Michelle Ule's Blog, page 106

Three Great Ways to Use a Basic Ipad for Research.

I’m just back from a two week trip through the Civil War South hunting information and getting a feel for the scenery. Because I knew I was going to spend days in libraries reading letters and seeking details, I invested in an Ipad 2 (16 GB for those who care–the cheapest one) prior to my departure.

I’m so glad I did.

Here are three ways it made a great difference in my ease of research:

1. It has a camera.

At the University of Kentucky special collections library as well as at the Filson House Historical Society, I was able to handle actual items touched, written, or read by my historical characters. Both libraries allowed me to photograph these marvelous finds.

At UK, it was a matter of photographing typed transcripts of someone else’s notes. What bliss! Rather than stand over the copy machine (I also did that) for hours, I could set up the photos I took photos of and click away. It worked better when I made a “cage” out of archive boxes so the Ipad would hold steady enough when I clicked the button, but it worked beautifully.

I also have a scanning ap on my Ipad, but I’ve never figured out how to make it work well, so I relied on the camera feature.

2. It holds pictures that can be displayed.

I had the fun of spending time in the home where my hero lived as a young man. The docents were intrigued to learn I had photos they had never seen before. I pulled them up on the Ipad as they crowded around and crowed.

I had an older photo of a house whose picture hung on the wall. They brought out their picture and we discussed differences, which led them to remember further stories which will be helpful for my book.

3. I could carry research documents with me.

Using both the Kindle ap and the IBook ap, I had all sorts of documents pertaining to my characters. Both aps allowed me to email documents or download actual books. (I also could download directions to places into IBook) This meant if I needed to check a detail, or make sure if I had a piece of information or not, it was right there at my fingertips.

I have a standard Wi-fi Ipad, but at UK, I was given access to their Internet system. That meant I could send information and photos to my fellow researchers and get feedback as I worked. I also purchased a keyboard to go with my Ipad, and took notes at the Filson House–transcribing what I saw on the back pages of the little prayerbook.

Of course it slipped into my bag perfectly and I reviewed everything I had done while flying home on the plane.

Easy.

What ways have you used an Ipad for research?

Traveler’s Tales: Westminster Abbey

I enjoyed watching parts of the royal wedding this morning because of the beautiful bride and the handsome groom in uniform, but also because it showed off Westminster Abbey at its finest. A lovely Anglican cathedral across the street from London’s golden Parliament buildings, it’s been there for nearly a thousand years.

The original Roman Catholic abbey was built outside the walls of London, but it’s now in the center of town. Winston Churchill’s World War II Cabinet rooms are just down the street. Big Ben tolls around the corner and bright red double decker buses pass continually.

And yet, there’s something restful about the grounds despite the hordes of tourists roaming the aisles. It’s part mausoleum, part museum, part history lesson. Soaring ceilings, glorious stained glass windows, a powerful pipe organ, and busts, statutes and memorial slabs to a who’s who of British history. You can spend hours there, milling around with hundreds of other folks listening to tours on headsets or examining the tour books. Rick Steves does an excellent job explaining all.

When I enter a cathedral, I admire the fortitude and skills it took to build,  but I also try to catch a glimpse of the spiritual life.  I like to sit in the pews and imagine worshipping God in such a building. I wonder about parishioners who have gone before and try to imagine a service. Westminster Abbey rents audio guides and last summer I sat in a chair and listened to the choirmaster describe the organ and choir school. I then got to hear selected music played on that organ and samples of the boy’s choir. Terrific.

But what does it mean to be a member of the congregation? This opulent structure has overseen the crowning of kings, marriage of royalty, and the burial of many. I can appreciate the irony of Elizabeth I buried with her sister, bloody Queen Mary. But what does that have to do with worshipping God?

Westminster Abbey tells you up front it’s a church and asks visitors to respect that fact. It also lists services, holds Evensong, and provides opportunities to join the church life of the congregation. I saw magenta-robed clergy moving throughout the abbey and as part of the tour, peeked into a back corner where many of the clergy and their family lived. Unlike other cathedrals I’ve visited, Westminster Abbey felt like a living and breathing congregation where Jesus can be worshipped. I suspect church life goes on in smaller chapels and corners of the enormous building; you can find it if you hunt.

Of course God’s fingerprints are on Westminster Abbey–Christians have worshipped God there for nearly a millennium–even when they had to look around the pillars and can’t see the altar. The best news is, Jesus can be worshipped wherever you are–you don’t need an old building full of relics and monuments.

