Jenny From the Block, on Parenting

Here I sit having just finished a piping hot bowl of chicken flavored Top Ramen. The steam from the heat of the remaining broth is still spinning in a spirally little dance upwards. I literally burnt my tongue as I choked my noodles down today. Choking not because the noodles are difficult to eat, but choking because I have that thing in my throat that my mom, sister and I refer to as, the "lump." The one that sits there begging you to just give in and cry. 

I am torn today. Broken. Beside myself and desperate. I don't know how I got here. Sometimes life's all, BOOM, and what can a girl do? I'm just going to say it...I'm scared. My answers are running out, and my control is fleeting and I feel nervous and sort of angry. I really need Jesus to step in and do something because parenting is hard. Nothing big, or dangerous has happened, but I can feel the world creeping in to engage my girls in conversations I want so badly to protect them from. 

My third grader wants to hang out with fifth graders, (note: there is a big difference between third graders and fifth graders), and while she still makes believe and loves to play dolls I can see the transformation happening, and I don't like it. And so from that place of insecurity I sometimes parent from a place of fear. I turn into "Jenny from the block," all ghetto-like, and make fun of other kids, secretly hoping that my kids will fall in line, and also hate the behavior I'm talking trash about and rolling my eyes at. I wish 1,000 times over that I could take back words like, "Oh please, so-and-so better watch her mouth or I will call her parents to tell them what a terrible little person they are turning out, and you know what else? If I hear anymore of this you won't be allowed to talk to her. Ever. That behavior is so lame." 

So super mature. I stink at this. Sometimes. (I have to give myself some credit. I don't always mess up.)

So, today more than anything I want my girls to have an eagle's eye view into my heart where my love for them has drown most everything else out. Where they can see how deeply I love them and how I want nothing more than for them to never feel pain or hurt, or the sting of rejection, or the hate of a mean girl, or the pressure of their "friends" that comes on so strong that they are literally on the edge of giving in. Or worse yet, that they give in. And then become acquainted with regret and secrets. 

I want my girls to know that I'm sorry for being an immature, ghetto mama sometimes. That's not me. The real me wants more than anything to give love and to be available for them always. To be the mama that won't revert to pointed words and ridiculous threats when she feels threatened. Dear girls, I'm sorry. And I love you more than life, and I always, always will.

We are at that weird point in time where my girls don't know the first thing about curse words. They wouldn't know what to do with the f-word if they heard it. They'd probably just ask me, "Mama, what does *#+! mean?" And then I'd have to tell Jenny-from-the-block to back away slowly so she didn't use that very same word to articulate the anger that caused her to fall faint on the floor the very second she heard such fifth coming out of such a pretty little mouth. It hasn't happened, but the stories I hear...the stories I can't believe...those are happening and my girls are out there within earshot of the filth. 

Dear babies, don't let it in. Don't let it affect you. Stay the course. Grab a hold of Jesus and never ever look back. You can do this. You can walk through the grime and the gunk of this world and come out stronger on the other side. You can be the exception. You can be the example. And just so you know, you wouldn't bring me shame if you went a different way. There is nothing in this world that could ever separate you from me. I will love you outrageously forever (here on earth and in heaven). I'm your mama here and I'll be your mama in heaven. Nothing will ever diminish my love for you. That's a promise you can bet your life on. 

And so we are making some changes. Are we pulling them out of school? No. Not now anyway. I believe Jen Hatmaker was right when she said something like, when we keep our kids locked away and protected at home, we are keeping them from the very world they were sent to redeem. Tough words to process, but I believe she's right. Will we ever homeschool? Yes, probably. For extended periods of time? No, probably not, but then again, who knows? Is this right for everyone? No, definitely not. This is us. This is our story.

But we will shift our schedules around to allow our big girls the space and time they need to participate in kids church at a Baptist church nearby. And we will work to plant the word of God so deeply in their hearts, souls and spirits that they are better equipped to fight the battles that I cannot fight for them, which are becoming less and less -- they are growing up, and I hate it. (Oh, if I could only be there for them all!) We will continue to have dinner together as a family because this is where we do our best work. We play games, talk about the day's high and low points, and this is where we sort through the trials of the day. This is also where I vacillate from cool, calm, collected mom, to the occasional, so-help-me mom. I'm sorry for those abrupt moments. I know they're necessary sometimes, but I could stand to work on my delivery. And I will.

So, no real answers here, only thoughts, and prayers, and a reminder that Jesus knew what He was doing when He sent us 3 girls and a boy to parent. He believed in our ability to do our very best, and we are trying. 

