::: there's a muddy road ahead :::

One of the things that bothers me about our culture is how we can sometimes be presented with a thought or piece of information that sounds like it's just burgeoning with wisdom, but, when truly analyzed, the message is actually quite false. We find this in films and music, especially, but also in writing.

Earlier this week, I was leafing through one of our local newspapers and came across the "religion" section in which there was 1/4 page public service ad showing a pair of shoes lying beside a closed door. Below the photograph was this piece of writing:

"In some homes, it is a tradition to leave your shoes at the door so the traces of the outdoors don't get tracked throughout the house. Floors stay cleaner as slippered or bare feet tread silently about. This week, as you approach your house of worship, enter God's house with happiness, don't bring the outside in. Leave your cares behind...deposit them at the door."

I can see how this piece could seem to offer a bit of wisdom, and, as a mother, I certainly appreciate the idea of a clean floor, but after reading this, my immediate reaction was, "Wait. Leave your cares behind? That's not right."

I mean, when we go through our week, that span of time between Sunday mornings, our shoes take us through all kinds of terrain. Some of it is rocky. Some of it is slippery. Some of it, yes, is even muddy. Sometimes we might even find ourselves wishing we were in someone else's shoes.

But to arrive at church and leave those shoes at the door? Even with my motherly desire for clean carpet, I have to disagree.

When we enter into our house of worship, we find family, family who has also walked for a week through the rocks, slime and mud, and when we gather together, we shouldn't leave all of that at the door, pretending we have no cares or concerns. Instead, we should bring it all in, all of the cares of the outside world, all of the dirt and grime and muddiness we've gathered, and let our church family help us bring it to the foot of the cross, let them help us knock that mud free of our shoes and come away clean, ready to step back into the world and face another week.

Learning About Myself through Others

Have you ever noticed that when you think you're in a position to teach someone, or comfort someone, or change someone's life, you end up being taught, comforted or changed in ways you didn't expect? I've had this happen several times in my life, so I don't know why it comes as such a surprise to me that it has happened again.

The first time that I can recall this happened was when a very dear friend and mentor of ours was diagnosed with Leukemia at the age of 60. When we found out that this amazing, robust, artistic man had received such grim news and had immediately been admitted the hospital for aggressive treatment, my first thought was, "What can I possibly offer him?" I hadn't experienced such illness in my life. As a matter of fact, I'd only really had to go through the death of one family member, my grandmother, and I'd been too young to fully understand what was happening.

But here was a man who had been like a father to my husband, had welcomed him into his home during a particularly rocky time in his life, and had offered himself as a spiritual guide. He had seen us through no small difficulties and witnessed some of the ugliest moments of our lives. He had given us so very much. What could we possibly offer? So for quite some time--a week? a month? I can't quite recall--I resisted visiting him in the hospital. I felt so guilty, and yet I couldn't bring myself to do any differently.

It was just before Easter, and my two young children had been busily decorating egg-shaped cupcakes. They turned out so beautifully that I had an idea. The children and I would brighten our friend's day with a plate of these festive Easter cupcakes. So, on a warm Spring day, I loaded the children into the car, my belly swollen with the second trimester of pregnancy, and we made the trek to the hospital to see our friend for the first time since his diagnosis.

Reed was so vibrant, even in the final stages of his cancer, but one thing he absolutely could not do was eat. He had lost quite a bit of weight, and just the idea of food made him queasy. As a result, our cupcakes were useless and I, likewise, felt useless, too.

But as I sat in my awkwardness, desperately searching for something to offer my friend, reminding a four- and five-year-old not to touch that, and not to climb there, Reed did something amazing. He comforted me. He shared his thoughts, and his peace, and his joy with me, and he let me know that he was content with what the Lord was doing in his life, and that I should be, too.

I walked away from the hospital room that day in such awe that this man, who I had sought to comfort, had ended up comforting me.

Three months later, on the due date of my third child, I stood with Reed's wife and other loved ones as Reed took his last breath on this earth and stepped into eternity with God. As I stood there on that Thursday afternoon, my stomach tensed and hardened with early contractions. A week later, Monet would be born, and would be given Reed's name as a middle name. He, too, would become a gifted artist.

