I'm not doing this on purpose

Pre-Christmas blues? Maybe. I was searching the web for home ec lessons, and I stumbled across a blog about simple living which led to another blog about intentional SAHMness. That got to me. To be a SAHM is one thing, but to embrace it and fill the days with intentional activities is quite another. Case in point--it is 2:20 in the afternoon, and I am still sitting here in my pajamas...that I wore all day yesterday. At least yesterday I put a bra on before the AT&T tech came over to fix my TV. Today, um...

During the school week, I stay pretty much on top of things. I feel like I have a purpose, even though I am not doing all the things I would like to do with my kids because of my own rigidity. I think I am afraid that if I veer from the schedule printed in a random book of curriculum that I will never accomplish anything. Which leads me to this computer on a Tuesday during Christmas break still in my jammies sans bra.

Does purposeful SAHMness mean scheduling every activity and giving up my unorganized, slobby ways? Yep, pretty much. A messy house, full of stuff does not make me happy or fun to be around. The kids could have fun at an insurance seminar provided they had a few basic tools--paper and crayons for Em, a couple of stuffed animals for Bean, and a magnet, or electronic gadget, or a hand blender for The Boy. If they can be happy living so simply--and they are (*see my note), why can't I strip down to the essentials and be happy too? (I do wish bras were non-essential, but that is not my lot in life since I just can't seem to defy gravity all by myself.)

The new year seems to be the natural place to start a year of purpose. Parenting on-purpose, finding contentment in what I already have, and loving each precious day with three beautiful children who insist on growing up too quickly for my liking. To stop letting life drag me by the hair while letting go at the same time. To live simply, on purpose.

*I walked in the living room today to find all three kids snuggled up in a chair together watching a movie. There was no fighting or shoving--just three little kids enjoying a moment of closeness with each other. Simply happy.

Committed, not submitted

I freely admit it. I struggle. The very word "obedience" is odious to me, and the word "submit" gets my panties in a wad. What do you mean submit? Modern Girl here does not likey that old-fashioned word. For the record, even though I am happily married to my first and only spouse, a homemaker, and a homeschooler it is all because of my CHOICE as a woman to do so. No outdated ideals here, unh uh. Nope, none at all.


I am a committed person. I am committed to Christ, to my husband, and to my children. To commit means to put in charge or to entrust. I am in charge of the home. I am committed to that, and sometimes burdened by that. Girl Friday? I started this blog because I was overwhelmed by the commitments that being in charge of the home made on me. Girl Friday also implies being second to someone. When I chose the title, I didn't realize that a true Girl Friday leads a committed, submitted life for the glory and edification of someone else. Do I struggle because I have not submitted or because I refuse to be second?


What is submission anyway? Several online dictionaries define it as the act of submitting to the power of another. This definition is followed by a quote from early 20th century activist Simone Weil, "Oppression that cannot be overcome does not give rise to revolt but submission." Yikes. No wonder the word makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up! Weil was committed. She walked, talked, and starved herself for her convictions in a time where her definition of submission was embodied by the Nazi regime. Is submission an outdated word for simple-minded, broken people? I see something else in a the second definition of submission: meekness. Okay, okay. Yet another term, another definition. What in the world, then, is meekness? Being meek means one is patient, mild, and easily imposed upon. A Girl Friday is a meek person.


Meekness is not a quality honored by today's society. In those pesky online dictionaries meekness is exemplified by a dog "quivering and abject...abasing itself before its master" (Jean Rhys). Rhys apparently chaffed under patriarchal society, evidenced by her writings and life, and it is no wonder she equated meekness with weakness. How does a modern, Christian woman allow herself to live by such words as obedience, submission, and meekness? More easily than I could have ever imagined.

My eureka moment came when I was reading an assigned book for my latest class. In the book, Spiritual Leadership by Henry and Richard Blackaby, the authors describe the difference between being committed and being submitted: "There is a significant difference between a personal determination to try harder and a complete abandonment of one's self to God's purposes. The former rests on people and their commitment; the latter relies on God and his sufficiency." Commitment is like a pledge. I can say the words and follow the motions, but I can also secretly rebel and derail. Submission is surrender. I can yield my entire self, all that I am and all that I can be, to the cause of Christ. That act will guide me in all the areas of my life. Truly surrendering, submitting, makes all the petty internal arguments moot. No longer me, me, me...just Him.

