Sisters. I never had one.

When we found out I was pregnant with our second daughter I was overjoyed with the inevitable bond that would form between our girls. They’d have a best friend for life!  Our youngest would look up to our oldest, always asking for advice. Our oldest would relish in mentoring and helping our youngest. I envisioned late night secret swapping, hair and nail parties, closet sharing and lots and lots of giggles. You know, all the stuff sisters do. All the stuff I never had growing up with two brothers.

I love my girls.  They are my world. But they never really did anything I dreamed of sisters doing. At least nothing I ever dreamed of doing with the sister I never had. They are opposites in every way you can imagine and there has not been much secret swapping. They seem to enjoy screaming matches much more. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them do each others hair, unless you count the time my oldest gave my youngest a haircut when they were toddlers.

I know they love each other, but I wouldn’t call them friends. They don’t share much of anything.

The other night my husband and I had the rare occasion to have our youngest alone for a little while.  It was right after church services and we were asking her about the topic she had discussed in class.  She was a bit confused because she said that she was supposed to share her testimony, but she didn’t think she had one.  I told her that everyone, even non-Christians, have a testimony. It’s the story of what you did with the news of Christ. Did you accept Him and decide to follow Him? Why or why not? How have you seen His work in your life?

She was still a little baffled and said she didn’t know why or why not to any of that. So I asked her why she had wanted to be baptised when she was younger.

“Because my sister was.”

Not exactly the answer I was hoping for, but glad she finally wanted to be like her sister in some way. However, it really concerned me that maybe she never really understood her own salvation or the ways in which God has been working in her little life. But I didn’t question her. I didn’t pry or freak out. After all, salvation is not up to me. It is a very personal relationship one has with Jesus. Who am I to say that her’s isn’t real just because she can’t ‘label’ it.

I began to pray about it and laid those concerns in the lap of my Savior.

“She’s only 11. I know You have great plans for her. Her leadership skills and determination will take that baby girl into your world and do great things for You one day.  But I am having trouble seeing the fruits of her salvation. How can I gently get her to see them herself? Soften her heart to Your will, Lord and help her see Your work in her life.”

I have yet to be disappointed in Jesus.

It has only been a couple of weeks since that conversation in the car and since I started praying specifically for Christ to show me that my child knew He was a part of her every day life. In the last two days she has told me two different stories of how “God was looking out for me.” I won’t share them, because they are her’s to tell. But I will not deny that my prayers have been answered for God to reveal himself in subtle ways in my child’s life.

I am encouraged by his gentle hand and infallible ways.

How has God been working in your life lately?

Every morning is the same. Get up. Shower. Make the lunches. Search for lost permission forms. Argue over who needs to feed the helpless dog. Referee sister fights. Peck my family on their precious cheeks. Dash out the door and pray we all return home safely to play the same game tomorrow.

Sometimes after I drop my children off at school slivers of worry begin to creep into my thoughts. I worry about the things they will see and hear from their peers. I worry about things they might be asked to do. And sadly, I worry for their safety. It’s such a scary world. I wish I could always be there to guard them from it.

I always tell my kids that good grades are wonderful, and I always expect them to do their best academically. They are both great students. However, the subject I am most concerned about on their report cards is conduct. No one is going to remember a ‘D’ in the 5th grade as much as they will remember how you behaved. They know this. Before my children get out of the car each morning I tell them 3 little words that I hope they listen to more than anything else.

“Be a light!”

My words are generally met with, “Ok.” Sometimes I get an “I’ll try.” But most of the time I wonder if they ever really heard me at all. I get that what I  am asking them to do everyday is probably the hardest thing any mother could ask of her child. Stand up for Jesus! Be a light in this very dark world! Have you watched the news lately? They are fighting a fight I never even had to imagine as a child. It’s hard for me to do it as an adult! Surely my 10-year-old must feel defeated so many times. And I wonder if she even gets it. I wonder if any of what I am trying to teach her and her sister is sinking in at all. I wonder if her little light just gets hidden under that bushel because she’s so young and this world is so incredibly oppressive. And that mother’s worry turns to defeat in my own eyes when I think of all the things my children see and don’t even tell me. It’s enough for me to want to quit motivating them each morning.

But my God is a God of such delightful encouragement. He loves to wink at me and sneak little blessings across the table if only I will glance His way.

The other night I went to tuck Lucy into bed and kiss her goodnight. She was busy rewriting spelling words for her test the next morning, so I didn’t linger. I just kissed her forehead, told her I was proud of her for studying and reminded her not to stay up too late. That’s when I noticed the word she had written in the margin of her practice sheet.

God.