Is this scary? Am I at a loss? Yes. Am I giving up? Not a chance. This is good news, I suppose. It quite simply means that Jesus must be at the forefront. That the days of just getting by are tired and over. That if we hope to come out stronger and healthier on the other side we will have to hand the reigns completely over to Him. Everything with prayer and supplication. So there you have it. I'm done being afraid. I'm no good when I'm afraid. I'm weak when I'm afraid. My kids need me to be brave now more than ever. Dear girls, I will be brave...so you can be brave. 

5 Minute Friday

I found a new stranger friend who does this cool, 5-Minute Writing Friday Thing. This is mine. Where is yours? Go here to join in Lisa-Jo Baker. I think I could get into this!! Hooray for new friends.


5 minutes. No cheating. Ready, go.

The Word: Bare

How my soul felt yesterday when I stumbled onto Lisa-Jo's blog. It was a breath of fresh air for a young Mom like me always looking for sisters to come alongside me and help me navigate this ship called motherhood, daughter of the King, and wife to the most handsome, loving guy I know. And also, bare, as in the place I'd like to live all of the time. A place where walls are down, worries are situated in the backseat of my car - the one where joy is in the driver's seat and peace is her co-pilot. Bare as in not being in control of my life, but giving all control to Jesus because He's the only One who can protect my family in this big, problem laden world. Bare as in clean floors. I love clean floors. Wait. Is that an area of control? Yeah. Yeah, it is. Bare as in the slate is wiped clean. Today is a new day, and the world will open up to bless me so that I can remain bare. Bare and peaceful and clean and hopeful. I like bare!

Church

Confession time. My family has not been to church in a very, very long time. Well, not in the, "What church do you go to?" church sense. We've organized 24hr worship with some of the most precious people on earth for the past four years, and that's been amazing, and we attend a Wednesday worship night led by Don Potter as often as we can, but we haven't been in an actual church, like, on an actual Sunday, in a very long time. We've had church at home, complete with all the bells and whistles -- announcements done by my 7 year old, welcome and opening prayer done by my 9 year old, worship led by Josh and accompanied by the Trask circus, books of the Bible memorization song by YouTube, lesson plans done by the Internet, tending to toddlers done by the nursery staff (all of us), and crying time led by me...which leads to corporate crying...over things like orphans, or Jesus dying, or almost nothing. I'm an emotional person. I cry. I lead with tears. The little girl sheep follow. And our Senior Pastor, my husband, looks at us like he's lost complete control of his flock, but he's smiling. We sit pathetic and sobbing, huddled on the couch in our jammies, because Jesus has come, and He's awesome, and we've been wrecked. A sure sign that this Sunday will be a good day. Or whatever day we happen to gather on.

So, why am I mortified when someone asks me, "What church do you go to?" Partly because we live in the South so naturally going to church is the right thing to do, and partly because I know (to my horror) that one of my kids will blurt out, "We don't go to church," which is sometimes subsequently followed by a pointed, "We need to go to church, Mom." I'm always like, "Take me now, Jesus. These kids are total sell-outs." (Hush, child.) And then I try to explain, but it's hard. How do you say, "Yep. We don't go to church on Sunday. We stay home. We do other things in place of Sunday morning church. We aren't backslidden. We love Jesus. We are good Christian people." 

Are you buying it? It's such a hard sell. 

We are conflicted, and you're probably confused. Let me explain. We used to live for church. There was a time when we were so lovesick with programs and meetings and messages that fed our souls and spirits that we became addicted to them, and regarded the people bringing the messages like real life celebrities. Shame. We lived for a good, fiery message that pulled us out of ourselves and threw us into the heart of God, and we still do. These messages are life giving and important, but they aren't what keeps our worlds in orbit anymore. Jesus does.

Over time something has happened at our house. The person we considered our mentor (our former Pastor) became human (he always was) and had personal problems in his life to overcome. And things shifted. He moved away. We were sad, but we pressed on, still staying as amped up about church as ever, granted a little broken-hearted, but still focused. Still church meeting go-getters! And then life happened. Babies came, and then more babies came, and over time church changed for us. Church became real life. Church was in everything - diapers, sleep deprivation, bleeding hearts over the miracle of our children, sharing food with others - just ordinary real life stuff. Jesus was everywhere, and so He still is. We just simply changed. Josh stopped leading worship for a paycheck and started leading only if he felt like the Lord wanted him to do it. We prayed about everything. Where to go to church. When to go to church. Was church benefitting our entire family? IF we should go to church. IF we should continue to teach kid's church. And then, everything about being at church stopped. And I'm not sure exactly when it stopped. I only know that church still meets on Sundays and we aren't there. And it turns out, we aren't the only ones.

According to a recent message by Jen Hatmaker, 

* 3 out of 10 people in their 30's go to church in a 6-month period.

* 4 out of 10 people in their 40's go to church.

