Next year, I am having a stealth birthday.
I’m going to pick a great day – maybe a sunny day in mid-May, when the lilacs are blooming and the trees are wearing brand new baby leaves and the air hints of summer to come. And then, I’m going to take a leisurely walk through the woods while the older kids are at school, and I’m going to nap with the younger ones, and I’m going to take everyone for ice cream in the afternoon just because I can, and I’m going to enjoy our first grilled carne asada of the season. And then – when we are all lingering at the table and laughing – I will announce, “Today is my birthday! Let’s have cake!”
And it will be perfect.
And necessary.
Because lately? My birthday, it conspires against me. It’s like the antithesis of a good day, the opposite of “how to celebrate Kelly.”
Case in point? Last Thursday, my 39th birthday. My day started at 3:00 AM, when Natalie stumbled into my room (after I had gotten up with a crying Kieran) and said, “I don’t feed good. My tummy hurts and I can’t get back to sleep.”
I did what all good mothers do – I mumbled something like, “You’ll be fine,” and I waved the air in her direction and she went back to bed.
I woke up a few hours later, with a toddler on one side and a baby (in soaking wet pajamas) on the other. Corey wasn’t around because he was on a business trip, but he was coming home that afternoon. All in all, not a bad start.
Then Natalie came in, looking somewhat ashen. “I still don’t feel good, Mom,” she said.
I could detail the rest of the day, but I bet you know where this is going. Let’s just say: My birthday lunch at a friend’s house was canceled. The rest of my plans to have a productive day at home went out the window. I spent most of my time trying to get a cranky baby to sleep in his own home (15-minute naps were all the rage that day) while Natalie and Teyla sat transfixed in front of the TV for – wait for it – eight hours straight.
Corey got home (the best birthday gift I could imagine, believe me), we ordered dinner from Outback, I only got to eat a few bites before the incredibly overtired baby demanded to be put to bed. Connor, who was fine all day, threw up in my bedroom after his shower. (Birthday aromatherapy: vomit.) And Teyla went to bed with a fever. (Oh look! I detailed it for you anyway!)
And so the day ended. I ate a piece of cake from Teyla’s birthday party, just five days before, and called it a night.
Here's the thing: I wasn’t upset. In fact, it made me giggle a little. My kids rarely get sick. I don't believe we've had a sick day yet this school year. What are the odds all this would happen on my birthday?
Apparently, pretty good. Turns out, last year, on my birthday, Natalie got sick. (I am totally serious! Go read it for yourself!)
And the year before that? I was in a foul mood, possibly because my Mom was having surgery that very day to discover if she had a very serious form of cancer. (She didn’t, which totally redeemed the day. But before we knew the news? It was dicey.)
So next year? I turn 40. I need to have a good birthday to kick off a new decade. So I’m not announcing when it will be.
(But I’m thinking May. Just don’t tell my children.)
2011 : The Year of Sabbath
Silence is not my thing.
If you know me in real life, you already know this.
I am a talker. I love conversation. I always have music on. (Hello Pandora. How did I live without you?) I thrive on chaos, and I actually function better in a noisy environment (such as a newsroom) than I do in a quiet one (such as my radio-free bedroom where my parents insisted I do my algebra homework, which completely explains that C).
So the fact that my blog has been silent for two weeks now is uncharacteristic, to say the least.
But in a twist I couldn’t have anticipated, it’s also a fitting start for 2011.
A few years ago, I saw a pattern emerge among writers I respect. Many of them prayed about a word or theme for each calendar year, a spiritual focal point that would direct their annual journey. I liked the idea. It would help the sanguine side of my brain stay focused and give the organized side of my brain an objective.
So last month, I started asking God if there was a subject He would like me to concentrate on this coming year.
I got an answer almost immediately, and I was simultaneously so shocked and excited about it, I kept it a secret for a good long while. (Another uncharacteristic action.)
My word for 2011 is Sabbath. The seed for this particular concept was planted by my MOPS Bible study last fall. Together, we studied "The Life You've Always Wanted"
by John Ortberg, a book about the spiritual disciplines (and NOT the prosperity gospel as the horrible title might suggest).
Ironically, the concept of Sabbath is not a spiritual discipline. It’s a spiritual command. (Gulp.) But it’s heartbeat pulses through the disciplines – especially in practices like silence, slowing, having a well-ordered heart, even celebration. (Surprised by that last one? So was I.)