Once again, I find myself in a place where I have been unsure about how well I would be able to serve and teach.

Once again, I'm being served. I'm being taught.

Two weeks ago, we welcomed a young man into our home from Swaziland for a six-month stay as part of a international voluntary exchange program. Our guest, who I will call Rejoice because that's what his name means, has been such a blessing to me and has already begun to teach me so much about who I am, what I believe, and how my life affects the world and those around me. His politeness, eagerness to learn and amazing dedication to Christ have been sources of much introspection for me.

Over the next six months, I'll be writing about Rejoice, about welcoming him into our family, and about the amazing lessons I'm learning along the way.

Please help me to welcome Rejoice into the Today's Lessons family!

A good thought for this season...

It is absolutely clear that God has called you to a free life. Just make sure that you don't use this freedom as an excuse to do whatever you want to do and destroy your freedom. Rather, use your freedom to serve one another in love; that's how freedom grows. For everything we know about God's Word is summed up in a single sentence: Love others as you love yourself. That's an act of true freedom. If you bite and ravage each other, watch out—in no time at all you will be annihilating each other, and where will your precious freedom be then?

My counsel is this: Live freely, animated and motivated by God's Spirit. Then you won't feed the compulsions of selfishness. For there is a root of sinful self-interest in us that is at odds with a free spirit, just as the free spirit is incompatible with selfishness. These two ways of life are antithetical, so that you cannot live at times one way and at times another way according to how you feel on any given day. Why don't you choose to be led by the Spirit and so escape the erratic compulsions of a law-dominated existence?

It is obvious what kind of life develops out of trying to get your own way all the time: repetitive, loveless, cheap sex; a stinking accumulation of mental and emotional garbage; frenzied and joyless grabs for happiness; trinket gods; magic-show religion; paranoid loneliness; cutthroat competition; all-consuming-yet-never-satisfied wants; a brutal temper; an impotence to love or be loved; divided homes and divided lives; small-minded and lopsided pursuits; the vicious habit of depersonalizing everyone into a rival; uncontrolled and uncontrollable addictions; ugly parodies of community. I could go on.

But what happens when we live God's way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard—things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity.

Galations 5, The Message

::: of god and gas cans :::

My friend Catherine reminded me that I hadn't told my sappy, almost-unbelievable miracle story. Actually, she and her mom have reminded me repeatedly. And on Tuesday, I promised her that I'd have it up the next day.

Guess what I didn't do?

Better really, really late than never ever.

So here's my tale...

In early November, a silly mother named Thicket Dweller was fighting with her checkbook. It seemed that no matter how she counted her pennies, there wasn't enough to go around. There was always a washing machine breaking down, or a car tire going flat, or a surprise expense of some sort that would zap her budget. But she knew that she needed to get very busy thanking God for what she did have, because there was always food available, and her children were healthy, and she lived in a beautiful farmhouse on the top of the loveliest hill in all the county. But, even so, she was feeling sad because Thanksgiving was coming, and she had just used all of her spendable money on real estate taxes. That was another reason to thank God! Just a month before, she had been certain that they would not be able to pay those taxes, but through the intervention of God and the kindness of others, that bill had been paid. Even still, as is the nature of Thicket Dweller, she was a pitiful soul, feeling sorry for herself because she knew that her kids were really looking forward to a Thanksgiving feast, and, as we all know, Christmas comes right on the heels of November.

Thicket Dweller knew that her regular grocery budget would never cover the extra groceries that her family's traditional Thanksgiving would require, and it certainly wouldn't cover the upcoming Christmas tradition. Even if she did what she'd done in past years, which was scour the thrift and used bookstores for appropriate gifts for her children, buy nothing for her husband and extended family, and make cookies or candies for neighbors, she knew that she wouldn't be able to stretch this budget far enough to buy a real tree or purchase the new Christmas Eve pajamas her children had become accustomed to opening. She might not even be able to hit the thrift stores.