Thanks be to God.

The importance of the anchor chain

A friend and I were talking about the anchors in our lives recently, the elements that ground us and give us purpose.

Most of us would probably agree our personal anchors are God, spouse, children, family and job. When we’re looking for a purpose or a motivation behind something, we go back to those basic components of our life to keep us focused.

Wikipedia defines anchor as: “a device, normally made of metal, that is used to connect  a vessel to the bed of a body of water to prevent the vessel from drifting due to wind or current.”

Ships use anchors for stability in foreign ports–or so I always thought. But my sailor husband explained that it’s not the anchor that holds a ship in place, it’s the heavy cable that attaches the anchor to the ship that makes all the difference.

“A rule of thumb says you need five to ten times as much chain as the depth of water. The deeper the water, the more chain you’d better have because the anchor won’t hold if you don’t have enough chain,” he said. In reality, it’s the weight of the chain that keeps the anchor from slipping.

And of course everyone understands what happens when the chain links are weak or when they break.

That turned the “anchor of my life,” analogy upside down. Surely, it’s the love of God and for my family that motivates me when life’s storms blow up or I find myself in an unusual position.

Or is it?

Is it the fact of them, or the relationship I’ve constructed with them? Isn’t it the conversation, the life together, the shared experiences, that really connect me to God and my family?

Fact is, I know all sorts of people. What makes one person more important than any of the other six billion people on the planet, however, is my relationship with them and theirs with me. The deeper, the stronger, the sturdier, the more interlocking my life with a person, the more I’m anchored to them.

That’s important in a family, but even more important with God. The better I know God–from reading the Bible, pondering what it says, praying to God and seeking His will–the more connected I feel to Him and the less likely I am to wander away.

It’s not enough to know the fact of my God, the fact of my husband or my family. I have to genuinely know them to be anchored to life.

Tattooing your soul

Our former foreign exchange student got a tattoo the other day–fortunately not on my watch–and it got me to thinking about the meaning of inking up your skin permanently. G’s tattoo is a pretty one, as you would expect, reflecting her love of music. She tells me her mother loves it and I’m not surprised–her mother loves her!

But that reminded me of another love–that of a desperately ill young woman for her God and the tattoo she got to make sure that love always could be proclaimed.

Our pastor’s 27-year-old niece, Heather Beyer, died recently of breast cancer. She used the last two years as she fought for her life to share the good news that she had a future in heaven. As time went by, however, and her ability to talk diminished, she became concerned she would not be able to praise her Lord so effectively if she couldn’t speak. She wanted to be able to lift up her hands and continue to voice her love for God.

So, she had her praises tattooed to her wrist.

Heather’s thought was, if all else failed, when she lifted up her hands “hallelujah” still would be announced.

I’m blessed and amazed at such strength.

Which reminds me of another tattoo, inked onto the forearm of a writer I know. Kay Strom has a heart for third-world women and one day while interviewing some Copts in Egypt, she noticed they had a cross tattooed to their forearms. Why?

“We feel certain that severe persecution is coming to Egypt, and we are not sure we will be able to stand up to it. We have chosen to have ourselves indelibly marked as followers of Christ so that we can never renounce Him, not even in our weakest moments,” one woman explained.

Kay was struck by their courage and came home resolved to do the same. Her husband, Dan Kline,  was a little nervous about her idea, but agreed to drive her to the tattoo parlor when the day came. At the last minute, he got one, too–though not on his forearm like Kay.

But your can see it on their arms. They are not particularly large, “I can cover it with a band-aid when I visit Muslim countries,” Kay explained. But it’s there and she knows it.

And it makes me, in only this one instance, itch to consider the same thing mark.

The Bible, however, reminds us that we, ourselves, are a tattoo in 2 Corinthians 3:2-3 when the apostle Paul remarks:  ”You, yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, known and read by everyone. You show that you are a letter from Christ, the result of our ministry, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tables of stone but on tablets of human hearts.”

I need to remember that. I may not have the courage of Heather or my writer friend, or even of my foreign exchange student. But the grace of God flows through me to the world–a tattoo of God’s love and mercy to all I meet.

Thanks be to God.

Traveler’s Tales: Hitting the Louvre, Early

During a trip to Paris over spring break, I realized my family was actually on vacation while I was on an excursion.