So this year, I embark on a journey of discovery. I suspect learning about the Sabbath – the why, what, when, where, who and how, to use journalism slang – will have trickle-down effects in every area of my life.
And so, I let my blog (and Twitter and Facebook account) lie mostly fallow these past two weeks. I refused to listen to the oily, whiny voice that tries to tell me I’m losing relevance by staying offline, as if my value is summed up by the number of comments I get. I wanted to walk away from the self-imposed burden that says my public voice matters more than my private one.
It stung to do it – like the pulling of a scab that has practically become a part of my body. But I can already feel the healing taking place.
In 2006, I read an interview with Eugene Peterson that has haunted me ever since. In it, Peterson is asked, “What spiritual practice has most shaped your walk with God?”
He answers:
May the Lord of the Sabbath be loud in the silence this coming year.
If you're interested in what words other bloggers have chosen for 2011:
SortaCrunchy : Give
Emerging Mummy : Enough
Holy Experience : Here
Laura Parker : NOT Cynical
Also, to clarify, I'm not going to be completely silent in 2011. (Sorry Corey.) It was just a healthy and necessary start for me as I contemplate what Sabbath might look like in my life.
If you know me in real life, you already know this.
I am a talker. I love conversation. I always have music on. (Hello Pandora. How did I live without you?) I thrive on chaos, and I actually function better in a noisy environment (such as a newsroom) than I do in a quiet one (such as my radio-free bedroom where my parents insisted I do my algebra homework, which completely explains that C).
So the fact that my blog has been silent for two weeks now is uncharacteristic, to say the least.
But in a twist I couldn’t have anticipated, it’s also a fitting start for 2011.
A few years ago, I saw a pattern emerge among writers I respect. Many of them prayed about a word or theme for each calendar year, a spiritual focal point that would direct their annual journey. I liked the idea. It would help the sanguine side of my brain stay focused and give the organized side of my brain an objective.
So last month, I started asking God if there was a subject He would like me to concentrate on this coming year.
I got an answer almost immediately, and I was simultaneously so shocked and excited about it, I kept it a secret for a good long while. (Another uncharacteristic action.)
My word for 2011 is Sabbath. The seed for this particular concept was planted by my MOPS Bible study last fall. Together, we studied "The Life You've Always Wanted"
by John Ortberg, a book about the spiritual disciplines (and NOT the prosperity gospel as the horrible title might suggest).Ironically, the concept of Sabbath is not a spiritual discipline. It’s a spiritual command. (Gulp.) But it’s heartbeat pulses through the disciplines – especially in practices like silence, slowing, having a well-ordered heart, even celebration. (Surprised by that last one? So was I.)
So this year, I embark on a journey of discovery. I suspect learning about the Sabbath – the why, what, when, where, who and how, to use journalism slang – will have trickle-down effects in every area of my life.
And so, I let my blog (and Twitter and Facebook account) lie mostly fallow these past two weeks. I refused to listen to the oily, whiny voice that tries to tell me I’m losing relevance by staying offline, as if my value is summed up by the number of comments I get. I wanted to walk away from the self-imposed burden that says my public voice matters more than my private one.
It stung to do it – like the pulling of a scab that has practically become a part of my body. But I can already feel the healing taking place.
In 2006, I read an interview with Eugene Peterson that has haunted me ever since. In it, Peterson is asked, “What spiritual practice has most shaped your walk with God?”
He answers:
Keeping a weekly Sabbath – a day my wife and I define as “praying and laying.” A day we don’t do anything that has to be done.That’s what I want. That’s what I’m after.
When we realized that the command and to keep a Sabbath is one of the most repeated in Scripture and yet the most ignored in our culture, we had to readjust radically the way we were living. No other decision has made as much difference to our lives across the board. It has impacted our marriage, children, church life, friendships, writing … the works.
Sabbath-keeping shifted our attention away from what we were doing for God to what God was doing for us. Our work became subsumed in His.
May the Lord of the Sabbath be loud in the silence this coming year.
If you're interested in what words other bloggers have chosen for 2011:
SortaCrunchy : Give
Emerging Mummy : Enough
Holy Experience : Here
Laura Parker : NOT Cynical
Also, to clarify, I'm not going to be completely silent in 2011. (Sorry Corey.) It was just a healthy and necessary start for me as I contemplate what Sabbath might look like in my life.
The Screens are Off
My kids get two full weeks off for Christmas break this year, which apparently isn't the case for many of my friends, who didn't start Christmas break until Christmas Eve. (In which case, I don't know whether to feel sorry for you or envy you. It's a little of both, if I'm honest.)