It was Wednesday morning when her husband told her that the decision for the week would be to pay the mortgage or buy groceries. She knew that paying the mortgage was the right thing to do, the necessary thing, but she didn't feel like baking bread and eating rice all week. What's more, she had volunteered to teach a women's history class for her local homeschool group on Wednesday, and the needle on her gas tank was teetering just below the "empty" line. The gas for her vehicle usually came from the grocery budget. If she could scrounge up enough change, she might be able to make it to the closest gas station. So, with her syllabus in hand and her head hanging a bit lower than usual, she made her way to the car, knowing that just having a vehicle was a privilege.

Thicket Dweller's the sort who always runs herself short of time. One more phone call. One more load of laundry. One more check of the e-mail. And then there would be something she couldn't have expected. A flat tire. A broken tie rod. A sick or inconsolable child. And then, she would find herself panicked and hurried, certain that someone would be waiting for her angrily, deeming her irresponsible or thoughtless. This Wednesday was no exception, for she had taken the phone call of a friend who was feeling very down. They talked for a while, and Thicket Dweller tried hard not to watch the clock as her friend told her that she had a box for her waiting in her garage. Could she pick it up today? While Thicket Dweller loved her friend dearly and so wanted to stop and see her, she knew that she wouldn't have time. But she said she'd try, hurriedly hung up the phone, and raced to the car, cringing as she watched the gas needle barely quiver forward as she started the engine. She found herself fighting against the temptation to go just a teensy weensy bit above the speed limit. But knowing that she had only a handful of change, and knowing that the faster she would drive, the more gas her car would consume, she had just enough incentive to keep her commitment to driving the speed limit.

As she rolled into the parking lot of the closest station, she couldn't believe her eyes. All of the guns were covered with ghostly white plastic bags, and the sign above the station stood void of numbers. No gas. Now what? The closest station from here was beyond the history class site! And she surely didn't have enough gas to get to that station, anyway!

With no cell phone to call home, she decided she would just make her way to class and pray that God would see her there safely. Once there, maybe she could find someone to run her to a station to fill up a gas can. And so, she eased out of the parking lot and crept along the road towards the classes.

As she climbed the hill a half-mile before the class site, she remembered the conversation she'd had that morning with her friend who had asked her to please stop by. She had a box of things for Thicket Dweller that she would leave in the garage, some garden seeds and books she no longer needed. The house was right there, directly on her route to classes. Thicket Dweller knew that she should stop, but she was feeling rushed and stressed, so she told herself she'd stop later. This decision just didn't settle with her, and she tried to justify why she should keep moving. She would be late for class. If she ran out of gas, and her friend wasn't home, she'd be stuck there with no phone and no way to let her students or husband know she was stranded. If her friend was home, she might get into a meaningful conversation and run herself even later.

But no matter what she told herself, she couldn't agree. Reluctantly, she found herself turning the steering wheel and swinging into the friend's drive; her only comfort was believing that she was obeying something she couldn't see. What she could see was that there were no cars sitting there; her friend was not home.

Just as her car pulled fully into the drive, it sputtered. Out of gas. She was able to coax the car just a few more feet before it refused to move another inch. She let her head drop back against the seat and closed her eyes in disbelief and defeat.

Not knowing what else to do, she opened the door of the car and swung her feet out. There, beside her feet, was a five-gallon gas can. She could hardly believe her eyes. She rushed to the can and lifted it. Yes! It was heavy with gas! Knowing that her friend would offer her the gas if she were home, Thicket Dweller put some of it in her tank, listening with amazement to the glug, glug, glug that the fluid made as it left the can.

Oh yeah, she thought, I need to get that box she has for me. There it was, in front of the garage, a box full of beautiful books, a gift for her soul. Here was one on Tasha Tudor's garden, and here was another on herbs, and yet another on edible flowers. It was like her friend knew that she needed a bit of spoiling, that he heart was dragging a bit and needed to be lifted. On the top sat a bundle of garden seeds that she would gladly plant the following Spring, and, on top of that, an envelope. Likely a card or a note explaining what the seeds were, why she was giving her the books.

Thicket Dweller carried the box to the car and climbed in. How good God is, she thought, that He knew just what I needed today! Even as she said it, she knew how sappy it sounded. But it was so true!