We began each morning the same way: me jumping out of bed and raring to go early and them–not interested in catching any tourist worms. I grew so frustrated sitting in the lovely little room reading all the magazines while they slept, that I made them a deal.

“Sleep in as long as you want tomorrow. I’ll be at the Louvre when it opens and will meet you at Winged Victory at noon.”

Deal.

And a great one.

I took the metro and arrived just before opening. I had a Paris Museum Pass (get one!) and entered effortlessly. Flocks of people went through the metal detector at the same time and we scurried down the corridor lined with shops and food courts. Once inside the sunlit area under that glass pyramid, we separated.

They all headed west to see Mona Lisa. I turned east and had the museum pretty much to myself.

For nearly an hour.

I cannot stress this enough–everyone’s seen Mona Lisa. You know what she looks like. Today she’s hiding behind glass and a barrier–a small woman hanging on a wall. The hordes crowd around her and you can’t get close enough to see Leonardo’s brush strokes or anything else of worth. All you can do is peek around the shoulders and heads of other people come to worship.

Stop by to pay your respects but buy the print for close scrutiny–the Louvre’s got too many other great things to see and most people have limited time.

Meanwhile, back on the east side of the museum, I rode an escalator and found myself in the Assyrian section. I had just taught a Bible study on Sargon and I could see his mammoth bas relief filling a temple!

Here was the Code of Hammarabi; here were paintings I’d studied in art history casually hanging on a wall and no one was around. I felt like I’d been invited to the Getty manor when J. Paul Getty still lived there and I could savor the art like an owner.

The excitement of seeing these paintings surged and washed over me.

Thank you, France!

The occasional guard nodded at me, but no tourists appeared. I oohed and ahhed and reveled in paintings I’d loved–Rembrants, Holbeins, Van Eycks–to my heart’s content.

Glorious joy filled me–I wanted to skip or dance, but I remained restrained.  Like stories I’d read as a child of young people wandering through the greatest museums of the world alone and free, that was my experience in Louvre on a March morning during spring break.

So go early, but veer to the left and see the world before you pay homage to Her Highness.

I met my family at the Winged Victory promptly at noon–they’d just gotten out of bed. They wanted to see Mona Lisa so we headed west with the rest of the hordes. I plugged in my Ipod and listened to my favorite, Rick Steves. He’s got a free podcast on seeing the Louvre everyone should hear. (Rick Steves’ Paris also includes a hilarious photo of Rick trying to conquer the Louvre in one day: he’s lying collapsed on the floor in the long gallery!)

We spent the day there before traipsing out to Angelina’s across the street for the world’s richest hot chocolate. Everyone was happy: they’d slept in, I’d filled my soul with great art and we ended with chocolate.

Mai oui!

Any tricks you have for visiting art museums, or the Louvre? Are you an early riser or a late one and how does it affect your tourism?

Servants and Modern Ignorance

What does it mean to control another person?

I’m exploring this issue now because a novel I’m writing involves slave owners during the War of the Northern Aggression, but it’s one I’ve been thinking about for years, ever since learning I come from a long line (200 years worth) of slave owners.

As mentioned in my last post, I don’t get it–on several different levels.

I suspect one reason has to do with my American social-economic state rather than anything else. I don’t know what it means to have servants.

Perhaps one of the reasons we’ve all fawned so over Downton Abbey, and before that Upstairs, Downstairs, is because servanthood is such an alien concept to many of us in the United States.

But that’s not true in other parts of the world.

Our foreign exchange student from Brazil couldn’t get over our appliances: the dishwasher in particular was a marvel to her. She also, however, couldn’t understand all the house work we personally did. Why didn’t we have any servants? Her family had had at last one live-in servant her entire life. In fact, our student grew up sharing a bedroom with the maid.

I distinctly remember reading Barbara Pym novels and asking my husband why I didn’t have a char woman like all middle-class British women.

He, of course, didn’t know what I was talking about.

Years ago I played bridge with a group of Navy wives in Monterey, California. We always introduced ourselves in terms of our husbands: their rank, their branch of the service, their particular specialty and where they had dragged us to live. One beautifully groomed woman was married to an airdale–a Navy flyer–and they recently had returned from the Philippines.

I was intrigued. What was life like in that country?

The four-member family lived in a plantation-type house with wide verandas and an elegant yard. They had seven servants.

“Seven servants?” I sputtered. “What did they do?”

She had a yard boy, a nanny, a cook, a house cleaner, a laundress, someone who only ironed, a shopper and a driver.