All that to say, Natalie and Connor have been home for more than a week now, and the cabin fever is setting in. Yesterday was the culmination of a week of lazy: We sat in front of screens - television, laptop or Leapster - from dawn until dusk.
By the end of the day, I was so antsy and crabby, my skin itched from the inside out. I told Corey before I went to bed last night, "I'M BORED!" (All caps entirely appropriate, trust me.)
Which is often code for: I need a plan. I'm lonely. I'm tired of sitting around.
Today, I woke up determined to do something different. We let the kids watch a few Nick Jr. programs and play a computer game this morning. But as of now, the screens are off for the day. (Maybe the week.) The kids are playing with their new toys. And I'm working on a way to get everyone outside this afternoon. (It's a tad complicated when one doesn't have a yard but I'm not accepting that excuse today.)
I can't say I've shed the cloak of irritability yet. But I think we're headed in the right direction.
All that to say, Natalie and Connor have been home for more than a week now, and the cabin fever is setting in. Yesterday was the culmination of a week of lazy: We sat in front of screens - television, laptop or Leapster - from dawn until dusk.
By the end of the day, I was so antsy and crabby, my skin itched from the inside out. I told Corey before I went to bed last night, "I'M BORED!" (All caps entirely appropriate, trust me.)
Which is often code for: I need a plan. I'm lonely. I'm tired of sitting around.
Today, I woke up determined to do something different. We let the kids watch a few Nick Jr. programs and play a computer game this morning. But as of now, the screens are off for the day. (Maybe the week.) The kids are playing with their new toys. And I'm working on a way to get everyone outside this afternoon. (It's a tad complicated when one doesn't have a yard but I'm not accepting that excuse today.)
I can't say I've shed the cloak of irritability yet. But I think we're headed in the right direction.
Unfinished
I wrote this two weeks ago, but somehow, it feels appropriate to post today, as the Christmas euphoria fades. Funny thing -- my house looks almost the same now as it did then. I promise I picked up after I wrote this! But a clean house waits for no man.
The milk sits on the counter next to the coffee creamer. The bread is still out, next to the still-open jar of peach jelly. The blackberries are on the stove top and the washcloth is on the high-chair next to the soggy Cheerios. The table where I’m sitting with my laptop is covered in small sticky spots that are probably dried milk from breakfast.
The living room is wall-to-wall Little People. Legos and cars and scraps of paper from Natalie’s latest self-invented game cover every flat surface.
Home as metaphor. Life unfinished. A work in progress. Two steps forward, one step back. Messy. Active. Always on the go.
It’s my reality these days.
I love being a mom to four. That sounds a little trite, a little too easy. But it’s true. My heart soars everyday to see these sweet little face. (This despite the fact that I’m so tired, it feels like I wear exhaustion like a wet pair of jeans.)
Kieran is growing so fast. He’s sitting up solidly now (after a few weeks of sitting up and then randomly falling backwards and knocking his noggin). He’s got two toofers. He is starting to get up on all fours and rock (hold me), and he’s pretty good at scooting around the living room on his belly. (Evidence: Last night, I set him down in the middle of the room. Five minutes later, I found him near the Christmas tree with an ornament in his mouth, a pink foam creation I made when I was in kindergarten. If a disease wiped out in the mid-70s is rediscovered in our house next week, you’ll know why.)
And Teyla. Oh my goodness. She grows more Teyla-like every day. She walks around my house, all giggles and sass. She bosses the dog. (“Keh-nole Sami! Keh-nole!”). She bosses her Dad. (“No Dadee! I no want to wear dat. I want dis one!”) She bosses her siblings. (“Kids! Put on yowr shoes now!”) She bosses me. (“I not going to bed Mamma. I play witt my amials instead.”) Her little voice slays me, and her zest for life drives to me consume two cups of coffee a day, minimum.
Combine those two with their older siblings and a traveling husband and a winter that’s come early bearing gifts, and you probably sense why I’m unfinished. I just don’t have enough time. Enough energy. Enough me.
There was a time in my life when I would have been frustrated by this way of life. To wake up each morning brimming with stories and idea and never have a free minute to sit at the computer. To make dinner each night and have most of it get cold before I can eat it. To pick up all the toys after the kids go to bed only to have them scattered hither and yon again before 9:00 AM. To move the items on today’s To Do List to tomorrow and act like that’s the way it was supposed to be.
