Wouldn't it be wonderful to always have the unquestioning, joyful faith of a child?

When my grandfather died, my brother and sister-in-law weren't sure how to handle explaining it to their two year old daughter, Maddie. They decided to simply tell her that Papa had gone to be with Jesus. Surprisingly, she was thrilled at the news. Of course her understanding of "going to be with Jesus" included a "visiting" type of arrangement that allowed for coming and going at will.

She was having an utterly wonderful time at the visitation. Skipping around, smelling all the flowers and delighting in all the attention from the aunts, uncles and cousins that had come together just to talk about Papa being with Jesus. Because my grandparents lived in Florida, Maddie hadn't spent much time with him, so it was understandable that she wouldn't remember exactly what he looked like.

In the midst of "working the room", enchanting everyone and cooperatively giving out hugs and kisses, she happened to look up as one of my grandfather's friends entered the room. I must admit he does slightly resemble my grandfather but she thought it was him and stopped dead in her tracks to run and welcome him back from his "visit" with Jesus.

"Papa!", she exclaimed excitedly, "You're back!"

Being hard of hearing, he didn't understand what she was saying but he was charmed to be greeted so enthusiastically and took her proffered little hand and was led willingly to the nearest seat. After he sat down, she stood between his knees, resting a pudgy elbow on each knee. She was visibly eager to engage him in conversation.

"You were with Jesus, but now you're back...and ALL these flowers are for you!"

I was fortunate enough to witness every detail of this charming exchange. It amused me to no end. It touched me too, that she knew enough about Jesus to be filled wth such awe and excitement to talk to someone that had actually been with Jesus.

I have a confession to make: I am way too obsessed with how I look. I could spend hours in the "aisles of beauty" at Hudson's (I'm never going to get used to calling it Macy's). Always in search of the secret potion that is going to take years off and vanish the hundreds of brown spots I've managed to accumulate. I am always in awe of people that could care less what they look like. My daughter is like that. Even if the biggest "crush" of her life was dropping by for a visit, it wouldn't occur to her to primp for him. Even after my not too subtle suggestions, "Do you think you should change? Or maybe comb your hair? Put a little color in your cheeks?" And despite the terrrible example I've been, she still doesn't feel the need for any extra enhancements. Isn't that the best? I adore that quality about her. She is what she is. Love it, love it, love it!

Though I'm sometimes a little suspect of the penchant to pin all of our unattractive character traits on our upbringing, I have to admit my mom deserves at least some of the blame for my unhealthy obsession. Through some hideous stroke of fate, I wasn't born with curly hair. My dad had curls, my older brother had waves, my younger brother had beautiful ringlets, my mom had (and still does) a headful of gorgeous curls, but much to my mom's dismay, mine was straight. My mom, not being one to accept defeat easily, started making me wear curlers every night just as soon as I grew enough straight hair to wind around a curler. Though there were nights that I begged to go to bed without my "cur-wers," it was a rare night that Dippity-Do and "cur-wers" weren't part of our bedtime routine. If people got a gander at me after I'd been swimming they were shocked that I didn't actually have curly hair (a poser!). I'd overheard my mom tell people that I was "just as pretty on the inside" and that's what I felt like telling people when they looked at my pin straight hair so appallingly (or so it seemed). I didn't feel like I passed muster without curly hair. I wanted to say, "but...I'm still pretty on the inside."  Sadly, focusing on being "pretty on the inside" has not been a guiding principle in my life.

Not long ago, I needed to get my passport renewed. Knowing I was going to be looking at it for the next ten years, I made sure I got "dolled up" for the picture. Despite my efforts to the contrary, my picture was devastating. Good heavens! I'd aged thirty years! My mom (ever the comforter) said it's really no wonder because I'd been "put through the mill" these past ten years. Well, who knew "the mill" could wreak such havoc? While still at CVS (I would NOT recommend getting your passport pictures taken there), an insensitive beast of a man asked me what had caused my "grandson's" problems. At this point, I wanted to go sit in the car and have myself a good cry, but the hateful brute (the animosity was growing) kept asking question after question after question. Mind your own business, already!

I am disappointed that looking old and being mistaken for my son's grandmother derailed me like it did. I don't want to waste any precious time being caught up in the "things of this world" that are here for a moment and gone tomorrow. As I get older I am increasingly saddened (and feel sure God must be too) by my unhealthy fixation.

After Brett was born the apostle Paul's words, "perplexed but not in despair" often went through my mind (and still do). I didn't know the reference, context or any more of the passage than that. And yet...just those words were comforting to me. I had shared this once with my daughter Caitlin and, being the thoughtful sweetheart she is, she recently gave me a card with the whole passage written on it. I never realized it was from one of my most beloved chapters in the Bible (2 Cor. 4). One that I try to live by, to use to counteract what the world is constantly pushing: That unattainable perfect body, face, home etc. All these "things" that "so easily entangle" and hinder me from "running the race marked out for me", that keep me from "fixing my eyes on Jesus, the author and perfector of my faith." (Hebrews 12)

In my Bible 2 Corinthians 4 has a title: Treasures in Jars of Clay. A humble container to hold the greatest treasure ever given. "But we have this treasure in jars of clay [aging, deteriating receptacles]to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed." Later in the chapter it says, "Though outwardly we are wasting away [sadly, we are all getting old], yet inwardly [this is the great part!] we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all [YES!]. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen [the outer shell, the sagging skin, the age spots etc.], but what is unseen [the ever renewing heart and mind!]. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." Another one of my favorite "Truth talking" chapters is Romans 8, Paul states here that our "present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us." (v.18)

