I live in sheep world. Real sheep, the actual fuzzy critters from which come wool socks and mutton, are raised (or farmed, or shepherded, or whatever it is one does with sheep) in this part of the world.

Raising children is a lot like shepherding sheep. I've seen shepherds roaming the hills, searching for the one that went astray between Point A and Point B. We once had a sheepdog hanging around our house for two or three days, trying to get the attention of the "stupid humans" (us). One of the sheep in the flock had fallen into the ditch, upside down. That dog wasn't willing to leave even one of her charges behind.

At this point in the parenting journey, I am one tired sheepdog. My little flock feels scattered. I empathize with that sheepdog ... desperately wanting to move along with the rest of the flock, but the one or two stragglers hold you back because they keep making stupid choices, and their bad decisions have repercussions you can't avoid or ignore, repercussions that affect you emotionally, relationally, financially ...
*sigh*

Parenting = Licking a frozen flagpole and spending 20+ years separating your tongue from the metal, piece by piece, taste bud by taste bud. Can anybody relate, or is it just me?

This is a reblog of an earlier post. I'm going to see "New Moon" in the theater this weekend, Stephenie Meyer was on Oprah, authors are screaming about how unfair her success is, and vampire books, movies, and television shows are springing up like dandelions. What's the fuss? Without getting too religious about the moral value of the vampire myth, let's just look at a possible reason for its broad appeal. Something is drawing people to the Twilight Saga... could it be a driving inner thirst, not for human blood, but for love? For a Savior willing to sacrifice Himself for us?

I confess, I'm a closet Twilight fan. With no movie theater in town, no kids in public school, and a personal distaste for all things vampire in nature, Twilight never even blipped on my radar screen. I saw the books by Stephenie Meyer at Wal-Mart, but wrote them off as "young adult" novels. And then my daughter and her fiance brought the movie version home on DVD.
Edward's appeal is his willingness to lay down his life and deny his own desires for the sake of the woman he loves. What woman doesn't want to be loved and desired so deeply, so intensely, that the man she loves is willing to risk himself – not just physically – but emotionally, socially, and mentally as he reveals the deepest secrets of his heart and exposes his true identity, to her?

Christians talk about "waiting on the Lord" a lot. Waiting for God to answer their prayers, waiting to hear from Him before making a decision. We sing about it, send greeting cards about it, and so on. But are we waiting on Him, or is He waiting on us most of the time?
As a homeschooler, no big yellow bus rumbles down the road to announce the beginning of the school day. Getting my "class" to sit down, pick up their books, and get started on their assignments is a daily experience akin to herding fleas. (Mind you, these aren't tiny elementary tots who can be physically manuevered into their seats. These are teens and a preteen!)
This week we've been jumping through the state of Colorado's hoops and taking standardized tests, as the law requires. I've also been working some additional hours at the local paper for a special section, necessitating a tighter than usual time schedule.
By Friday morning, as my kiddos bumbled around in a sleepy stupor and pretended there wasn't anything to eat for breakfast, I reached a point of uncomfortable frustration.
"I have things to do! I can't wait around for them!" I thought.
And then the Holy Spirit spoke up on the inside of me. "That's how the Father feels, too, everytime you put off obeying Him because you have your own agenda, your own plan, and you've chosen to put your wishes first."
You could meditate for days on the truth that God, the creator of the heavens and the earth, isn't in some state of suspended animation in heaven. He's not hibernating, and He's not taking a break. God has things planned! He has days that have been ordered and outlined since before the foundation of the world. That's such an amazing thought.
Our Heavenly Father has stuff He wants to get done, and a great deal of it depends on our cooperation to be fellow workers together with Him in the earth. When we don't follow instructions, He has to wait, and wait, and wait. Making other people wait for us is selfish. Making God wait for us is foolish.
What was the last thing God asked you to do? What was the last assignment you were given? Have you done it? Or is God sitting behind His heavenly desk, tapping His toe, rolling His eyes, and saying to Himself, "I am patient, I am kind ... My mercies are new every morning ... I am patient ..."

Forgive us, Lord, for making you wait on us like little children. Help us to grow up out of that selfish immaturity and to make Your assignments, Your goals, our priority! Thank You for Your immeasurable grace and mercy in Christ Jesus. Amen.

Teenagers are God's way of inoculating parents against "empty nest" syndrome. There are three and a half teenagers living in my house right now--three boys, one girl. The "half" is 11 going on 17. He desperately wants to be included in all the activities of his older brothers and sister. The others are 18, 16 and nearly 15.
Don't get me wrong; I love these kids. They are the fruit of my womb; my gifts from God; His heritage to me. But as they've gotten older, bigger, and stinkier, something in me has changed. I no longer dread the idea of them moving out.
I know I'll miss them. I know I'll probably cry the first time I only have to cook for two instead of a party of six. But I won't miss the scores of belongings scattered throughout my home on every surface. I won't miss the towering pile of laundry that threatens to engulf me every week, or the search for dirty dishes that have been carted off to bedrooms and left to decompose.
I threatened to hide the Easter eggs in the boys' room this year, thinking it might force them to really clean the place up. But the idea of a rotting multi-colored egg buried somewhere among the grubby socks and scraps of paper convinced me to relent.
I'm tempted to feel guilty for looking forward to the close of this season of parenting. Does it make me a negligent parent to want them to grow up and move out on their own? No, I think the Lord is preparing my heart for their departure, protecting me from that pit of despair our modern culture has termed "empty nest syndrome."
If we really want to know about the empty nest, we ought to look at the eagle. Mother eagles rip the soft feathers from their own breasts to cushion the nest before they lay their eggs. The parent eagles take turns sitting on the eggs, feeding the tiny, defenseless eaglets as they grow and develop, providing "toys" for the eaglets to play with in the sprawling nest. One day the mother eagle returns home and begins flinging the toys and fluff out of the nest, much to the eaglets' dismay. They don't realize by forcing them to grip the branches the nest is made from she's strengthening their legs and feet. The eagle family muddles along like this for awhile. You can almost sense the attitude of the eaglets-a little hurt, a little angry, maybe even a bit rebellious. And then, when the day comes, the mother eagle forces them out of the nest -- no, she doesn't wait for them to decide, she decides for them -- and they literally have to fly, or fall. You know what? They fly.
I guess we're in the phase where I've started throwing out the toys and fluff. I stole the cord out of the satellite receiver today and hid it so one who came home "sick" wouldn't be able to lay around and stare at the idiot box all afternoon. He experienced a miraculous recovery within hours. I'm adding responsibilities, expecting and demanding more from my eaglets, and sometimes they resist and rebel and ask "why?" But one day, when I'm sunning myself on a beach in the Caribbean, sipping a tropical drink from a fancy glass, and thoroughly enjoying my empty nest season, maybe they'll text me and say "THNKS MOM, 4 EVRYTHNG." The answer to a mother's prayer.