And yes, I can get annoyed. My inner control freak has been known to grumble at the chaos. I get itchy when the clutter gets thick. And there are days when I rush everyone into bed so I can sit on the couch and hear … nothing for just two seconds.
But most of the time, I don’t live frustrated. I live fulfilled. In the midst of the crazy, God’s glory shines. I see the gifts before me and my breath catches.
My heart’s palette has been retrained by the Holy Spirit to crave the soul-satisfaction of gratefulness. And like manna, that dish is best eaten today. Even in the chaos. Even in the mundane.
My life is unfinished. But God has given me today.
The milk sits on the counter next to the coffee creamer. The bread is still out, next to the still-open jar of peach jelly. The blackberries are on the stove top and the washcloth is on the high-chair next to the soggy Cheerios. The table where I’m sitting with my laptop is covered in small sticky spots that are probably dried milk from breakfast.
The living room is wall-to-wall Little People. Legos and cars and scraps of paper from Natalie’s latest self-invented game cover every flat surface.
Home as metaphor. Life unfinished. A work in progress. Two steps forward, one step back. Messy. Active. Always on the go.
It’s my reality these days.
I love being a mom to four. That sounds a little trite, a little too easy. But it’s true. My heart soars everyday to see these sweet little face. (This despite the fact that I’m so tired, it feels like I wear exhaustion like a wet pair of jeans.)
Kieran is growing so fast. He’s sitting up solidly now (after a few weeks of sitting up and then randomly falling backwards and knocking his noggin). He’s got two toofers. He is starting to get up on all fours and rock (hold me), and he’s pretty good at scooting around the living room on his belly. (Evidence: Last night, I set him down in the middle of the room. Five minutes later, I found him near the Christmas tree with an ornament in his mouth, a pink foam creation I made when I was in kindergarten. If a disease wiped out in the mid-70s is rediscovered in our house next week, you’ll know why.)
And Teyla. Oh my goodness. She grows more Teyla-like every day. She walks around my house, all giggles and sass. She bosses the dog. (“Keh-nole Sami! Keh-nole!”). She bosses her Dad. (“No Dadee! I no want to wear dat. I want dis one!”) She bosses her siblings. (“Kids! Put on yowr shoes now!”) She bosses me. (“I not going to bed Mamma. I play witt my amials instead.”) Her little voice slays me, and her zest for life drives to me consume two cups of coffee a day, minimum.
Combine those two with their older siblings and a traveling husband and a winter that’s come early bearing gifts, and you probably sense why I’m unfinished. I just don’t have enough time. Enough energy. Enough me.
There was a time in my life when I would have been frustrated by this way of life. To wake up each morning brimming with stories and idea and never have a free minute to sit at the computer. To make dinner each night and have most of it get cold before I can eat it. To pick up all the toys after the kids go to bed only to have them scattered hither and yon again before 9:00 AM. To move the items on today’s To Do List to tomorrow and act like that’s the way it was supposed to be.
And yes, I can get annoyed. My inner control freak has been known to grumble at the chaos. I get itchy when the clutter gets thick. And there are days when I rush everyone into bed so I can sit on the couch and hear … nothing for just two seconds.
But most of the time, I don’t live frustrated. I live fulfilled. In the midst of the crazy, God’s glory shines. I see the gifts before me and my breath catches.
My heart’s palette has been retrained by the Holy Spirit to crave the soul-satisfaction of gratefulness. And like manna, that dish is best eaten today. Even in the chaos. Even in the mundane.
My life is unfinished. But God has given me today.
This is God's work.What grace.
We rub our eyes—we can hardly believe it!
This is the very day God acted—
let's celebrate and be festive!
Salvation now, God. Salvation now!
Oh yes, God—a free and full life!
Where's the Line to Hate the Christmas Schmaltz?
On my way home from Bible study and Trader Joe's yesterday (both a spiritual experience, let me assure you), I heard the semi-new song "Where's the Line for Jesus?" on our local Christian radio station.
I made it through approximately 1.5 verses before I rolled my eyes so far back in my head, I saw my spinal cord.
Seriously people. What is it with the Christmas schmaltz? Maybe I'm turning into a curmudgeon, but I have no tolerance for it anymore. (Hey you, kids wearing pajama pants at the bus stop: Put on some real clothes! It's 5 degrees outside! And get off my lawn!)