The Very Literal Boy

For Mother's Day, our church made videos of cute things that children say about their Moms to show during the service. In one part, they asked each child, "Who is boss at your house?" My son said, "Mom is boss during the day, then Dad is boss at night. Actually they are both boss." Ah, political correctness starts early. I love that boy!

However, that was the only comment of Alex's that they were allowed to play in church, as I found out last night.

At a potluck, our pastor's wife was telling us about her adventures in taping the kids. She thought it would be cute if she asked the kids, "Where do Moms come from?" Cute until she got to Alex. When she asked him this question, he got a funny look on his face and replied, "Well, the egg cell joins with the sperm cell..."

The Very Modest Boy

I had to have a talk with the kids yesterday about why we don't walk around undressed. "Even outside?" Emma asked. "Especially not outside," I replied as I managed not to laugh. I explained to them about modest dressing and how modesty shows others that we respect them and ourselves. Laura was wearing a shirt that she insists is a dress and which I insist should be paired with leggings. Using the shirt as an example, I told her that in our house, modesty means that we don't show too much leg or wear "dresses" that show our undies when we bend over. I told them that in the olden days, women couldn't even show their arms! We all giggled and agreed about dressing modestly.

This morning, Alex came out in a pair of shorts and a long-sleeve shirt. Without even a hint of sarcasm, he asked, "Mom, am I showing too much leg?"

Embracing the dark furniture stage

I wanted to lighten and brighten my living room. So, I perused copious decorating photos and settled on one that highlighted crisp white slipcovers. The Mom-Turned-Designer of that room gushed that she might have 9 kids, 5 dogs, and 3 long haired cats in her house, but keeping the slipcovers crisp and white was as easy as doing the laundry.

I...should...have...stopped...right...there.

Doing laundry easy? Easy? EASY? For a woman who awoke to the sound of her poor husband Febreezing yesterday's socks, I know that easy and laundry are incompatable. But, when has that ever stopped me?

I bought crisp, white slipcovers for my Ikea couch and chair. Kept them on for 1.5 days. After I lost my voice gently reminding my family not to touch them, I realized that white probably wasn't practical outside of fairyland. Hmmmm, I thought. Dilemma. What to do? What to do? Ah, yes, Rit dye. Easy peasy. Thinking to start small, I bought 2 boxes of a sunny yellow for my chair. Apparently sunny yellow means different things to different people. But, still, I could wear sunglasses until I found another color to cover it up. Undaunted, I moved on to the sofa. And the chair again. In a nice, safe tan. Jason decided to help. After the sofa cover went into the washing machine, I told him that I didn't think I should add the chair cover. He was determined all of it was going to fit--that gleam in his eye should have warned me, but again, when has that ever stopped either of us? Crammed full of dye and covers, the washer did its thing. What came out was a splotchy flesh colored mess. Not attractive. Still undaunted, I got four more boxes of tan dye and went to work again. This time, I was much smarter. I decided to just do the sofa, and I called the Rit people for help. All I had to do was use color remover and then re-dye the cover. Simple. Now instead of a blotchy flesh colored mess, I have a used peanut butter frosting colored, blotchy mess that for some reason glows in the dark a bit.

I had to face two cold, hard truths. One, I will never die, er, dye again. Two, we are in the dark furniture stage of our lives. What the heck was I thinking? White slipcovers? Three kids? A man who needs a bib when he eats? A fluffy white dog who steps in non-white, foul-smelling things that he tracks all over my house including on the furniture? Even in the used peanut butter frosting color, this sofa cover is an endangered species.

Of course, I could always dye it black...

Ewwww! Honey, was that you?