I couldn’t imagine. I held all those positions and more–every day of my life!

“What did you do?”

She was a genuinely kind, lovely woman. “We had terrific Bible studies, played lots of bridge, read and worked on our tennis. We had elegant parties and traveled.”

That was her life as the wife of a Navy flyer. This submarine wife dug her own garden beds, tended her own children, hauled them to the commissary, taught a Bible study, hung clothes on the line, never ironed and drove her own car. I hadn’t played tennis or bridge in years before moving to Monterey. I had, however, read quite a bit.

I wouldn’t know what to do with a servant, much less feel comfortable “playing” while they worked.

My great-great-grandmother was helpless when her slaves were freed. She had never had to physically care for her family before. She didn’t know how to cook and took to her bed. My great-great-great-grandmother, somehow, had acquired enough skills to tend to the newborn and the family muddled through until they could hire someone to help.

The Bible speaks of our being servants one to another, about submitting our lives to one another. As an American, I don’t see myself as having more value than another person–so it’s hard to let the young woman who cleans my house just clean my house. I have to pick up first, even if it does hurt my aching hands (the reason I hired her to begin with!)

What does it mean to control someone, without losing your soul? What is the difference between hiring a servant and owning a slave?

I’m still trying to puzzle it out.

In the meantime, though, I’m going to remain grateful for my dishwasher, washer and clothes dryer–mechanized servants I have no problem ordering around.

But forget the iron.

Slaves in the Family

Growing up in Southern California, the only thing I knew about my "roots" was an alleged connection to Abraham Lincoln.

In my teens, I had eyebrows like Abraham Lincoln, so it wasn't much of a stretch to imagine myself distant kin of the Great Emancipator.

In 1995, I began to investigate my family's history. We had just enough information written down to get me to Old Abe's generation and I began my hunt for the "correct" Nancy Hanks–because while the 14th President had no direct descendants, he had tons of cousins.

August researchers Gladys Hanks Johnson (from Texas: "we were told not to mention kinship to Lincoln outside of the house") and Adin Baber finally concluded there was no real way to make that connection because some 24 possible Nancy Hankses lived at the appropriate time and place.

So, we've just claimed him. I'm Abraham Lincoln's second cousin seven times removed–maybe.

Meanwhile, though, I turned my attention to the person I could claim–James Hanks, whom I believe was the president of the United States' second cousin. Hanks was a Colonel in the Confederate Army.

What?

I'd grown up with that Lincoln connection. Where did the CSA come from?

And worse–I'd always seen myself as the Clara Barton type: tall, handsome (not beautiful), hard working, Union supporter.

The truth was straight out of Gone With the Wind: my great-great-grandmother Louisa had red hair, slaves, three husbands and grew up on a cotton plantation in South Carolina.

But it was the slave ownership that transfixed me. How? Why?

Prowling through microfilm in a darkened family history library, I found evidence that turned my stomach. At the start of the Civil War (or the War of the Northern Aggression, if you prefer), James Hanks owned 28 slaves on his farm in east Texas.

I called up my father to demand, "Why didn't you ever tell me we owned slaves?"

"What are you talking about?"

"28 slaves, Dad, at the start of the Civil War. How can the family have forgotten they owned slaves in two generations?"

He didn't have an answer.

Genealogy is a puzzle, you explore backwards. The further I worked on my family lines the worse the slave ownership got. My family, the people I'd seen as one-at-the-hip on this issue with Abraham Lincoln, owned slaves as early as the mid-17th century. 200 years of owning  living souls.

You can't judge the past by the mores of the present, I know that and so do you. But it made my skin crawl.

And I still haven't gotten over it all these years later.

I can't quite wrap my brain around God-fearing people who peppered their stories and wills with references to the same God I worship, selling other people.

Yes, they may have loved them, they worshipped with them in churches through Virginia, Tennessee and the Carolinas. They traveled vast distances through deadly woods, to set up new lives. They nursed each other through sickness, taught each other to read. But one set held the upper hand and their blood runs through my veins.

Friends from the south remind me that well-loved slaves were practically members of the family and life with well-meaning people actually would be better than the sweatshop mills immigrants endured in New England. I can see their point–sort of.

What does it mean to own another person–to control their freedoms, their movements, all the points of their lives? And who wants that sort of responsibility?

Slaves owners had to provide food, lodging, clothing. They were dependent on their owners.