I understand Christmas is largely an American, secularized holiday at this point. It's 85% Santa, shopping and sweets and 5% snow and lights and 10% the coming of Jesus, the Messiah. I truly believe you could remove the Gospel narrative from most Christmas celebrations and the majority wouldn't blink -- or even know something had changed. This realization helped me a lot last year when I realized some of my bad attitude about the holidays stemmed from too much blending of the two Christmases in my soul.
But I don't understand the need to make Christmas -- either of them -- a cesspool of sentimentality.
This year, I'm doing my best to enjoy cultural Christmas without losing focus on the original reason for the holiday. We have enough snow to guarantee a white Christmas. The kids and I are baking and decorating holiday cookies. We have a gorgeous tree taking up half the living room. And I'm almost done buying presents to tuck under it.
But I'm also reminding myself every day that advent, the coming, implies waiting. And not just waiting for presents. Waiting for hope deferred. Waiting for the wardrobe doors to reveal Narnia. Waiting for the Promise to come.
It's the farthest thing from contrived sentimentality you can imagine. It's real. It's true.
God's Christmas is so much deeper. It's an audacious rescue, a passionate love story. It recognizes the darkness, the sinking hopelessness that would swallow us all whole if not for the birth of this tiny babe.
Personally, I don't want to go to the mall and stand in line to see my God. Santa can have that gig.
I would rather leave the masses at the cathedrals to materialism and go instead to the humble stable and there
worship.
I made it through approximately 1.5 verses before I rolled my eyes so far back in my head, I saw my spinal cord.
Seriously people. What is it with the Christmas schmaltz? Maybe I'm turning into a curmudgeon, but I have no tolerance for it anymore. (Hey you, kids wearing pajama pants at the bus stop: Put on some real clothes! It's 5 degrees outside! And get off my lawn!)
I understand Christmas is largely an American, secularized holiday at this point. It's 85% Santa, shopping and sweets and 5% snow and lights and 10% the coming of Jesus, the Messiah. I truly believe you could remove the Gospel narrative from most Christmas celebrations and the majority wouldn't blink -- or even know something had changed. This realization helped me a lot last year when I realized some of my bad attitude about the holidays stemmed from too much blending of the two Christmases in my soul.
But I don't understand the need to make Christmas -- either of them -- a cesspool of sentimentality.
This year, I'm doing my best to enjoy cultural Christmas without losing focus on the original reason for the holiday. We have enough snow to guarantee a white Christmas. The kids and I are baking and decorating holiday cookies. We have a gorgeous tree taking up half the living room. And I'm almost done buying presents to tuck under it.
But I'm also reminding myself every day that advent, the coming, implies waiting. And not just waiting for presents. Waiting for hope deferred. Waiting for the wardrobe doors to reveal Narnia. Waiting for the Promise to come.
It's the farthest thing from contrived sentimentality you can imagine. It's real. It's true.
God's Christmas is so much deeper. It's an audacious rescue, a passionate love story. It recognizes the darkness, the sinking hopelessness that would swallow us all whole if not for the birth of this tiny babe.
Personally, I don't want to go to the mall and stand in line to see my God. Santa can have that gig.
I would rather leave the masses at the cathedrals to materialism and go instead to the humble stable and there
worship.
So We Got Some Snow This Weekend
So we got some snow this weekend.
Twenty-one inches, to be exact.
The fifth largest snow in Minnesota history. The biggest dump since the infamous Halloween Blizzard of '91, one of the classic "where were you" events in Minnesota history.
I know some people hate snow. It's a pain to shovel and scrape. It's cold and slippery and it makes driving treacherous.
I used to share the sentiment. When I was in college, winter held as much appeal as an IRS audit. It was long, bitter and tedious.
But … I don't know. Something has changed in me as I've gotten older. Maybe it's because I lived in snow-free San Diego for eight years. Maybe my inner weather geek is taking over. Maybe I’m turning into my mom, who is more Minnesotan-at-heart than most natives.
Or maybe ... now, I have kids.
And to kids, snow is magic.
Lately, I share the sentiment.
(Extreme babywearing, no?)
All this snow: It's GORGEOUS.
Even if it makes my driveway look like this.
It's crazy. What used to be frustrating now delights me. Instead of being annoyed, I'm amazed. My most frequent phrase this past weekend: Wow. It's so beautiful.
I have a feeling, most of life is, when seen through the eyes of a child.
Twenty-one inches, to be exact.
