- Caleb and I are going to New Mexico on Thursday. Together. No kids. This is the first official trip we’ve taken as a couple since…um…
- I lie. We did go to Lake Guntersville, Alabama once. What a fun day that was.
- So. I’m excited. I am going to play obnoxious music on our drive…
- When I’m not busy making Caleb play a card game called “Getting to Know You”.
- And then, once we get in town, I’m going to mack on my husband like no other.
- I don’t know how else I’m going to convince him to art-gallery with me.
- And yes, I remember how to put on lipstick.
- I think.
- Let me go check.
- Yep. I remember.
- My sister and her husband will be watching my children.
- And making sure my dogs don’t pee on stuff.
- And feeding everyone, and getting everyone to bed, and running errands, and picking up and dropping off, and entertaining, and making sure no one dies and/or burns the house down.
- It will be great.
- For me.
- I’ve typed up a list of helpful information and important phone numbers.
- This list is 3 pages long. 4 pages if you include the map of our town.
- In other news, it’s been a fantastic week so far.
- Starting with church yesterday.
And this is where I begin the rest of this entry. Our youth pastor stood in for our normal pastor, and man, he pwned that sermon. Cheyenne would be mortified if she knew I wrote that word on the internet for all the world to read, but he did. He was an epically legit beast who pwned. Basically, he was talking about fearing God. He quoted Isaiah, the guy of unclean lips who saw God on His throne–always awesome–and pointed out how utterly Holy God is, and how downright scared we should be of him. And I quote: “Not the kind of fear as in, ‘God, I’m just going to really respect you right now’. ” He pointed out how ridiculously afraid we should be–just because He is who He is (Holy as all get-out), and we are who we are (scandalously wicked)…it’s a crap-your-pants kind of fear, we should have, really.
Growing up, it was my mom, and not my dad, that did most of the disciplining around our house. And I was the oldest, so my experiences were totally different than that of my youngest little sister, meaning I got to live through my mom at her very strictest–I mean, her ultimate best. I can remember being seriously afraid of my mom, who loved me, for sure, but wow. Didn’t want to make her mad. I remember thinking, specifically, of places to hide in case I ever got in trouble–and know that I didn’t have to actively be in trouble to start thinking of these places–I planned them out AHEAD OF TIME. My go-to routine was running as fast as I could to my room, (because you’re always faster than your parents when you’re little, right?), locking my door behind me, and hiding all the way under my bed, where she couldn’t reach.
She was a nice mom–one of the nicest moms I think there could ever be, but that didn’t mean she didn’t punish me when I did something bad. So when I say I feared her, it was a very real fear–not just, “Oh, okay, mom. Go ahead and punish me now. Let’s just get it over with so I can get on with doing whatever it was I was doing that probably got me in trouble in the first place.” No. While I was little, it was a heart-pounding, stomache-twisting, palms sweating, hands trembling, I-can’t-freaking-breathe-please-don’t-hurt-me-I’ll-do-anything terror, and I always knew when it was coming, because I always deserved it.
Whenever I pissed her off really bad, I immediately hauled butt to my hiding spot and lay there, listening to my mom thunder up the stairs, open my door (did she pick the lock or did she just use her heat vision to blast it open? I forget.) and reach under my bed, clawing for me as I pressed myself as close to the wall as I could get. All I could say was, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” over and over again. She only wanted to drag me out and give me a little spanking, if anything, but it was the rage in her eyes I was most scared of.
This is starting to sound like a detailed account of how I was beaten and emotionally tortured as a young girl, but I assure you, I had a safe and happy childhood, and my mom was a saint and she did a fantastic job in raising me and my sisters, and if it had been me raising me, I would have murdered myself in cold blood and chopped up my body and fed it to my other kids to hide the evidence.
Anyway, I think I tend to fall into the habit of not fearing God–that he’ll let a lot of stuff slide because he’s so loving and forgiving. But God? Is not the pushover I think I assume that he is 90% of the time. God is so unfathomably Holy and powerful and amazing that I don’t even know why I try describing him with words from this Earth. How dare I get so worked up over things that will not matter 5 minutes from now, much less for eternity? What is wrong with me, that I get so bold sometimes as to question God’s ways, or complain about the outcome of God’s plans, or doubt for even a minute that God is in control? He could simply look at me and make me explode–just explode, Raiders of the Arc-style–if he wanted to. That’s way more scary than a sweet little Earthly momma threatening me with a mild spanking. I think it’s time I start putting fear into the equation when I’m considering my obedience to God.
That is all.
Dude, I hope my mom doesn’t get mad at me for oversharing when she reads this. I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side.