shower. 

I am no longer an integral part of his daily development.  I feel like George Bailey from “It’s a Wonderful Life” as I watch my son orbit around, beside and in front of me, but not always with me.  The son I tripped over because he was constantly underfoot, now finds solace in the solitude of his basement bedroom.  

That child doesn’t need or want me to engage in his every activity. He doesn’t need or want me to manufacture his fun. He no longer invites me into his world.  In fact, he much prefers I stay out of it.  He wants to navigate his own world.  Make his own mistakes.   Man that stings.  

How do you not only watch your son from the sidelines, but release him to become the young man God is shaping him into?

I have three youngers that will have their day, but goodness, it’s hard to parent the oldest child.  Everything we go through is a “first.”  We don’t always get it right.  In fact, quite the opposite.  I pray to God there’s grace for that!  

I suppose there’s something magical about parenting the first born.  But there’s also something so insanely hard.  Watching your first born grow up is like reliving your first heartbreak all over again. 

So here I stand.  Treading unchartered waters.  I’m learning to talk less and listen more.  To hover not as a helicopter mom, but as one who just wants to be in the vicinity when and IF the mood strikes and my son wants to share a small nugget of the rich mystery of the thoughts floating around in side his heart.

I’m looking to you, veteran MOTBs, for advice, for encouragement, for any bones you can throw my way!  How do you do it? How do strike the perfect balance between connection and disconnection?

Inquiring (desperate) minds wanna know!

A Letter to the Rocky Mountain "High" State

Dear Colorado:

I’ve lived inside your borders since before I started to walk.  I’ve called various cities, towns and suburbs my home, from the Front Range to the Western Slope. I’ve cheered on bad-ass bull-riders at the Greeley Independence stampede, donned my country-best (which isn’t much but still…) at Grand Junction’s “Country Jam,” studied in our most "liberal" of arts college, and I faithfully purchase my Epic Ski pass every year.

Admittedly, I’ve never actually climbed one of your 50-some-odd 14,000 foot mountains, but for all intents and purposes I feel like I know you... or at least I thought I did.  

But now I’m not so sure.

The other day I opened my email and looked forward to reading my “Daily Skimm.”  (For those of you that haven’t heard of the best new weekday injection of worldwide news highlights - I highly recommend you check it out!)  I, for one, now feel at least semi-informed.  Perhaps only enough to be dangerous, but I suppose that’s something.

Anyway, I opened my dose of Daily Skimm and noticed a paragraph towards the bottom called, “Skimm the Vote.”  This section exhorted those of us who live in certain states hosting mid-term elections to make sure we registered to vote because it was the last day to do so.  (Rest assured, I am registered so no harm no foul there.)  

I noticed my home state listed among the ranks.  I clicked on the link.  No time like the present to get even more informed, I figured. I’ll take all the help I can get.

I scrolled down the list to the information pertinent to my place of residence and did a double take.  The symbol associated with our beautiful state stopped me dead in my tracks.  

All the other states on the list boasted iconic symbols that represent the best (or at least most cliche) associations their state has to offer.  For example:  Georgia was depicted by a peach, Kentucky - a jockey on a horse, Arizona - a cactus, Arkansas - a banjo, Florida - an orange, Iowa - corn on the cob…. You get the idea.  

But not you, Colorado.  Nope.  No Pikes Peak or Columbine flower.  You are indeed synonymous with nature, but not the kind one might think.  The au-natural of which I speak is not a changing aspen leaf, but a marijuana leaf!  We’re talking - Weed. Pot. MMJ.  

Whatever you want to call it, it seems we are now considered less “Rocky Mountain” and more “High.”

I’m not sure how to process that.  A state I have loved since my youth, a state rich with natural beauty is now getting rich on proceeds from legal drug purchases.  Late night talk show hosts are falling all over themselves with marijuana jokes for their opening monologue.  The young and the restless used to move here to become ski bums and figure out what they want to do with the rest of their lives.  Now, they move here because they can smoke in public and, oh by the way, they can hit the slopes too. 

I find myself being protective of you and making excuses for you.  I feel like I need to fight just a little harder to protect your reputation around the rest of the 49 states.  But with a tagline like, “high stakes in a high state” you’re not making that too easy.

Love ya.  I really do.  But honestly.  Sometimes I don't know what to do with you.