* 5 out of 10 people in their 50's go to church.

And the numbers for people in their 20's are so dismal that there aren't any good stats to quantify it.

She also talked about how 90% of church growth is either biological, meaning new births, or transfer growth (people going from one church to another). 

And then she struck a chord with me, and pointed out something that bothered me on a subconscious level, that came shooting to the surface when she said it. What about the world? Why is it an "us" and "them" paradigm? Why do we spend so much time blessing the blessed and ministering to the saved? What about the rest of the world? What about winning new believers? Where are they? She talked about how churches often respond to this problem by upping their game, adding cool coffee shops, more home groups, better phrasing, etc. -- new tactics all focused on getting people to the church campus. The idea being that if we can get them to church, we can win them. There's a lot of focus on the church building and her offerings, and seemingly very little focus on winning people to Jesus. It resonated with me. It made me sad because it's true. So true. But, guess what? Hope is not lost! It's not too late change things. Relationships with non-believers in whatever space they're in, without judging or preaching? Just loving? Making time to be in the world, to love the world? Yes.

You'll have to pop over to http://m.soundcloud.com/bud-harlan/living-a-better-story-jen to hear her entire message. It's worth it.

For us, not being in church has meant changing the way we meet with Jesus. We haven't stopped meeting, we only meet with Him in different ways now, at different times, still very much a part of the church of God. We've just backed away from Sunday mornings and the unending church commitments and duties that we used to be tied to, almost to the point of suffocation. For some people Sunday mornings are essential, and for those people I say, yes! Be where you fit. Definitely. For the record, I am Pro-Church. It's just different for us. Was it the message being brought in the church that turned us off? Sure, occasionally.  But honestly I can't definitively put my finger on any one thing in particular except that I think that we (the church) have gotten way off-track from the original intent of coming together for a singleminded purpose, and for whatever reason, it's just not working for us in the traditional sense anymore, and that's the case for a lot of others as well. Much of church has become white noise to the world, which has led to "us" and "them" teams, and it makes my stomach turn. We all collectively come from one place. There is but one Creator and He loves every one of us equally, without question.

So, to answer my daughter who says, "We need to go to church Mom," I say: We do go to church. Everyday. It doesn't just have to be on Sundays under the umbrella of a certain church name. But, and this is a big BUT(!) -- we can only say that we go to church (or, rather that we are the church) if we keep doing the stuff Jesus encouraged us to do (which we have some time for now that we aren't volunteering for every program under the sun), and those things are this -- 

Free those who are wrongly imprisoned;

lighten the burden of those who work for you.

Let the oppressed go free,

and remove the chains that bind people.

Share your food with the hungry,

and give shelter to the homeless.

Give clothes to those who need them,

and do not hide from relatives who need your help.

“Then your salvation will come like the dawn,

and your wounds will quickly heal.

Your godliness will lead you forward,

and the glory of the LORD will protect you from behind.

I'll end with this. Just the other day I posted about a little boy, Matthew Robert Pierce, battling cancer on my Facebook page and asked my praying friends to pray for his healing. (This boy is precious! Please pray.) My step-sister Melissa posted a comment that almost made me cry. She wrote, "You know I'm not really the praying type, but this sweet boy has inspired me to try to learn how. I've spent countless days talking to car ceilings, shower walls, and awkwardly clasped hands asking for Matthew's miracle."

This, friends, is church. A sweet helpless boy fighting for his life has captured the hearts of thousands of people who, not knowing what else to do, are trying to touch the heart of God in order to save his sweet little life.  I bet Matthew wins more people to Jesus than any church program ever will. The Bible says, a child shall lead them. And also, love hopes all things. It really is time to love everyone. No more "us" and "them." Only "us."

I love this quote-- 

"Have you noticed how much praying for revival has been going on of late – and how little revival has resulted? I believe the problem is that we have been trying to substitute praying for obeying, and it simply will not work." (A.W. Tozer)

And finally, we are open to getting back to the business of Sundays in the future. This is just where we are currently. Our focus at the moment is to keep on keepin' on, find an Awanas type kids church setting for our girls, and get going on a new Bible Study with our friends. One with a structure like this: Meet every Tuesday (1st and 2nd Tuesday - Bible Study; 3rd Tuesday - Bible Study group serves community in some way as a group; 4th Tuesday - everyone stays home to do something to serve your own neighborhood). 

Please know that the goal is to know the Savior. Period. This blog is just a snapshot in time for us. Please, please, be where you fit. Do what you can. And definitely be love to the world. That's all for now.

