21
June

Fraud Alert

You may not know that Chris and I declared bankruptcy in Oklahoma in the early 2000’s and that Chris is currently employed by Seven Eleven. Yeah, we didn’t know that either until about a week ago when Chris applied for a credit card for his business expenses and was denied. I immediately thought it was an instance of identity theft, so we called and placed a fraud alert on Chris’ credit report. You may already know that a fraud alert on a credit report alerts a potential creditor that a person’s identity has been compromised and requires a creditor to exercise greater diligence in verifying the identity before granting credit. Upon further investigation, Chris was not the victim of an identity thief; he was the victim of the credit reporting agency. They had mistakenly entered information belonging to a person with a name very similar to Chris’. We are still trying to get that cleared up.

Sometimes I wonder if Jesus might want to put a fraud alert on me to indicate that my identity as a Christ follower has been compromised. I listened to a podcast today and have read several blogs lately issuing a call to authenticity – a challenge to quit livin‘ the life of a poser. Of all the things I want to be in life, the one thing I want to be most is the real deal. I want to be a real-deal Christ follower. But I have secondary desires that want you to think I’m a good mom, and a devoted Christian, and a great housekeeper, and an ideal wife. There is a part of me that wants to sell you a fraudulent package of togetherness. When I allow those secondary desires to supersede my commitment to realness before Christ and you, I am a poser.

And posin‘ ain’t harmless. Our small group leader often revisits the truth that posers are more detrimental to the cause of Christ than nonbelievers – a claim that is substantiated in unchristian: What a New Generation Really Thinks About Christianity…And Why It Matters by David Kinnaman and Gabe Lyons. The Barna Group researched the perception of Christians among sixteen to twenty-nine year-olds and not surprisingly hypocritical was a common descriptor. Check out some observations from this study:

  • We need to “realize that what [outsiders] see from Christians creates their ideas about the reality and authenticity of following Christ” (43).
  • “Our culture considers having a good image to be one of the highest goals in life” (43).
  • “Young outsiders believe that rather than being able to help them sort through the image-is-everything world, followers of Christ are playing the very same mind games that they are” (44-45).
  • “Young adults have seen our lifestyles and heard our excuses, and they still land on the label ‘hypocritical’ ” (48).
  • “Transparency simply means admitting what the Bible says about us: we are fallen people who desperately need God in our lives – everyday” (55).
  • “Transparency disarms an image-is-everything generation” (56).
  • “Christian rhetoric without tangible acts of love is hypocrisy” (65).

And the truth of it is – Jesus totally called out the posers. And He repeatedly lit them up. And sometimes what is in me is so ugly and selfish and harsh and hard that I want to hide it from myself, much less share it with you. So I admit that I am what the Bible says I am – I am spiritually bankrupt, and in my genuine pursuit of Him I find my only hope for legitimacy and peace and fulfillment and joy and love and mercy.

Turns out there was a shade of truth to our bankruptcy, huh?

Read more
20
June

“I love it when a plan comes together!”

I’m a planner. I think maybe in another life I might enjoy being an event planner. I love to have an event in front of me and break it down into a sequence of tasks to complete. Right now I have about ten lists going before we leave next week:

  • A list of things to do before we leave
  • A final checklist of preparations to be made for the sitter (where to place the carseats, what’s for lunch, different money envelopes, etc….)
  • Separate lists for the sitter, my sister, and Chris’ parents (all those involved in childcare)
  • A mental list of everything to pack for the girls
  • A written list of items to pack for me
  • A grocery list
  • A strategic order for cleaning the house to create the best chances for it to still be clean by midweek

Tuesday I cleaned up after our mutant goldfish (seriously, one is six inches long at least), so they would be looking spiffy and fresh for our houseguests. Yesterday I made extra keys and carried them to an undisclosed location (in case anyone has a mishap while we’re away) and tonight I cooked (and froze) lunch for the sitter and the girls for next week. I’m keeping all clothes washed and have instated the don’t-wear-anything-you-plan-to-pack rule at this point, and we’re still about a week out.

I have also been simultaneously planning our Clemson Homecoming trip (Chris’ Father’s Day gift) and our Disney trip (yes, we are lovin’ some hotel points right about now).

What’s interesting to me is that this is not my normal MO; I am generally not supermotivated and efficient at the same time. But give me a trip or a party to plan, and my challenge becomes to avoid stress at the last minute by executing a well-designed plan over a matter of days or weeks. Wish that transferred into other areas of my life as well. Too bad planning a trip to the grocery store doesn’t elicit the same level of brain power.