Starting the car, she coasted to the bottom of the drive. The traffic was heavy, so she sat waiting, knowing that even though her class would be starting very soon, it would all be okay. She could be patient. She could wait.

The envelope sat on the top of the box, inviting her to open it, so she put the car in park and ran her finger along the inside seam of the flap, exposing the note inside.

Along with a bundle of cash.

Thicket Dweller could not believe her eyes. She checked the front of the envelope. Yes, it had her name on it. Tearing open the card, she read the note from her friend, explaining that she had found this money in a dresser drawer while doing some cleaning, money she had forgotten was there, and felt compelled to give it to Thicket Dweller. A Christmas gift, she wrote. Buy some nice dishes, the note said. Buy something nice for yourself and a gift for each of the kids, it said. Pulling the money from the envelope, she counted.

There was enough there for the mortgage. There was enough for groceries. There was enough for a tankful of gas.

Thicket threw her head back and cried out loud. "God, why? What have I done to deserve this?" Tears sprung from her eyes, and soon she was sobbing uncontrollably, crying out, "I don't deserve you! I don't deserve this!"

And she was right. She had done nothing to deserve it.

The truth was that her friend loved and obeyed God, and that God was very, very good. It wasn't a reward. It wasn't payment. It was a gift.

So, Catherine, there's the story. I know it took me a long time to write it, and I didn't do it justice, but I know that God's timing is perfect, and that this is a story someone needed to read today.

He Meets Me in the Shower

I'm gonna tell you something you may find hard to believe, but it's completely and totally true.

Ready?

God is so very good.

I'm serious about this. I mean, I have always believed this in kind of a dutiful, removed sort of way, but He has repeatedly proven Himself to be so amazing that I'm having a hard time keeping myself from climbing onto the roof and exclaiming the wonders of His ways.

I have to preface this by saying that I have NEVER been the kind of person to couch all of my words in "Yeah, God" language. My verbiage has never been dotted with phrases of praise.

That's not to say that my relationship with God is marginal or superfluous; I think my life fits the bill for 1 Thes. 5:17: "Pray all the time." I go to God with everything I consciously think of to take to Him. But outwardly? I guess I'm just not a showy type of Christian.

But some things are just too good to keep to myself.

Where does God meet you? I've known people who literally had a prayer closet. A man in church told me that he meditates in a tree stand while he's deer hunting. My children get the bulk of their prayer time around the kitchen table or while I'm kneeling beside their beds. But me?

God meets me in the shower.

Some of the most amazing things come to me while the water is flowing over my face. I plug the tub and let the warmth cover my feet. Sometimes I think. Often I sing. Occasionally I cry.

Last week was a crying week.

But it was also a week of thankfulness, because even though I felt like there were problems in my life that I'd never be able to overcome, even my flesh was able to recognize that God has always provided for me. Always! Without fail! When I have been in need, God has come through for me in the most amazing ways that even I, in my human stupidity, can recognize.

And so I stood in the shower thanking God for his provision in my life and the lives of my children. It was a conversation, really, and it went a bit like this:

"I'm a pretty selfish person, you know?"

Water slapping the sides of the shower.

"But You've never let me down. I mean when I really need something, You make sure it's there. How do You do that? Why do You do that? It's incredible, really."

Drops travel over my face and drip off the end of my nose.

"Right now, I have everything I need."

"except the algebra book..."

"Well, yeah. Except for the Algebra book. But that's no big deal. I mean, yeah, Bard really needs that book, and, yeah, she's really far behind in her lessons because I'm such a dope and didn't budget for the one textbook she needs this year, but..."

"order the book..."

"Ha! Ha ha! Yeah, God! That's a good one! Um...have you seen my checking account balance? I can't order the book! It would be irresponsible. Actually, it would be impossible..."

"order the book. expedite the shipping. order the book now..."

It was a fairly clear directive. So I dried off, made my way to the computer, and I began searching for the book.

Amazing fact number one: the book was literally 1/3 the price it had been at the beginning of the school year. Supply and demand and all that, I assume.