But their owners also were dependent upon them. Louisa Hanks' slaves were free by the time my great-grandmother was born in 1865 Texas. Louisa had never had to care for a baby before. She'd never cooked, never cleaned, never taken care of farm animals or done laundry. A beautiful red-headed beauty, she'd borne six children, watched several die, but didn't have hands-on experience with day-to-day life.

In a sense, she was as crippled as the people she'd recently freed in terms of every day life.

All these years later I still don't know how to reconcile my family's history with how I view all men and women as created equal in the eyes and plans of God.

It's a mystery I cannot explain. But I'm writing a novel about Southern slave owners, and I'm trying hard to understand.

Any suggestions?

The Passion of the Tenebrae Service

Perhaps we did replay holy week when we entered the  sanctuary at dusk on Good Friday. We waved to friends, found a pew and settled down for a moment of calm. It was surprisingly quiet. The picture of Jesus wearing a bloody crown of thorns on the bulletin cover suggested this was a solemn night, but until we began, I had no idea what  Tenebrae meant.

From the Latin for shadows or darkness, Tenebrae is an ancient service that underscores the solemnity of Jesus' last day on earth as a man. The pastors wore black robes, no colorful stoles, and the lighting was turned down low. The altar area had been stripped to the bare wood the night before and the tall cross that looms on the wall was shrouded in black. Seven candles were lit on the altar and the hushed service began.

There are different ways of handling the Tenebrae, but it usually involves candles lit in a darkened church. The officiant reads passages of Scripture about Jesus, a hymn is sung, one-by-one the sober accolyte extinguishes the candles until the service ends in total darkness.

In our Missouri Synod Lutheran Church, we use the grand hymns of the faith and they take us directly to the melancholy emotions of Good Friday. We began with the soul-haunting spiritual "Were You There when they crucified my Lord . . . sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble."  That's how it felt.

The readings start with Jesus' betrayal at the last supper (Matthew 26:20-25), "the shadow of betrayal," and proceed through the high points of his last dreadful 24-hours, ending at the tomb.

Go to Dark Gethsemane tells us "all who feel the tempter's power, Your Redeemer's conflict see. Watch with him one bitter hour, Turn not from his griefs away, Learn from Jesus Christ to pray."

One candle was snuffed out.

The lack of one candle's faint glow hardly made a difference, just a softening of the light. We could still follow the words in our bulletin as we moved through several more passages of Scripture.

The Shadow of Desertion (Matthew 26:30-35) where Peter vows to stay with Jesus no matter what will come. We sang a hymn along the lines of "Jesus, I Will Ponder Now on Your holy passion. With your Spirit me endow For such meditation Grant that I in love and faith May the image cherish Of your suffering pain, and death That I may not perish."

The second candle, too, didn't shed a lot of light but as the service intensified, the room felt darker, heavier, grimmer.

The Darkness of Praying Alone (Luke  22: 39-46). His disciples asleep, Jesus pleads with his Father to take the cup away–if that is His will. "O Darkest Woe! Tears, overflow! What heavy grief we carry! God the Father's Only Son In a grave lies buried."

The next flame was quashed.

The Shadow of Accusation (Mark 14: 43-63 ) Judas leads the Roman guards to Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemene and he is hauled before the rulers. It was noticeably darker in the church now as we sang a hymn like "O Dearest Jesus, What Law Have You Broken? That such sharp sentence should on you be spoken? Of what great crime have you to make confession, what dark transgression?"

Another candle extinguished.

The Darkness of Cruxifiction (Matthew 27: 27-38) talks about the Son of God hanging on the cross. Stricken, Smitten and Afflicted describes Jesus–"see him dying on the tree. This is Christ, by man rejected; Here my soul, your Savior see. He's the long expected prophet, David's son, yet David's Lord. Proofs I see sufficient of it: He's the true and faithful Word."

The gravity of what we heard was underscored by the dying of another candle.

The Shadow of Death ( Luke 23: 44-49) tells of Jesus' anguished cry of triumphant: "it is finished," and Bach's music written 450 years ago underscores the agony:" O Sacred Head, Now Wounded, with grief and shame weighed down, Now scornfully surrounded With thorns, your only crown. O sacred head, what glory And bliss did once combine, Though now despised and gory, I joy to call you mind."

With this candle's flame snuffed, the sanctuary was almost black.

And The Darkness of the Tomb (John 19: 38-42) ended the service by marking when Jesus was laid into the tomb. The final candle was blown out. Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs?

