The Minivan Years Read online

  Did God protect her, thanks to the prayers of the Columbine Moms in Touch group? Or did God overrule their petition in favor of some mysterious higher purpose?

  I guess we can’t know the answer.

  Someone has said that prayer is the greatest act of faith because, unlike church attendance or charitable giving or Bible reading where other people and things provide tangible reinforcement, prayer is just you talking to someone you can’t see about matters you hope He cares to hear.

  Troy is pretty confident that God listens and cares. Troy takes Jesus at His word when he invited us to “Ask and it will be given to you.” But the rest of that invitation causes one to wonder . . .

  Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!

  MATTHEW 7:9–12, NIV

  High school students getting shot rather than being kept safe feels like a snake rather than a fish to me.

  Why is it our Moms in Touch group could give thanks for a gun found in time, while the Columbine group attended funerals?

  “Ye have not,” the King James Bible proclaimed “because ye ask not.”

  Well, maybe we ask not because He sometimes gives not. I often ask but add “if it be your will,” to give God an escape clause. After all, Jesus taught the disciples to pray by telling them to add, “Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done.” That’s pretty safe. But I somehow doubt passively telling God to “do whatever You think best” is what He had in mind.

  So how do I approach praying for my kids? Do I, like Troy, go boldly before the throne of grace and list all my concerns, requests, and hopes, confident He listens and cares? In short, yes. How do I know? Because of the opening words of the prayer Jesus used to teach us how to pray: “Our Father.”

  Every father—or mother, for that matter—wants his child to ask for things. When we can, we like to say yes to those requests. When we think it a harmful request, we say no. When we find it impossible to accommodate the request, we say no. The request itself, however, is a vital part of the child-parent relationship. Children ask. Parents decide and respond. If the two have a trusting relationship, the child recognizes the parent will do what he or she believes best. Even if that means hearing the word no.

  So what about Columbine and other such “snakes” that force their way into the lives of God’s children? Why does God allow such things? That, I must confess, remains a mystery.

  So, as God’s daughter, I ask. But I do so in a spirit of humility, recognizing that He is God, and I am not. Or should I say, He is the parent, and I the child.

  For now, I give thanks. For a safe high school. For a toy ball popping out of my daughter’s throat. For making it to the airport on time. And for a son who has far more faith than his mommy.

  * * *

  Mini-Tip

  SAYING THANKS

  Our children see us pray over meals, pray before bed, and pray while trying to catch a plane, but we rarely highlight the times those prayers are answered. So, next time you sit down for a meal with your children, ask everyone to mention some answer to prayer your family has received. Nothing is too small. The food you are about to eat, for example, can be celebrated as God’s answer to “Give us this day our daily bread” prayed in church on Sunday. Even thank God for saying no to things that we might not understand but that we trust He will use for good.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mini-Stress

  RELIEVING ANXIOUS TIMES

  Mommy, I think this is the happiest vacation we’ve ever had.”

  We all go through stressful seasons in life. The years leading up to Troy’s “happiest vacation” declaration still qualify as our harshest winter. Kurt had taken on a new, gigantic responsibility during a period of transition at Focus on the Family, so he was good for little around the house. Kyle and Shaun decided to enter early adolescence, complete with body-odor-generating, remembering-homework-evaporating, bad-attitude-spawning testosterone tidal waves. In addition, we had recently buried my mom after her prolonged battle with Parkinson’s disease—ending a five-year period in which I transitioned from my mother’s daughter to my mother’s mom. I’m certain that we would have fallen into the bright-red danger zone had we had time to take a stress-o-meter test.

  “You know,” Troy continued, “we don’t have any stron—any stran—any— Oh, what is that word, Mommy?”

  “Do you mean stress?” I interpreted.

  “Yeah, stress! That’s the word.”

  I hadn’t thought about how our harsh winter might have affected Troy. At seven years old, I assumed him blissfully immune. I guess we overlook the dangers of secondhand anxiety. Such a sweet boy, I thought, picking up clues to how his mom and dad must feel and expressing how happy he is that we had a few weeks to relax. He was generally submerged in his own world of activities, and I hadn’t realized he had it in him to be so sensitive.

  “Like for me,” he continued, “when we are at home I have to worry about what time my next hockey practice will be.”

  As it turned out, he didn’t have it in him. Mom or Dad’s stress hadn’t even crossed his mind.

  On the one hand, it makes a mom feel good that her son can skate happily from one hockey practice to the next with only a vague awareness of the stress we grown-ups endure. On the other hand, what need does he have to “worry about what I’m going to do next” in his life when I have such matters well in hand—safely entered into my PDA so that it will beep on cue to make sure we arrive at the right place at the right time?

  He doesn’t need to worry. But he worries, nonetheless. As do the rest of my kids.

  Kyle stresses over retaining first chair trombone in the band because the girl he took it from is determined to get it back.

  Shaun worries that our dog might dart out the front door and get lost in the wilds of our suburban housing development.