Amazing face number two: due to a fabulous promotional campaign on the part of the company I ordered from, not only did I get the book for FREE but walked away from the keyboard with a $5 credit. No, I'm not making this up.

What's funny is this; I have another story to tell that's bigger, more amazing, and even more incredibly, unbelievably hokie. But it's TRUE, I tell you! As a matter of fact, when I told the story to my husband, he sat dumbfounded and then proceeded to tell me that if I were to write the story, no one would believe it for its sheer hokiness. It would have no plot! It would be a like a Guideposts tale!

Yet it happened, and I have to tell it.

But you've stuck with me this long, dear reader. I'll give your eyes and my fingers a rest.

Go grab a shower, sit in your prayer closet, hang out in a tree stand...whatever. Just talk to God, and I'll meet you back here tomorrow.

Role with It...

Lately there have been a lot of thoughts running through my head about my role in life.

I seem to get like this specifically when I'm busy with things that pull me away from the home, like work (right now, I'm working for a local greenhouse part-time), or classes (either my kids' or my own), or volunteer work, or activities, or social gatherings. My being gone really takes a toll on the state of the house. Right now, it's a disaster area. And that causes me a lot of stress.

But being gone takes a lot of toll on me, too. What I really want is to be a home-maker. I want to be with my kids, read to them, bake things, cook meals, clean the house, do laundry.... I know, I know. It sounds so June Cleaverish. But it's true. Nothing relaxes me more than a clean, organized home, a neat yard and a bucolic barnyard full of well-cared for animals.

Unfortunately, I'm the only one in my family who really has strong desires regarding these things.

So I feel like I spend a good portion of my time fighting the inevitable messes and prodding, bribing and threatening the masses to take a look around and take a bit of inintiative and take CARE of things!

Lately, I've been feeling the pull to get me back in the house. I almost feel like I'm caught in a trap, expending time and energy at the greenhouse, forensics club, choir, and even the housecare things that take me away from home, like grocery and thrift store shopping, and I'm wondering if it's all really where God wants to have me.

I'd like to wrap up this post by saying I had a wonderfully insightful epiphany about this while showering this morning.

But I can't. Because I haven't.

Last week when we were preparing for the forensics tournament, I just felt like my life was completely out-of-control, how I spend a lot of time serving in other areas for other people, and then my own home, health and family suffer because of the time we spend away. As we were preparing to leave, The Baby, who's four, wrapped her arms around me and said, "You're leaving again? Already?" and clung to me, bursting into heartbroken sobs, begging me not to go. Yesterday, after two days of being gone for the tournament, she clung to me and continually offered me "surprises" that she had for me. She was emotional, weepy and clingy. She really needed me. And I was gone. For what? What's so important? Especially in light of the fact that my other "little girl" was four just yesterday. And now, she's seventeen.

It's a complicated thing, this life. And being a mother? Oh. My. Goodness. Pressures like I never would have imagined.

Even at the tournament, I knew that I had certain responsibilities, but I also had children who were presenting pieces and wanted me to see them. No matter which choice I made, I felt guilty. If I went to see them, I felt like I was shirking my responsibilities. If I didn't go see them and made myself available for other things, I felt guilty for not being a good mother.

I think part of it is always second-guessing myself about what I'm "supposed" to be doing. Or maybe just what I think other people think I'm *supposed* to be doing.

Like now. I'm supposed to be running, and shopping for a dryer, and buying milk for my family and another family, and dropping things off at the thrift store, and checking on the goats, and heading to the greenhouse.

But I'm here. Trying to figure our my role in life.

Have you ever struggled with this?

Thirsty for Worship

I hadn't realized how important praise and worship music is to me until I was standing there fighting the tears.

The church we attend is a very small Mennonite church. When I say very small, I mean that regular attendance equals less than 100 people each Sunday and there are only a handful of teens in the youth group. Please don't think I'm complaining. I like it this way. I've been to mega-churches many times, and it's just not my cup of tea. Give me a little chapel with a nice blend of children and old ladies, regular carry-ins, a pastor who knows my name, and I'll be a happy church-goer.