The church fell into total darkness and silence save for the rustle of the pastors carrying the still lit Christ Candle from the sanctuary to symbolize the death of Christ–Jesus leaving the earth. The back door closed softly behind them and suddenly, seemingly out of nothing, came a dramatic

thud.

We flinched from the horror of the stone rolled shut before Jesus' tomb.

One last song, a smidgen of hope: There is a Redeemer.

We exited in silence, trembling from the grim majesty of what we  witnessed. The Son of God, died on a cross, laid in a tomb.

It is finished.

Sin and death reign no more.

And Easter Sunday morn is just around the corner.

Thanks be to God.

Sculpting a Soul

I'd always had this image of my soul as a piece of marble, hewn from the quarry of life.

I came to God as a chunk of rock–dirty, marred and rough. It took a sculptor's eye–God's–to see the perfect soul within. He just had a little work to do to make my soul as round and perfect as a white sphere.

Michelangelo used to visit the Carrara quarry in the Tuscany region of Italy, hunting the perfect slab of marble for his work. He'd walk among the stones looking at the veins in the "wild" rock trying to find the piece that would bring forth Moses, or the Pieta, maybe even David. He had an eye for beauty and could at marble three-dimensionally, seeing past the ragged edges to the "life" within.

I think God's like that, too, when he examines my life.

The life experiences God has taken me through are opportunites for that craggy piece of rock that's my soul, to be shaped and formed. In my mind, someday I'll reach heaven with a soul in the perfect shape: a white sphere without angles–smooth, polished, glowing and whole.

But to whittle down my soul to where it can be that perfect sphere, means sometimes chunks have to be jack-hammered away, broken off–occasionally in large pieces like a calving iceberg, other times like Michelangelo's chiselled tapping.

Each chip knocked from my rocky soul brings me closer to the core of who God created me to be: in his likeness, whole and complete. I like to think the longer I'm a Christian, the smaller and more precise the taps need to be.

Sometimes, however, I err and the hammer and chisel come down hard. It hurts to realize what I thought were steps closer to perfect, actually only displayed a marred vein of self within my stony heart.

It's challenging to realize I need to be thankful God recognized the slab needed to be removed–because my concept of perfection doesn't always match his.

I'm confident one day I'll get so close to holiness, all it will  take is a little polishing with water and sandpaper.

But until then, I'll focus on delighting that God is the sculptor of my soul and His eyes see a multi-dimensional vision of who He created me to be.

Thanks be to God.

The Discipline of a Child-Mother Relationship

I don't know how long I'd been a parent until revelation struck as to the point of children in my personal life.

As a mother, I'd seen my role as training up these children in the way they should go so that when they became adults, they would be perfect like me.

I saw the relationship as pretty one-sided: I taught them, ordered them, directed them and took care of them. It was about me as the authority figure and them as the cherubs waiting to lap up every suggestion with peace, harmony and joy.

Charming and wonderful though my children are, they somehow acquired minds of their own and used them.

(It took me awhile to remember the point of raising children was to produce adults, not giant children, so it actually was good they developed intelligent, rational minds of their own.)

The problem was, they didn't always agree with me and that often proved frustrating. Some days I actually wondered why God gave me these particular children–with their strengths of character and determination to do things their way.

I mean, why was I arguing with a two-year-old?

Who was the adult here?

And why did these miniature versions of my husband drive me crazy and make me so angry?

While praying about my attitude, I circled back to the fact it was no surprise to God the children who lived in my household. That must mean, therefore, that he had matched me with children from whom I could learn things about my character.

Afterall, they were stuck with me, too.

That means the children in my life were planted there for a purpose: to improve my soul. To enable me to learn how to control my emotions, to become more disciplined so I could care for them.

Their spiritual foibles were opportunities for me to spend more time in prayer. Their demands meant I could learn to put myself second to someone else.

In serving them, even when totally exhausted, I served Jesus as well.

It was a sobering moment, but also a good insight because it enabled me to take a step back from the emotion of parenting and look at the children through the eyes of a sister in Christ.

Ours was a mutual arrangement of learning and submitting–not in the sense I did what my children wanted, but that I thought through our give-and-take with a broader perspective.

And, when they called me on my mistakes, I considered them and apologized if necessary.

They've grown up now, and really are my Christian brothers and sister.

And my Christian character is much improved as a result.

Thanks be to God.