Can you think of anything I may be forgettin’ in my master plan?

Not sure what’s up with the A-Team quotes I got goin’.

Anybody know how long goldfish live? We’re 13 months and counting…

Read more
18
June

“I ain’t gettin’ on no plane!”

Okay, so if you read the last post, I went on a ten day trip to England the summer after my first year of teaching. It was the first time I flew, and I was very excited about it. We had a night flight, so we flew all night and arrived at 8:00 am in Manchester. Well, the flight over was less then stellar. I was in the dead middle of a row with like ten people on either side of me – ten sleeping people. So, when I needed to go to the restroom, I had to maneuver through a game of Twister; there were limbs and snores and drool and gaping mouths everywhere. I stood by the bathroom most of the night because I couldn’t stand to be locked in by those hot-breathed bodies. So I wasn’t afraid, just a little freaked out by the circumstances surrounding my seat.

On the return flight, I was able to scoop up an aisle seat on the very last row. I enjoyed myself thoroughly. I watched the movies and listened to the airplane music and watched the screen that showed us progressing across the Atlantic and ate my peanuts, etc…

Later that same summer I flew to Miami with my mom. After we were married, Chris and I flew to Miami and New Orleans, and I really enjoyed flying. But I have only flown once in the past six years (the child-bearing years), and now I am wigged out about flying. My heart is racing and my breath is shallow just typing about flying. I kid you not.

My last flight was not pretty either. I fully expected Jesus to take me home that afternoon. Chris and I were with a group from his company, and I acted like a complete loon. He was sweet not to tell me how much I’m sure I embarrassed him. I sobbed and sat very still staring at my Bible opened on my lap, silently mouthing the words to Joshua 1:9. I know that’s freakish. I know, I know.

Chris and I are going to California for our ten-year anniversary trip in about a week, and we ain’t driving, so I’m thinking a lot about flying these days. I think the fact that I’m a mom has affected my desire to fly; I feel like I need to be around for my girls, so I prefer not to perish in a fiery mangled plane crash. And September 11. And the whole gravity-defying aspect really messes with me now.

So how have I gone from a person who enjoyed flying to one with a completely irrational fear of flying? And in my head I know all of the facts, but I firmly believe that my heart is going to burst and I am going to throw up and I may begin to scream hysterically as we accelerate down the runway. My stomach is churning as I type. Where’s the A Team when you need ’em? Can anybody hook me up with some Mr. T medication? I want to be on his flight plan.

Just kidding, sorta…

Read more
17
June

Mr. Principal

As a first-year teacher, I was terrified of my principal. And also as a second, third, and fourth-year teacher. He had red hair and was a Vietnam Vet. His office was completely decorated with war pictures and military memorabilia; I can remember one picture so vividly. Once when I went in to speak with him, he was actually listening to war anthems, and I am not making that up. His face could turn the color of his hair, and he could go from zero to red in 2 seconds flat (thankfully I was never on the receiving end of that). I could hardly speak in his presence, and if I saw him today I would still probably act like a bumbling idiot. I think I cried in his office two times during my first year when I went to ask to be relieved of my cheerleading sponsor duties.

One afternoon I was at the drink machine in the teacher’s lounge, and he walked by and came back to ask, “Ms. Eaddy, what are you doing this summer?”

“I don’t have any plans.”

“Do you think you can chaperone the trip to England?”

“Sure.” I went and took out a dang loan to go to England because I was too afraid to tell him no. I am not lying.

He observed in my class once during my tenure at that school, and I think he and my students looked on me with pity the entire time. I stammered. I spoke with a quiver in my voice, and I shook like a leaf. When Mr. Principal walked out the door, one of my students asked, “You were nervous, weren’t you?” I nodded the affirmative.

But here’s the thing. He was a really nice guy and a great principal. When I cried in his office, he gave me tissue and allowed me to use his private restroom to mop my face. When the district planned to transfer me to a middle school for my second year (due to enrollment decrease or some other number game), he brought me in and told me he would do everything he could to keep me there, and he did. He graciously took away the cheerleaders after my first year and he found a way to help pay for my plane ticket to England. And after the debacle he witnessed in my classroom, he sent me a gift certificate to Chili’s to treat myself. He was a great guy.