We chose this church after a very long search for several reasons. First, my good friend Linda invited us and made us feel very welcome. Second, the youth group is small, so even though there are only three homelearning families, we're majority. Third, the people are very friendly and made us feel welcome right from the start.

We stayed for several reasons, too. I'm a pacifist. I'm pro-life across the board. I believe that our energy is better spent on serving others than fighting others. I believe that Jesus was a pacifist. I believe that He called us to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us. After all, when Jesus was being led to his death and Peter chopped off the ear of the high priest's servant, Jesus stopped the fighting, picked up the ear and healed His attacker. The lessons I hear on Sunday morning encourage me in this path. It's not an easy one, especially in the Christian community where pro-Bush bumper-stickers dot many of the vehicles of my fellow homelearners. The Mennonite church espouses the sanctity of all life, and the importance of stewardship of our environment, and the servitude we're called to give to all the world.

We also stayed because we have been continually made to feel welcomed. We've been included in everything from youth group functions to soup suppers to the vote for the new pastor.

And that's what this Sunday entailed.

One of the biggest challenges about staying at this church is that it's a body in transition. While we came in after the big scuffle, apparently the church was divided over what direction they should take. Cling tightly to Mennonite traditions or venture into more contemporary ways? Reach out to the community to draw in more members or adhere to a cliquish mentality? Stay with traditional hymns or enter into contemporary praise and worship? From what I know, the previous pastor wanted to venture, reach out, enter in to the contemporary. Eventually, because there was so much division, he left his position and an interim pastor was assigned.

Now, our pastoral candidates are a young couple, under 30, who would serve as both pastor (the husband) and assistant pastor (the wife), he fulfilling 75% of the pastoral duties, she filling the remaining 25%.

I don't know if it was necessarily because this Sunday was the voting Sunday (they call it "affirmation," but it's basically a vote), or if it just happened to fall this way, but a group of students from Bluffton University presented our Sunday service.

Wow.

The contemporary praise and worship was something I knew I'd been missing, but I hadn't realized how much. I hadn't realized that I'd really been held back, worshiping in a service where no one raises their hands, no one claps--either in praise or as applause for either God or the musicians, no one seems to be filled with JOY when they worship. Instead, it seems that worship is planned and regimented, that there is a focus on singing in parts instead of singing with the heart.

But seeing those Bluffton students sing, seeing them lift their hands, the joy on their faces, the beauty of their voices. Oh! My soul was thirsty for that! And I could barely control the tears.

I know that there are some in the congregation who don't prefer that type of worship. But for me, it was a balm. I do hope we can incorporate more of it, because I'm not sure how long I can continue being a part of a church that holds back so much in their worship time.

When the votes came in, there was 100% agreement on the new pastors. I do look forward to seeing where they'll take us, finding if they'll breathe new and exciting life into this body of believers.

I know that this body and soul really needs it.

::: bedtime prayers :::

Several years ago, I decided to relinquish my position as bedtime tucker-inner. My rationale was that I'm the mom; I'm with the children all day long; Dad is the dad; he's gone all day long; the children should have a memory of this ritual with their father.

So I handed over my bedtime duties to my husband Bo.

I don't know, exactly, how long he has been putting the kids to bed at night, but I do know (please don't be offended, dearest husband) that it has never been a smooth adjustment. Bo just doesn't put the kids to bed the way I do. He doesn't have that bedtime "touch." He isn't ritualistic in that "floating off to sleepytime-land" kind of way.

Now, you might argue that I was spoiled as a child. And you'd be absolutely correct. My father, the same man who dotes on all of the babies in their babyhood, doted on me when I was a wee one. When my father would put me to bed, he would spend a great deal of time putting me to bed. He would tuck me in, and he would tell me stories, and he would play funny games with me, like "Which of these creatures in the bed is my daughter?", kissing each of my stuffed animals as he pretended that they were me and then animatedly realizing his mistake. This could go on for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, he would put me to sleep somehow, and tiptoe out of my room.