She wrote it twice as if she had been meditating on His precious name and daydreaming of His sweet love. Perhaps she was praying and needed Him for something. Either way, He was on her mind and it was a precious gift to see it happen. I didn’t say a word to her about it and just left her room thankful for the fostering strength that maybe I might be doing something right. Maybe she does get it after all. Maybe she is listening.

Since God never stops working, and He is so gracious, He wasn’t finished reminding me not to give up on trying to instill faith in my children.

As you know from reading my last post, Abby Faith went on a youth trip last week. One of her sweet leaders sent me a picture of her during a worship time. To my knowledge she has never raised her arms in praise like that before and it brought tears to my eyes to see her lost in passion for the Lord. I mentioned it to a friend of mine and said I thought it was so great that she felt she could do that when she thought no one was watching. My friend’s wise response was, “Or that she didn’t care who was!”

Maybe you feel discouraged today. Maybe you haven’t noticed God winking at you in a long time. Maybe it seems like your kids just don’t care about anything you are trying to teach them. I just want to remind you that God never promised that raising your kids would be easy and it’s a life-long project. But he did promise in Proverbs 22:6 that if we are faithful about training up our children, even on the hard days and those days you think it’s not sinking in, when they are grown they will not depart from it.

And maybe one day they might even thank you.

I’d love to hear some of your stories about how your children inspire you. Let me know in the comments below.

When I was a little girl I was lucky enough to be able to live at my Grandmother’s house for a year. My parents may have thought it was the most unlucky of days since we were living there because my Dad had been laid off. We were in limbo. But I didn’t care. What kid would? I got to live with my Grandma! And she was the best there was.

I can remember getting off the bus after school just in front of her tiny two bedroom house in Idaho and enjoying something delicious she had made for a snack. Almost always it was something chocolate. She loved chocolate! And I don’t know how she always managed to fit us all in her kitchen for dinner, but I always looked forward to whatever she was cooking. Her house may have been small, but her lot was HUGE. Countless days I’d wander all over that property playing Little House on the Prairie while feeding her chickens, climbing trees, or pulling fresh raspberries straight off the bushes and stuffing them in my mouth. Oh, how my mouth waters just thinking of all the berries I snuck out of her garden!

Summer nights were my favorite. Her little house did not have central air so it was more comfortable to eat dinner outside on the picnic table. Afterward, my brother and I would swing from the willow tree branches or ride our bikes until the sun went down. Exhausted from a long day of play, we didn’t argue about having to climb the stairs into her attic to sleep. We shared the space as a bedroom during that time and I can remember peering out the window pretending to be a princess locked in a castle many nights.

My grandmother was a musician too. Her baby grand piano took over her crowded living room. It was definitely not made for such a little space, but she was definitely made to play. I could listen to her play for hours. And she did. I would sit next to her on the bench while she played and I used to think that all she needed to do was glide her fingers over the keys and they would do as she commanded. She would never allow me to bang on the keys like many children do. I had to be intentional about what I was making up in my head. But she never turned me down if I asked to play it. Many afternoons when I got home from school she would give me a lesson and patiently wait as I tried to learn the notes. She taught me many things, but the appreciation of music is probably what I am most grateful for. To this day, I love a good piano piece and can’t help but think of her when I listen to it.

As with all good things, my time living with her came to an end. My dad got a job that moved us all the way to Alabama. I was only nine at the time. Old enough to protest. Too young for it to matter. My family would go visit most Summers. But it was never like being able to be spoiled rotten every single day. I wish I had held on a little more tightly to that time of my life. I wish I had appreciated my grandma’s cooking, her laugh and the way she loved the simple things.

She died two Summer’s ago while living with my aunt in upstate New York. She was 96 years old. And as was typical of her life there was little fanfare. No funeral. No memorial service. Her body was cremated and sent to be buried in her church cemetery in Idaho. Preceded in death by my grandfather, her home was cleaned out and most of it sold off. Including her piano.

I’m not really one who loves things, but I am pretty sentimental. And like my grandmother taught me, it’s the simple gestures, the thoughtful moments that fill up a life. So the other day when I got a small unexpected package from my aunt it piqued my interest. I hadn’t heard from my aunt in years. Anything could have been inside that envelope.

When I opened it up, I couldn’t believe how fast I could fall in love with something I didn’t even know I wanted. It was my Grandma’s handkerchief from the 1950’s. A friend of her’s had given it to her and even stitched her name in the corner. Helen.

The tears fell freely from my eyes. I blubbered like a baby. It was probably the sweetest gift anyone had ever thought to give me. Suddenly all the awkward piano lessons, raspberry-flavored summers,  and freshly baked cookies were set before me in my lap. I could feel my grandmother’s love wrap around my shoulders and I could smell her Avon perfume. It may have been just a hanky to my aunt who was cleaning out a box in her attic. But what she really gave me was one more moment with my grandma and a tangible way to remember that the smallest things in our lives mean the most.