Of Being Refurbished

That printer of ours had been driving me nuts for years. Often failing to do what it was made to do or just making things difficult. So when a refurbished edition of a shinier, newer model came available for half the original price, I jumped. Finally, something different. My problems will be solved.

But then they weren't.

Then the new one, fresh with refurbished, life, emerged from the box with all the glimmer promised. Except that it didn't work.

Out of desperation, I made a call. To the ones who should know what's wrong. The manufacturers, creators of this machine, who could lead me to a solution, fix my problems.

And they sounded hopeful. Until they learned about the condition of this model. Refurbished. Previously broken. Not purchased from them, so they didn't care.

They didn't care?

Wasn't it their machine? Regardless of the store name on the receipt, isn't it their name printed on my broken device? I'm not looking for replacement or a handout, just a solution. A fix to my problem. But they could offer me nothing. Because I didn't come to them the right way, my machine was in the wrong condition.

Silently I hung up, inwardly I raged.

Thankfully, I praised.

I praised my Creator Who didn't care where I came from or the condition I was in when I called. He recognized His Name, stamped on my heart, and He answered me. He doesn't care what brought us to this point, He only cares that we're calling Him to fix our broken hearts.

We, in Christ, are refurbished, previously broken, but repaired to new life. It doesn't matter how many times we've called out or how we got to where we are. He cares that we are His.

There is no warranty on this life, but there is a manufacturer Who will not abandon us. It is He Who has promised, "When you call out to me and come and pray to me, I'll hear you. " (Jeremiah 29:12). And We can trust in Him.

And praise.

Of Walking Away

By the time my husband's alarm sounded this morning, I was in shock - there was no way that sleepless night was over already. Surely it was only 2am and his poor clock was just confused.

Unfortunately that was not the case. And my poor brain has been suffering the consequences of its own inability to rest. As evidenced by the fact of my sitting up in bed (entirely too early), rubbing my hand over my swollen belly and thinking, "I sure am getting fat." It was maybe a full two seconds before I remembered there was life growing in that belly, not just a stash of chocolate chip cookies.

Thus, after pouring milk on the cereal of a daughter who loathes milk on her cereal (though loves it in her cup) and dealing with the apocalyptic outcome of that brain-fogged action, as I listened to the chorus of my two eldest arguing over who would be allowed to open the fridge so the boy could put his un-finished cup of milk inside, I sighed. Trying once, unsuccessfully, to supersede the volume of his irrational sobs, to offer some sort of resolution (or, perhaps, a solid, "Stop crying and put your milk in the fridge! Sissy already has it open for you!"), I simply shook my head and walked away.

This was way below my pay-grade.

I recognized this issue was, in fact, one that could be settled by young children, and the value of my sanity was much higher than the fairness of whatever outcome they could manage.

And I left. I entered my room, closed the door, and started to get dressed, feeling slightly guilty over my inability and unwillingness to fix it.

It was only after the door had been opened again, as I straightened my sweater over that bulging belly, that Emmett came dashing into the room, sister close behind.

"Momma! I opened the fridge and 'Caiah held my cup and then she gave me my cup - "

"And then I threw the door closed!" she finished, triumphantly.

Though the slamming of the door isn't exciting to me, the fact that they successfully navigated the field of conflict resolution with a solution that left them both happy and proud of their independence re-assured me of my decision to walk away. Had I not, I would have missed this blessed moment - the one when Momma realizes it's not just her fatigue talking, but her children really can solve their own problems (some of the time, anyway).

And sometimes it takes us just walking away to realize how independent our children can really be.

Of Our Little Potato-Head

Philip had finished telling me the adorable way Emmett had reacted when Philip asked to check his diaper. As he left the room, I giggled and told Micaiah, who sat next to me, "Your brother is silly."

She laughed, too. "Yeah, he's like a potato-head. Like a potato who says, 'I'm going to jump and turn around when Daddy needs to check my diaper. And I'm going to stick out my toochy [her pronunciation of tushie]!"

Yes, Micaiah. Just like that kind of potato.

Of Naming the Baby

Conversations out of nowhere:

M: "I think we should name the baby Anna."
E: "I think it should be Emily."
M: "Anna!"
E: "Emily!"
M: "Anna!"
[after multiple rounds of this . . .]
E: "Maybe it could be Anna Emily."
M: "No! . . . . Maybe it could be Emily when she's bad. Like, 'Anna Emily Rowland.'"

First of all, I have no idea how they decided on these names. We have not really discussed naming the baby, especially not with the kids, nor have either of those been mentioned by anyone in our house in such a context (Micaiah's go-to toy name is Sally). Second, the spontaneous middle-name compromise of Emmett was an overall surprise - I would have never expected him to think of combining the two names. Third, I love how Micaiah presents her solution as though she had not just heard that two seconds before.

These children surprise us always.  We kind of like them.