The fifth largest snow in Minnesota history. The biggest dump since the infamous Halloween Blizzard of '91, one of the classic "where were you" events in Minnesota history.
I know some people hate snow. It's a pain to shovel and scrape. It's cold and slippery and it makes driving treacherous.
I used to share the sentiment. When I was in college, winter held as much appeal as an IRS audit. It was long, bitter and tedious.
But … I don't know. Something has changed in me as I've gotten older. Maybe it's because I lived in snow-free San Diego for eight years. Maybe my inner weather geek is taking over. Maybe I’m turning into my mom, who is more Minnesotan-at-heart than most natives.
Or maybe ... now, I have kids.
And to kids, snow is magic.
Lately, I share the sentiment.
(Extreme babywearing, no?)
All this snow: It's GORGEOUS.
Even if it makes my driveway look like this.
It's crazy. What used to be frustrating now delights me. Instead of being annoyed, I'm amazed. My most frequent phrase this past weekend: Wow. It's so beautiful.
I have a feeling, most of life is, when seen through the eyes of a child.
How NOT to Raise a Pharisee
My oldest daughter, Natalie, is best described with one word: sweet.
She is nine years of sweetness and joy held together with art projects, Puppy Place books, giggles and a fierce love of all things horse. She is compassionate and sensitive, eager to do the right thing and quick to step in when someone needs help.
She’s also a Pharisee.
I can say that, because I’m a recovering Pharisee myself. (I think many oldest children struggle with Pharisee tendencies. That kernel of responsibility planted in us by our birth order often grows into a tree of self-righteousness. For more proof: See the Older Brother in the story of the Prodigal. Notice he wasn’t the younger brother. Interesting.)
A few months ago, Natalie and I were talking about sin on the way to school (not a daily occurrence, I assure you), and she said something like, “Well, I’m glad Jesus died for those people who are bad. But I’m not a bad person. I’m good.”
Inwardly, I smiled with understanding. Outwardly, I reiterated what we say often in our house: We are all born with a twisted heart. No one is really good. Some people may look better than others on the outside. But our souls are infected with a fatal illness. Jesus is the only antidote.
And in my marrow, I was convicted once again that my job as a parent isn’t just to raise kids with good behavior. I want nothing less than changed hearts. Even a Pharisee can look good. Only a God-believer can be good.
Enter "Spiritual Parenting" by Michelle Anthony. I was given the opportunity to review this book last month. I don’t do many reviews these days, because my life is scattered right now, and I’m trying to maintain a healthy dose of margin.
But this book? The tagline is “It’s not about perfect behavior. It’s about passionate hearts.”
Yes please. That’s a parenting book I wanted to read.
At its core, Spiritual Parenting then is not merely a book on “how to parent.” It’s far more than that. It’s a book about how to view your role as a spiritually minded parent, the God-given role that is yours alone. Essentially, it asks the question, “What is my end goal in raising each of the children God has entrusted to me, and then how will I parent them with that end in mind?”Oh my word. AMEN! That’s how I want to parent my children.
With that perspective, I can take my focus off a series of day-to-day events and set it on the bigger picture of passing on my faith. Each moment of every day becomes an opportunity to parent toward my God-given goal. I parent in a way that does not simply spend my hours but allows me to invest my days toward eternity.
- Michelle Anthony, "Spiritual Parenting"
Michelle goes on to (rightly) say that we can do little as parents to truly change our children’s hearts. That is the Holy Spirit’s job. But we can give the Holy Spirit room to work. To that end, she details ten “environments” we can build into our home that will allow our children to “not only hear God’s words but also have the opportunity to put them into practice.”
Intrigued? "Spiritual Parenting" is on sale right now on Amazon for only $10.19. Or you could win a copy of Michelle’s book and her corresponding children’s book, "The Big God Story" by leaving a comment on this post. David Cook has graciously agreed to send one of my readers an early Christmas present. I think its wisdom will encourage you, whether you have a Pharisee or a prodigal.
David C. Cook supplied me with a copy of "Spiritual Parenting" and "The Big God Story" for the purposes of this review. My opinions are strictly my own. The links in this post are also Amazon Affiliate links, which means I will earn about two cents if you buy one of Michelle's books by clicking through my blog. Comments will close Sunday, December 5 and a winner will be chosen at random that evening. I will let Natalie draw the winner. Because Pharisees are especially good at rule keeping.
UPDATE: We have a winner! Congratulations to Amy from Occupation: Mommy. Your books will be in the mail shortly!
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