  Nicole invests tremendous emotional energy into picking the right dress for her play date at fellow five-year-old Ellie’s house. She knows she’s a princess in Daddy’s eyes at home. But entering the princess-eat-princess world of make-believe at a friend’s house is a whole different matter. One can’t be too particular about wardrobe. “She won’t think I’m beautiful!” comes the objection if I try to grab something quick and easy to throw on her.

  And then there’s Troy, who, we’ve already established, worries about getting to his next hockey practice on time.

  I don’t remember ever teaching my kids how to feel stress, so I guess anxiety is part of the human condition. There isn’t much I can do about the blizzard of troublesome burdens that swirl around our lives outside the walls of my house and minivan. But I can do my best to create a refuge from the storm.

  When our second boy, Shaun, was in the fourth grade, he endured a season of prolonged stress thanks to Paul, the class bully who chose him as his annual extracurricular project. Most of the other kids had been intimidated into joining his gang. By the middle of the year, Shaun remained the lone holdout. As a result, he became the target of verbal abuse. You know the routine. In gym class, Shaun always got picked last. At recess, he had no one to play with. At lunch, he endured snide comments. In short, he hated going to school. Kurt and I intervened on several occasions, demanding that the teacher and principal step in. But Paul’s mom was part of the school office staff and sided with her son, so nothing really changed.

  I remember watching Shaun walk through our front door after enduring another stress-filled day at school and seeing his downcast demeanor lift—like he had just slipped into a warm bath after playing in the freezing snow. You see, when Shaun entered our home he knew he had a refuge, a place where he would be affirmed rather than attacked, respected rather than ridiculed, enjoyed rather than ignored. We eventually pulled Shaun out of class and I schooled him at home for a few years—but not before learn
ing an important lesson about the anchor a loving family provides to a turbulent life.

  If someone had placed a stress-o-meter inside my home as I was growing up, they would have seen the environment as anything but a refuge. The last place I wanted to be as a young girl was at my house. I came up with every excuse possible to play at a friend’s house, eat at a friend’s house, even spend the night at a friend’s house—often without informing my mom I would be gone. Not that she noticed. A single mom, her life was too chaotic to keep track of all six kids. And since I rarely gave her trouble, she invested little energy worrying about what I did or where I went. She had much bigger worries on her mind. Namely, my four older brothers. One was deaf, requiring special schooling and attention—neither of which my mom could really afford to give. The others experienced all sorts of problems related to having an abusive or absent dad.

  No wonder neighborhood parents warned their kids to avoid our house. Like I said, it was the last place even I wanted to be. So I didn’t try to tell anyone of the stresses I experienced at school or with friends. Even if I did, no one would have heard over all the shouting.

  I hate to think of what my life might have become. But by God’s grace I found a substitute refuge. My best friend during my adolescence was Darcie. Her dad, Randy, pastored a little Baptist church in our neighborhood. The congregation never grew much. A thoughtful teacher more than a charismatic preacher, Randy couldn’t attract big crowds like many of his colleagues. He might have felt like a failure, but to me he couldn’t have been a greater success. You see, he loved his wife and children. He created a stable home where the family ate meals together, talked about problems, laughed together, and enjoyed one another’s company. The kind of family I longed to have myself. I thank God every day that the Piersma family allowed an ill-kept, needy girl like me to hang out with them. And I thank Randy for putting his fatherly arms around a hurting adolescent to show me what a father should be—and what a family could be.

  Every child needs a refuge from the inevitable anxieties of life—especially during the minivan years when what might seem a small concern to you feels like an enormous burden to them.

  I know what you’re thinking: But I can hardly handle the stress of my own concerns, much bigger matters than the petty issues my kids endure!

  I hear you. As you’ll recall, I started this chapter surprised that my seven-year-old worries about things like getting to hockey practice on time. It never occurred to me since he doesn’t have to pay a mortgage, manage six schedules, cook and clean, organize car pools, color his hair to hide the gray, or care for a dying mom. From where I sit, his mini-anxieties don’t even compare to my maxi-stress!

  But then I remember the obvious. God invites me to take refuge in Him so that I’ll have the ability to create a refuge for others.

  Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.

  I PETER 5:7, NIV

  You see, from where God sits, your biggest concern is a mere mini-stress. So you, like Troy, have no need to worry.

  Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? . . . [Do] not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.

  MATTHEW 6:25–26, 34, NIV

  So until tomorrow, why not take a break from your mini-stress so that you can give your child, and maybe some needy neighborhood kid, a refuge from theirs.

  * * *

  Mini-Tip

  START TIME

  As soon as your children begin sleeping through the night, get in the habit of setting your alarm clock at least thirty minutes before they tend to wake in order to mentally prepare yourself for the day ahead. You can review your day’s schedule and goals and perhaps even have a time for prayer and Bible reading. This may sound ludicrous since motherhood is so exhausting that we want to put off crawling out of bed until the last possible moment. But, remember, motherhood is our job. When I was a teacher starting my classroom duties at 8 A.M., I always got up at least an hour before then to shower and get ready. Waking up to the immediate demands of your “job” as a mom adds stress far more exhausting than what is gained by thirty minutes more of shut-eye.

