{Everything I Needed to Know I Learned From a Six-Year-Old}

She says what she thinks. Sometimes it's embarrassing. Sometimes it causes me to immediately turn around and seek a different aisle in the grocery store, lest we pass someone who might bear the brunt of her candor.

And sometimes she speaks wisdom. Like a perfectly outlined sermon, my six-year-old has recently set before me three points that I just can't get out of my mind. Perhaps the Lord is speaking to me? You know how it goes, "Out of the mouths of babes . . . ."

So if you'll allow me, here's a bit of gospel preachin'. From a first grader.

1. Contentment
The other day, Miss Kate was perched on the bathroom counter as I rolled up her hair in sponge curlers. She loves this ritual and would probably sit through it daily if I had the patience for it. As we rolled and she gabbed, she gazed at herself in the mirror and in a very matter-of-fact manner declared, "I like being me."

It was cute and sweet and earth shattering at the same time. Not everyone can say this about themselves. But when we acknowledge that we've been created in His image and when we seek to live in that perfect design for our lives, we can truly begin to say that we like who we are. This is the key to contentment.


2. Dependence
She really wanted to pour her own milk. From the completely full gallon jug. I said okay. It sloshed and spilled and she very quickly realized that help was in order. She wasn't discouraged or frustrated. She simply set down that jug and asked for help with the admission, "I'm still not quite capable." How easy was that? And again, very eye-opening as I completed the milk-pouring mission.


3. Trust
We were walking through the park when she announced that she really needed to use the restroom. Now. Thankfully, there were a number of public restrooms nearby. It was quite discouraging, however, to find that they were locked. She danced and wiggled. I knew that there was another restroom across the park, behind a large cluster of trees. I promised my fidgety girl that I'd get her to the next stop, although it was a bit of a walk. She peered ahead then looked up with complete trust in her sparkly blue eyes. "I don't see it, but I believe you." She grabbed my hand and stepped forward.

Amen.

In review.

* The key to contentment? Be thankful for you.

* The cure for pride? (Lest we get too carried away with point one . . .) Admit that you're not capable on your own.

* The best way to walk? In complete trust. He sees beyond the trees. (Aren't you glad?)

And now if you'll please stand for the benediction: "May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit. Amen."

You are dismissed.

Sitting. For Thirty-One Days.

"Mommy, I just have one question, and then I'll go away."

Yikes. Ouch. And oh, dear.

Have I really been that bad? Yes, it appears so. She was being very sweet and matter-of-fact. Not acting neglected or whiny. Just calling it like it was. I obviously didn't have time for her, and she didn't want to intrude. Just one little question? Please?

Lately I've been thinking about sitting. Remember how I mentioned a couple of posts back about teaching my Miss Kate to tie her shoes? We've worked on that like, maybe . . . twice. Now, it's true that her delicious new brown boots may have something to do with that. They don't require tying.

But laces or not, children do require sitting. With their mother.



That said, I've been mulling over a post challenge recently. It's a challenge suggested by Emily Freeman over here. The idea is to post every day for the month of October about something that makes us come alive. The topic I've selected? Sitting. That's right. Sitting. Very lively, huh? Sitting for one month.

Now, lest you picture me in a non-stop yoga pose for 31 days, I'll quickly explain myself. We are in high gear now with school and various activities vying for our attention. I often eat breakfast and lunch standing up. I sit down only to throw some math and grammar at the kids, and then I'm up and running again. This is not ideal.



Last weekend, I had Miss Kate all to myself. We enjoyed our time together immensely. One thing I noticed, however, was how hard it was for me to sit still with her.

During lunch, she took her time. She'd take a small bite, and talk. Then she'd take another really small bite. And talk some more. If her brothers and sister had been around, I'd have left the table and started in on the dishes. But I couldn't leave Little Miss all by her lonesome. So I sat. And sat. And sat. She chewed and talked. And chewed and talked. My legs did the impatient dance under the table, but I made it through the whole meal.

And I thought, "This shouldn't be so difficult. Something is wrong."