Does this mean that I'm going to stay away from the "aisles of beauty"? Probably not. Does it mean that my feelings won't be hurt when I'm 80 and someone thinks I'm 100? Probably not.
But it does bring me back to the fact that I am a work in progress and that I am blessed beyond measure to know where my true value lies. "Being confident in this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." (Phil. 1:6)

As children of the sixties we experienced an entirely different world than our children experience today. We didn't have car seats, helmets, floaties, sunscreen or childproof caps. Instead of relying on electric outlet covers to keep us from poking knives into them or fancy gadgets to keep us out of cupboards, we were told not to do so. Simply put, if we didn't do as we were told we would be "smacked into the middle of next week." I can remember many times wishing I could be smacked into the middle of next week. But it must have worked, because we're all still here, buying up all those fancy gadgets.

When we were kids it was common to be left in the car while our moms went into the mall, after all... they'd only be gone for a "few" minutes. And we wouldn't be in the only car load of kids in the parking lot either. We tried to keep ourselves occupied for a while: blowing the horn at people as they walked by (laughing hysterically if it caused them to jump out of their skins), yelling to kids in other cars, pretending to be smoking...but it all got pretty old fairly quickly. By the time our moms finally came out (looking like they could use a third arm to carry all the packages) we'd usually be hot, sweaty messes from wrestling around with each other.

I can't remember it even being suggested that we wear a seat belt. It was total mayhem in the back seat. Whining about it got the "hand" reaching back and indiscriminately slapping anything in range. Nowadays kids have their own personal "thrones" replete with cup holders and personal dvd players. Nary a sweat drop will be found on their bodies because they control the temperature in their own personal domain.

I took Caitlin to a water park when she was four. Foolishly, we decided our first ride would be on the biggest water slide. The line was long, but we persevered and finally made it to the "launching station." As Caitlin got ready to be put in her tube to go down, she suddenly decided it was too scary for her. I offered to go down with her, but no, apparently that wasn't allowed under any circumstances. You could tell that the kid assisting in the boarding and launching of the tubes took his job very seriously.

I took Caitlin aside and said, "Okay Honey, Here's the deal, you either get in the tube and go down the slide or we go back to the car and sit in it for the rest of the day. You decide."

She stood quietly, contemplating her choices. Finally with tears in her eyes she said, "I guess I'll just go sit it the car."

Stunned, I told her that was in fact the wrong answer and despite her shrieks of protest and the angry objections of the "launcher guy," I tossed her in a tube and sent her on down. I grabbed another tube and sent myself down right behind her. As we rounded the first twist in the slide, I realized why the launcher guy was so adamant about the timing of each launch. My weight had me going so much faster than Caitlin that it became clear I was going to slam into her. Sure enough, with her screaming in fear and me screaming with laughter, I hit her with such force that she popped out of her tube entirely and went the rest of the way down the slide without it.

 Fortunately, back then every employee wasn't wired up with fancy walkie-talkies. Sure as anything if "launcher guy" would have had the latest technology he would have had some beefy security type waiting at the bottom of the slide to escort me out. As it was, Caitlin loved her ride and couldn't wait to go down again. Of course we had to bide our time (we didn't want to risk running into that uptight little launcher again). That was the last time she expressed any fear to go on any ride of any kind. To the world if may have looked like child abuse, but for me it worked like a charm.

I'm sure we've all heard it said that perception is reality, but I wonder how often we unwittingly have the wrong perception and thus the wrong reality.

We went through a really rough stretch with Brett. He would inexplicably start screaming and the only thing that would calm him down was a ride in the car. Inevitably,  these episodes happen in the middle of the night.

Night after night, an exhausted, disheveled Bob would bundle Brett up for their nightly car ride. He got in the habit of driving up to Taco Bell and ordering a taco and a Pepsi. He said he was sure the teenager working the night shift thought he was a horrible, negligent father (or more likely grandfather, since Bob's once black hair is now completely white). Just a drunk needing a taco fix after a drinking binge, completely unmindful of his innocent young son slumped over in the back seat, sound asleep.

If that teenager did think that (and who could blame him?), isn't it sad how wrong his perception was? Instead of his eyes being bloodshot from too much alcohol, my husband's eyes were red and watery because he genuinely ached for our son, who has no way of letting us know what was wrong with him. He had no way of knowing that Bob, far from trying to stave off a wicked hangover, had been using his drive time to pray unceasingly for God to comfort Brett, to take away whatever was keeping him from getting his much needed sleep. He had no way of knowing that far from being a negligent, horrible father, he is the most tenderhearted and devoted father I know.

When Brett was in the neonatal intensive care unit, a young man came in covered in tattoos with a face full of piercings. He'd go straight to the corner of the nursery, pull up a chair and drape himself over a tiny baby in an incubator.  I never saw that baby move, but that young man was there every single day.

Sadly, I know if I would have seen him in any other environment, I would have judged him as odd, incapable of the selfless dedication he exhibited. How wrong I would have been! We're so good at finding the flaws and oddness in others, but God doesn't call on us to judge others. Only God sees hearts and motives. May God give us His eyes to see beyond outward appearances and to extend the unconditional grace and love He offers us regardless of how we perceive them.