So, I made dinner tonight. Yummy turkey, mashed potatoes, and green beans--a favorite on winter nights. Jason came home late, so I nuked his plate and he started eating in the kitchen. I smelled something funny, but I didn't want to embarrass him while he was eating so I said nothing. He left the room, and the air cleared. Life was good again. Fast forward about an hour, and I was sitting at my computer doing some work. Jason walked into the kitchen, and I smelled it again. Exasperated, I asked him, "Honey, was that you?" He replied, "Might have been. I don't remember." Ugh. Men. I explained to him that if it wasn't him then I had to search the kitchen for the culprit. He assured me it wasn't, and we set off to find the source of stinkiness. We found it inside the very bag of potatoes that I used to make my lovely, fluffy mashed side dish. Next time we watch "Labyrinth" I won't have to wonder how the Bog of Eternal Stench smells in actuality. I lived it tonight. Who would have thought that a small rotten potato could emit such putrid foulness? And the worst part--it leaked. I can handle almost anything as long as it doesn't ooze or stink. This did both. I nearly turned in my badge tonight. But, after lots of bleach and some therapy, I am going to be okay.

"God is not the author of confusion"

This was one of the main points in our pastor's sermon today. I feel like my life is full of confusion at times, and I shut down rather than sort it all out. So, if God isn't behind it and doesn't like it, then that means He has something better in mind for me...peace. Our pastor also said that women have an innate ability to sense danger in our families and especially with our children. Our inner smoke detector goes off when the little ones are mysteriously too quiet or when our older ones say, "Mom, I know you told me never to put the dog in the dryer, but..." However, our pastor cautioned us about constantly being alarmed over every little thing. Ugh. Arrow straight into my overly alarmed, unpeaceful heart. Isaiah 26:3 promises us that God will keep us in "perfect peace" when our minds are focused on Him. PERFECT peace. Oooo, there's that word again--perfect. What is nice to remember is that God doesn't expect us to be perfect, but He and everything that comes from Him is. Perfect peace. Now that is something I can handle.

Of course, peace isn't going to get my laundry done or scrub the crust out of my microwave. There will be fires to put out (hopefully not literally, but I have kids, so I'm trying to be realistic), boo-boos to bandages, and sibling fights to break up. I will still have the responsibilities I have now, but a measure of peace that flows from within might make every day more bearable. Peace will allow me to prioritize my life to get done the most important things first, leaving the rest to sort itself out. I am fond of saying, "Everything always works out one way or another." Worry, anxiety...they add nothing to this mix of life except pain, disappointment, and guilt. Enough already!!! I am promised perfect peace when I focus on the Lord.

Confessions of a furniture re-arranger

If you want visual proof of my mental state, come to my house for 7 consecutive days. If things are going well, the house will look about the same as always. If I am stressed--all deals are off. The couch could end up in the kitchen. (Well, we eat on the couch anyway and food and the kitchen go together, right?) The kitchen table might be sawed in half to make a desk. (In my defense, it does make a great desk!) The rest of the furniture might be turned over because the underside is prettier, the shelves function better at a slant. An end table might be moved over a fraction of an inch because symmetry is crucial to habitual furniture re-arranger.

There is something about moving a large piece of furniture all by myself. I push and push and eventually it gives. If it won't mold itself to my will, I have no problem attacking it with power tools. It is the best kind of therapy--intensely satisfying and cathartic. When things in my life aren't going the way I had hoped, I at least can change something. Often just a shift of a chair or hanging a picture in a new way is enough to break me out of my funk. I can't change many of life's circumstances, but I can change my environment and my attitude about everything.

Work is good for me. I have noticed that the times when I am the most stressed, I have spent too much time with my thoughts and not enough time with my cleaning supplies. This leads to a general pile up, which leads to more useless thinking, which leads to more pile ups. I've come to the conclusion that I will never be a great housekeeper. And that is okay, so long as I make sure I'm not growing a salmonella farm. There will always be a thin coating of dust, and a few dishes in the sink. Perfection is the enemy of good enough, and a happy household starts with a happy Mama who embraces her imperfections, knows that the Lord loves her despite her flaws. He doesn't require me to be perfect, just open to rearranging as the Lord sees fit. Sometimes that rearranging is painless--a slight shift to the right, and sometimes it is a full-scale, bring out the power tools overhaul. It definitely depends on my willingness to mold to God's direction.

In the words of Brandon Heath's song, Wait and See, "there is hope for me...He's not finished with me yet...I'm still wrestling with my fear, but He's up to something." Thank the Lord for that!