I know practical. I am a boring, no nonsense kinda gal. Although I can usually get the job done, there is often much to be desired in my fleshly modus operandi. I assess the bottom line and trudge in headlong without noticing or caring about the people in the process. But I am learning ~ or rather, the Holy Spirit is teaching me that every step in the journey IS the journey. And practical is not always best. 

I like need order, too.  I used to think I was a control freak, and, while not discounting that completely (Mr. Visionary made me say that), I have learned that most some of this is just the way I am wired. I can't handle visual cacophony with my mental processing ability intact (I can't think in a mess). All of that is to say that I like things neat. Even with seven children, this desire has not abated. It hasn't materialized either, but that is another matter.

My old method in getting the girls to clean up their room was to come in and elbow-to-elbow with them, help them find order, fussing all the while, focusing more on the job than the little hearts. Partial enlightenment came, and I changed this method to: "If you can't keep it cleaned up, you can't keep it". That wasn't being mean, just...(here's that word again)...practical. If they couldn't keep it clean, they must have had too much stuff, so I'd help them get rid of stuff. Originally this method was met with weeping and gnashing of teeth, but over time, as they realized they never missed the extra stuff, the girls came to love getting rid of more stuff. It really was easier, they found.

But there are times now, even with very little clutter, that it is still a burdensome task for them to keep things orderly. Through praying for an idea to help my ladies, the Lord led me to a plan that blesses them even more than my help with the cleaning (although they still welcome this act of service). I came in today following the usual plan, "When the timer goes off, whatever is not in it's place goes in the bag", when the Lord whispered to me to rearrange the furniture. Huh? I didn't really get it, but I obeyed.

I made a few little changes here and there, only moving pieces that Mr. Visionary would approve of our moving without his help. A new doily, a new plant, and some of my Valentine's roses...and my girls were blessed. Oh, so blessed. It inspired them to feel good about their room, it encouraged their femininity, and if not giving them a new lease on life , then at least a new lease on their day. Smiling and encouraged, they flitted about, making their own changes, adding their own new touches, and the whole matter was concluded in half the time as usual.

These are good girls who sometimes get weighed down by their burdens. I don't need to add to it by being so practical. (C'mon, Mom, remember what it feels like. Weren't you feeling this way just yesterday?) Dawn is right, people and relationships  really are more important than everything else.

Thank you Lord, for letting blind eyes see... One. Moment. At. A.Time.

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A rumpled brow, a furitive glance behind each shoulder...then 'the question'. With obvious trepidation in their voice and fully expecting the worst, they ask, "What do (gulp) the children think of her?"   If these folks could be a fly on the wall in my home...   "Hurry up you guys! Everybody come quick-she's doing it!"   From every corner of the house, seven of us scurry to the scene, dropping everything in an effort to witness Babydoll's smile. As we jockey for position, striving to be directly in her field of vision, we hope that this priceless-but-fleeting grin will reappear.   In our family, there is an eight-way tie for who is most qualified to be president of her fan club, eight contenders for the Who-Can-Make-Her-Smile award. The prize is the smile itself.   It is not unusual for the entire family to stand encircled around this Blessing enthralled with her every breath, as the rest of life slips into suspended animation. It can wait...We have taught our children that if this is not our response to such an event, that there is something very wrong.   What do the children think of her?   Our children have been taught to think God's thoughts after Him. "Lo, children are a heritage of the Lord: and the fruit of the womb is his reward" Psalm 127:3. This means every child. Not just the first child born to wealthy Americans with established careers. The blessing extends to the seventh child...or the fifteenth. The circumstances do not fulfill or negate the blessing.  "The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it" Proverbs 10:22. A child is a blessing simply because He has declared it so. My children understand this better than the average adult.    And that understanding deepens with every smile...   "Y'all come quick...she's doing it!"

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There are times when I am unsure if I am dreaming. Did I hear it or did I imagine it? In the early morning hours before I awake, I am half listening for it, half savoring the last few minutes of slumber before it comes. It always comes. Without respect for the day, the season, the temperature...it comes. At exactly point eight millimeters from my ear, at precisely 90 decibels, (a full hour before I desire to be awake),  Little Napoleon startles me awake  every morning by whispering, "Mom, can I have a snack?" While this forced discipline of waking early is technically helpful, ( I do need to get up), let the record show that it is not my preferred method of waking. A more propitious ceremony for my tastes involves waking with the sun gently shining on my face, snuggling with Mr. Visionary, and slooowwwwly slipping into coherency. In silence. Although this is (*sigh*) not the life of a Momma, and the rest of the family has to be fully awake before even thinking about food, this little tike is ravenous the second his eyes open. Enter cookies for Santa-my "great" idea. While our family does not participate in any of the sweet stories, storybook legends blasphemous teachings about Santa Claus, we have drafted, tongue-in-cheek, this euphemism about the plate of cookies. Each night before bed, I will set out a plate of non-perishable snacks (crackers, fruit, raisins, etc.) and a drink on the kitchen table. My plan involves Little Napoleon waking in starvation mode, and going directly to the kitchen to savor this snack, this "first breakfast" before the real breakfast is served. This would conceivably give me time to get ready for the day, meet with the Lord, and have a clue what will be for breakfast. Besides, I cook better when fully dressed. There have been a few glitches in the plan, that have been easily remedied. First, I occaisionally often forget to leave the snack on the table. One morning of being jolted out of a dream cures my memory issues temporarily. This forgetfulness has built-in consequences. The second detail to accomodate is that Little Napoleon has acquired a trusty sidekick in the person of Doodle. So I leave a snack for two. Problems solved. The last dilemma to settle is that when I do remember to leave the snack, at exactly point eight millimeters from my ear, at precisely 90 decibels, Little Napoleon startles me awake every morning by whispering, "Mom, is it OK to eat my snack?" Even with no sleep, I'd rather wake to this little voice than an alarm clock any day.

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My middle son has been reincarnated. Well, at least his personality has. It has appeared in  the form of his younger sister who is currently at the ripe old age of two and a half. What these siblings have in common is their tendency to be stormy toddlers. You know the ones: grouchy, easily offended, with hot little tempers.   Of course everyone can be like this at times. We come by it honestly, being the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve that we are. Gratefully, sanctification can deal a death blow to the majority of it for those of us older folks. Toddlers do not have the ability to deal with it effectively, however, at least not without some training. Enter Mom and Dad.   As I have prayed recently about our feisty Doodle, and how the Lord would have me handle her outbursts, I suddenly remembered. I have been through this before! Why I had not recollected it sooner, I cannot say. I would need to use the old standby, the Chair Treatment.   As a toddler, when The Dreamer had an episode of "losing it", the only cure was to pick him up (kicking and screaming if necessary), take him to the rocking chair, and rock him until he melted. The amount of time it took to get our happy little boy back varied, but the plan never failed. Eventually he would be a good-humored, happy-go-lucky little guy again.   We have recently taken up this practice successfully with the Doodle, and are likewise experiencing  foolproof results:   It appears to work for The Daddy, too.

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