  CHAPTER 5

  Mini-Joys

  CREATING HAPPY TIMES

  We roll along in the van, approaching the Disneyland gate. Everyone feels excited and a bit anxious. Kyle and Shaun, our older boys, see Thunder Mountain. Their stomachs tense with the knowledge that this year both are old enough to ride.

  At four, Troy feels nervous about running into Mickey or some other character. He knows they walk around the park greeting children, a prospect that has given him nightmares. It is one thing to enjoy their shenanigans on-screen, but to come face-to-face with a giant Goofy? Scary! “Don’t worry, Troy,” we reassure him. “We’ll tell them to stay away from you.”

  Nicole is eighteen months, but even she feels the excitement in the air.

  We reach the parking attendant, and Kurt pulls out his wallet to fork over the first of many bills to be spent this day—the start of his anxiety. Meanwhile, I begin giving instructions to the children. I know what to expect and want to head off problems at the pass.

  To Troy: “Remember, some of the lines will be long, so you’ll need to be patient.”

  To the older boys: “We’ll be going back and forth between big kid and little kid rides, so no complaining.”

  To everyone: “You can each have one sweet snack, so choose wisely.”

  And most important of all: “I don’t want to hear any whining today.”

  Yeah, right! As if that one ever works. Still, warning children helps to minimize offenses. Or so we like to believe.

  The day goes pretty much as you might expect. Lots of fun mixed with impatient line waiting, complaints about the kiddy rides, incessant whining, and too many sweets.

  Disneyland calls itself “the happiest place on earth.” That’s its goal. That’s its image. Just watch the commercials—always a cute, balloon-holding happy toddler hugging Mickey Mouse on Main Street. You never see a hot, whining four-year-old running for his life from Goofy.

  Still, Disneyland does pretty well living up to its motto. But I am convinced that it is not so much going to Disneyland that creates happiness, as much as the anticipation leading up to Disneyland and the memories that come after.

  The weeks approaching our Disneyland trip? Terrific. Kids on their best behavior in response to Dad’s empty threats to cancel the trip if chores weren’t done and attitudes checked. Nighttime dreams filled with the sights, sounds, and smells of the Magic Kingdom. Daytime conversation packed with attraction descriptions and character imitations. It seems that the longer we looked forward to the day, the more happiness we squeezed out of the experience.

  And the weeks, months, and years following the trip? Also great. Our camcorder tape and photos remind us of the fun. Our memory banks recall the best moments of the day and seem to edit out the bad scenes (or enable us to finally laugh at them). Troy forgets his panic. I forget the whining. Even Kurt forgets the cost. Looking back, we all see it as a perfect day.

  It’s often that way in life. The file cabinet of our minds places happy memories and fond reflections on top and in front, while hiding the unpleasant ones in a remote bottom drawer. Sure, we can find them if absolutely necessary. But who wants to?

  While enduring the torture of labor pains, I wondered why I ever allowed Kurt to touch me. Five minutes after giving birth, however, I knew only the joyful tears of welcoming a new life.

  I fondly remember the moment I walked across the stage to receive my college degree. I forget about the boring lectures, textbooks, and term paper deadlines.

  It would be just as easy to remember only the bad; many people choose to do that. But the deeper desire for happiness overtakes my memories of frustration, regret, and pessimism. Why is that? Does the tendency to remember happy times
and forget frustration suggest emotional health or mental illness? I suppose it depends upon whether you believe we were made to smile or made to frown.

  It is difficult to pinpoint the exact moment happiness occurs. In fact, I’m not sure we can. We experience happiness—like love or gratitude—apart from a particular time or place. Circumstance neither triggers nor constrains it. It is more spiritual than emotional. And like the best gifts, it often arrives when least expected.

  I think we desire happiness because we feel homesick. We were made to be happy because we were made to know God. When we encounter happiness, however brief, we catch a glimpse of someone we have never seen but miss nonetheless. Nothing can change the simple reality that we long for joy. We long to go home. Circumstances cannot steal from the truly happy or give to the truly miserable. Neither depends upon their proximity to pleasure, health, or money. They depend, rather, upon their proximity to God.

  Of course, it would be silly to suggest that only those with faith experience happiness. I’ve met too many happy unbelievers to think that. Moments of joy, like drops of rain, will fall on the believer and the atheist alike. But the refreshment of water and the lift of a smile have the same source. Without God, crops die and faces frown.

  Smiles provide much-needed reminders that we were made for happiness, like sips of a drink we long to guzzle. Sure, they fall far short of the reality we desire. But they won’t let us forget that we were made for something more. Something even better than Disneyland.

  Have you ever known one of those couples who have been blessed with terrific kids? You know the ones. They are the family you watch from afar, wondering how in the world they got so lucky or did so well. It is almost as if they have discovered a secret formula for raising great kids.

  We have been fortunate over the years to build relationships with some of those couples, watching over the long haul as they navigate the varied and perilous stages of parenthood. Their children have grown from little kids to young adults, and though imperfect, have turned out quite well. Many of them are approaching the end of the parenting journey and are reaping the rewards of having done some things right. Let us give you a peek into what we’ve learned from these little-known, greatly respected examples of parental success.