Hence my desire to learn the art of sitting. And sitting not only with my children, but also with my husband and with the Lord. I'm not sure exactly what my October posts will look like. But I like the challenge of reporting how and with whom I chose to sit each day. Some posts will likely be very brief; it would be wiser to spend blog-writing time with my family instead. Other posts may speak of regrets or failure. I hope they are few.



However it all comes out, my desire is to learn a little bit about the art of sitting. God's word has so much to say about waiting and resting and listening and quieting. I can't ignore it. And I have a feeling that a bit of sitting will show me how to really live.

So I'll take a small step this week, starting on the first of the month. If you're game, join the challenge with me. Perhaps you don't have sitting issues and you'd like to create your own challenge. Either way, I'd love to have your company.

Just imagine what can be accomplished in thirty-one days. It's enough time to start a pretty good habit.


Illustrations by Jessie Willcox Smith

Enough is Enough

I'm not quite sure why it is that children ignore the need to use the bathroom. I suppose they're just so caught up in what they're doing at the time that the hassle of leaving the room and taking care of business is just too much work.

I had an interesting conversation with Miss Kate yesterday about the importance of regular visits to the powder room. It went something like this:

Me: "Avery, I want you to be sure and go potty right away when you feel like you need to go." And, feeling the desperate need to include a consequence I added, "If you keep yourself from going potty, you could get an infection."

Miss Kate: "And?"

Me: "And we'd have to go to the doctor."

Miss Kate: "And?"

Me: "And you'd have to take some medicine to get better."

Miss Kate: "And?"

Me: "And isn't that enough?"

Miss Kate: "Not for me it isn't."

This girl likes her information, and she wants as much as she can get.

Lately we've been praying for several friends and family members who are struggling with illnesses, disease, emotional turmoil, and even death. It's been a season of aching as we carry the burdens of so many to the Lord. Miss Kate's little ears have been perpetually perked up to catch any details that she can. She's fascinated by specifics and asks us to tell her the stories again and again, especially if it involves a child. She wants to see the pictures, learn about the procedures, understand the process. A pat answer is never enough.

Hmmm. Sounds familiar. I've been processing Psalm 46:10 for months now. It's a familiar verse, yet the more I think about it, the more complex it becomes: "Be still and know that I am God . . . ." Upon first glance, I am comforted. I picture the gentle mother lulling her fretting baby, "Hush, my child. Mama's here . . . . "

Yet when I read the words in my New American Standard version, I find that it carries a very different tone: "Cease striving and know that I am God . . . ." I no longer picture the gentle mother. I picture the God of the universe with something that sounds almost -- dare I say it -- like a reprimand: "Stop trying so hard! Don't you know that I and I alone am God?"

And I know it's so. I'm trying too hard. I'm trying too hard to be good, to earn points, to keep my ducks in a row, to keep control of the situation. Like Avery, I'm given a single piece of information: "Trust me, child." And, like Avery, I'm not satisfied. I strive and ask, "And?" What else can I do? What else can I know? How hard can I try? It can't be enough just to trust.

But if I strive against the trusting, where does that leave my faith? I run the risk of living a life that suggests that perhaps God isn't to be trusted, after all. The work He has done, the things that He has promised, the words He has spoken . . . are not enough. I strive. And in so doing, I try to replace God.

This is a terrifying place to be.

I continue with the Psalm to gain some perspective, to get my feet back onto firm ground: "Cease striving and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations. I will be exalted in the earth." Do you see it? The confidence? The promise? "I am . . . I will . . . I will . . . ." Our God is not timid or passive. His glory and honor do not depend upon my acknowledgement or upon my trust. They will remain forever regardless of my actions. And I am a fool if I suggest that anything or anyone else deserves such exaltation.

The words of Spurgeon come back to me with a healing affirmation of that which I've always known to be true:

My faith rests not upon what I am, or shall be, or feel, or know,
but in what Christ is, in what he has done,
and in what He is now doing for me.

His track record is perfect. He is the God of the universe, and His desire is to wildly live and love through my simple little life.

I can cease striving. I can trust. That is enough.