I was the issue. I was insecure as a new teacher. I perhaps placed too much focus on his stern side and not enough attention on his kindness. I created this skewed perception of him even though I had personal experience to the contrary. So, here’s the question. Is perception reality? Perhaps, it was reality to me that he was terrifying. But perception is not necessarily truth. He was truly a generous and thoughtful leader.

My perception is not truth. It is tainted by my own opinions and biases and preferences and emotional state and lack of sleep and too much caffeine and bad hair day, etc… Whether I’m thinking about my perception of you or other people or a restaurant or God or whatever, it’s important for me to realize that the filter through which I see the world may, in fact, hinder me from seeing truth.

Something to chew on…

Read more
16
June

My Prince Did Come…

In honor of Father’s Day, here’s my June submission for She…

We don’t shop as a family. That’s a no-no for us; it’s just too nutty with a six year-old and a three year-old. Some families do it masterfully, and they make me want to run over them with my shopping cart. In the interest of our sanity, we just abstain from family shopping. So, one Saturday we whizzed through the drive-thru at Chick-Fil-A. I inhaled my lunch, so I could run in to Dick’s Sporting Goods to buy a birthday gift while Chris and the girls finished lunch in the car (restrained eaters can be a good thing). In the store, I dashed around, searching for the gift, hoping all was well outside.

When I crawled back into my seat, everything seemed peachy. No one was crying; lunch was done; each daughter was playing with her kid’s meal toy, and Chris looked calm – a little glazed over – but nothing major. I had the gift, the last of its kind on the shelf, and our mission was successful and complete.

There was more, however, to the story than I, or even Chris, had been aware of. As we were driving home, Carson began to elaborate on the events that transpired in the car while I was shopping. “Momma, while you were in the store, Campbell snatched my toy and wouldn’t give it back.”

“So what did you do? Did you tell Daddy?”

“Yeah, I tried to, but he didn’t do anything. I called him and called him, but he wouldn’t pay attention. I finally yelled, ‘What’s a parent good for?’ and he still didn’t listen.”

I swallowed a smile and glanced over at Chris, who was hearing all this for the first time too, and commented to her, “Well, you guys must have worked it out okay, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

My husband’s ability to tune out the noise generated by the sassy women in his life is an attribute that probably serves him well. It has probably evolved as a defense mechanism – his psyche’s way of protecting his sanity. ‘Cause he’s the lone male in a house with three girls (two little, one big – all bossy).

He is our protector, provider, our resident comedian and fix-it man. He bears sole responsibility for anything we deem man-related like pets, grass, leaks, light bulbs, oil, trash, tires, wires, insurance, retirement, plants, and so much more. Little stuff like affirming our beauty, reading our minds, rolling with our mood swings and contradictions, pacifying our whining, speaking reason and peace into our lives, looking courageously into the face of pure, full-blown female meltdowns, and surprising us with tokens of his affection. We’re not an easy crowd, I know.

So what’s in this arrangement for him, you might ask. He is adored by us. Our daughters dig their daddy. He was just away for two weeks, and Carson cried every day. Campbell was ticked at him for leaving, and I was somewhere in between those two reactions.

They love to climb on Daddy, attack Daddy, tickle Daddy, and slide down Daddy. They like to pretend to be baby jaguars and Daddy is the zookeeper. They like to pile on the couch and pretend they’re on a boat in a terrible storm where crew members and supplies keep falling overboard. They like to play Roly Poly car where they drive this car and make lots of imaginary stops on their journey to nowhere. They stand on their princess picnic table in the back yard and chant a gazillion times, “Go, Daddy, go!” as he competes in one volleyball game after another. They invariably say, “I want to go show Daddy” when we’ve done something different with their hair or when they’re donning some new duds. They’ll just run and stand before him without saying a word, and he perceives how tickled they are with themselves and understands that they are awaiting his admiration. And he gushes – much to their delight. They like to date him, dance with him, and devour his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (I am not allowed to make them if he is anywhere on the premises).

We have a plaque in the girls’ bathroom that reads, “My prince did come…His name is Daddy.” And he is just that. So, though his life may be filled with more prissy and pink than he might prefer, there’s no shortage of female adoration either.

Earlier in the school year, Carson was sharing about a flirtation between two classmates that was blossoming during recess on the playground. I stifled the urge to rant against romance in 5K, and quizzically asked, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

My heart sank when she replied, “Yes…..” in a coy tone.

“Who’s your boyfriend?”

Totally unprompted and never having had this conversation before, she replied very confidently, “Daddy’s my boyfriend.” And I breathed a grateful, grateful sigh of relief…

Read more