When my mother would put me to bed, she would sing me lullabyes and stroke my eyelids, just below my eyebrows, very lightly with the tip of her finger. I would lie very still, and my challenge was to keep my eyes closed for as long as I could after she'd left, believing that there was some type of magic in her fingertips that would vanish if I opened my eyes.

And while my parents were fabulous at the bedtime routine, there's one thing they never did that I always knew I'd do when I had children--say prayers over them.

Once I had children of my own, bedtime included all manner of ritual. First, a book. Then, a prayer. Then a big hug and a kiss. And sometimes, a visit back to the bedroom to chase away the "monsters."

When Bard was a toddler, the bedtime ritual wasn't complete until she had said, "Don't drop my house!" I would always promise not to drop her house. To this day, neither she nor I have any clue what she meant.

When the children would awake with nightmares or couldn't sleep because of the terrible, scary baddies lurking in the darkness, I would use my "monster spray," a can of air freshener, fitted with a new label proving that it was, indeed, monster spray. I would shake it overdramatically and spray it all over the room, ridding it of monsters.

As they grew a bit older, I had another little trick to chase the baddies away. I would come to the door and tell them to shout the name of Jesus and tell the children to listen closely. If they were very quiet, they would hear the baddies running away. When they hushed, I'd drum my hidden fingers on a doorway or wall, creating the fleeing footsteps of those cowardly critters. They soon grew wise to my little game, but asked me to do it anyway.

If all of this sounds like a lot of work to put a kid to bed, I guess it was. Eventually, I felt that I needed to hand the task over to my husband. But I could never quite let it go. I wanted him to do it like I did. I wanted him to read to them, and joke with them, and scare away the demons for them. But he never quite got the hang of the privilege of being the tucker-inner. Each time he would trot off to do the bedtime routine, he'd return within just a few minutes. I never understood how you could do a good bedtime routine in under five minutes. That's less than a minute per kid, for crying in the mud! Sometimes, he'd just stand in the hallway and pray for them all collectively. Remembering my own childhood bedtimes, I knew that this would never have been sufficient for me. And I was right. It wasn't sufficient for our kids. For the first several months of the transition, they would moan and complain when Dad would put them to bed. They would call for me. Beg for me. But I really felt that Daddy needed to do this. I tried to make suggestions. I encouraged longer bedtime sessions. I even gave him an anthology of stories to read to the younger children. It never really sunk in. And I've always felt that, somehow, I was cheating the kids. And maybe even cheating myself.

I've decided to take my tucker-inner position back.

For the past three nights, I've insisted on a certain bedtime. No yelling or prodding or coercing. If you're in bed, I'll read you a story and/or pray for you. If you're not, I'll hit the sack without tucking you in. It's that simple.

The second night I was on duty, Sweetheart, my seven-year-old daughter, closed her eyes quietly as I prayed for her. I have a certain way I say the prayers, and certain things I always say peppered with requests and thanks that are appropriate for the day. I always ask God to surround their beds with angels to guard and protect them. I always ask for sweet dreams. And I thank God for our home, and our activities that day, and for the child I'm blessing.

When I finished Sweetheart's prayer, she grabbed my face and said, "Now, I want to pray for you."

Let me tell you what it's like to get your socks blessed off.

The prayer began with her thanking God for her "sweet mother," and telling Him how much she appreciates all that her mother does for her, and how hard she works to make a lovely home for all of her children. She asked for God to bless her mother, to give her sweet dreams and to bless her with peace. And then she ended the prayer with words that brought tears to my eyes. She asked God to help her be kind to others, to treat others they way she likes to be treated.

"Thank you, God, for a mother that loves You. Help us all to grow up to love and serve You, too. In Jesus' precious name we pray, Amen."

I will never, ever again give up my tucker-inner duties. There is nothing you could pay me to let them go. You couldn't drag 'em from me with a team of wild horses.

If you haven't done it in a while, go tuck your kids in. It doesn't matter if they're five years old, or fifteen. Ending the day with a comforting word and a reassuring hug is truly relationship-building and serves as a very special ritual for both the tuckee and the tucker, a time to calm fears and heal wounds and offer apology and forgiveness.

And you might just get your socks blessed off, too.