Looky, look, look, look

The other night at dinner we were playing a game where everyone took turns thinking of a word that relates to Christmas, as we worked our way through the alphabet. When we play games at dinner time we do so in a very quiet, orderly manner, and almost no one screams, shouts, or talks over one another. Ever. We're so proper. Stop in some time and you'll see...that I'm a total liar. It's usually out-of-hand, but always so fun! We love it.  We're making memories here, folks.

When we arrived at "Z" I said, in a very mature, set-a-good-example, definitely not a 5-year-old tone, "Z is for zero...as in the number of presents I have under the tree. Ohhhh!!! Or, Z, is for Zilch." Josh and I caught eyes and simultaneously started manufacturing new jokes spun off of my Z words, all while poor Avery held her cute little head in her hands, pounding the table, racking her brain, giving anything to call forth the perfect Z Christmas word. (We aren't competitive at all.) Avery failed. I took a cheap shot. 

Zero and Zilch were honestly the only Z words I could think of, other than zebra of course, but I was hard pressed to connect zebras to Christmas, so Zero and Zilch won. Josh and I laughed because we both know the reality of our financial state at the moment, and it's honestly okay. I'd be death-bed sick if I knew there were loads of presents under the tree with my name on them that belonged to VISA. I like the alternative. It helps me sleep at night. 

Bear with me, I have a point. 

Last night I was at a worship gathering when the two singers started singing about it being Jesus' birthday. And I lost it. I started bawling. I can't quote the words of the song. I only know that the tears came when they began singing about Mary carrying a child and bringing Him into the world in conditions suitable for animals. A King born in a manger. It could be that my Mama heart broke for Mary and Jesus, and led me to uncontrollable weeping. Or, it could've been that wells and wells of gratitude and awe burst and broke, followed by fountains of snot. Or, it could be that I could somehow relate, (not in the birthing our Lord and Savior sort of way, but maybe in the misinterpreted sense). Maybe it was the culmination of a thousand things. 

At that moment I felt reminded that appearances are deceiving, sneaky and secret, (ordered by God)...and really, truly, actually awesome. What looks like poverty and hard times at our house is really just the opposite. We are building. Tirelessly (and tired-ly) pushing for a dream. Too stubborn to quit. And it's exciting!

Calling Joseph and Mary a poor, irrelevant couple, unworthy of a clean bed was actually one of the biggest misconceptions ever made. Mary brought forth the light of the world, but most everyone misunderstood the especially bright star in the sky that night, or why on earth wise men and kings would come to worship a baby lying in a manger. 

But God knew better. He knew how history would unfold. He allowed His very essence to have the most humble, dirty, unappealing (lacking every kind of bell or whistle) entrance to the world. HE PLANNED THAT. HE DID THAT. He wasn't worried. Jesus' destiny wasn't in jeopardy. Sneaky right? 

See, I've understood that our present circumstances and appearances aren't the end of the story, and last night I felt especially encouraged that something is brewing. I was past the point of being okay with the big Z words, I was actually thankful, energized and excited. And I cried the ugly, wipe my nose on my scarf cry, happy as a squirrel in an oak tree. (Is that a common analogy? Squirrel in an oak tree? I made it up. Be free to use it. Or not.)

I'll close with this, appearances are a bummer if you lay it all on the line every day for everyone to see. Where's the magic in that? Where's the testimony? How great is the prize if it's not desperately fought for, or extravagantly paid for, in one way or another? What kind of impression will remain? These questions streamed down my swollen tear stained face as I sat there feeling like the Lord just let me in on a big secret: Appearances are misleading. Deceiving. God works behind the scenes, and below the radar. I suggest saving judgements for later. And maybe even scrapping them all together. Let's do this. Let's plow the field in front of us. Let us not grow weary, for surely this is just the beginning of the beginning, or maybe even the middle, but definitely not the end. Let's be the best darn delivery truck drivers, bankers, post office workers, drum builders and stay at home Mom-ers we can be. Let's trust that if we fight the good fight, with clean hands and pure hearts that we will arrive on the other side, victorious. It's possible. It's certain. It's sneaky. Let's do what our Mom's always told us to do, and not judge a book by its cover. Remember that vision gives pain a purpose (thanks Kris Vallotton), and anything of lasting value isn't built over night. And most importantly, remember that God's too cool, too sneaky, and way too wise to wear His plans on His sleeves. If we stick with Him He's gonna make it count. It's His style. It's His plan. He orders the hard stuff. All we have to do is hang on.

Christmas

Christmas has been tricky for us. Especially since my husband and I grew up with different traditions. Me, Santa. Him, baby Jesus. It's a hard season to navigate. My kids adore Christmas, and I love it too. I always have. This year, however, has been exceptionally awkward, more so than in years past.

Common question when you're a Christian: "Do you guys do Santa?" My answer, "Sort of." (Read: cop-out.) And then, "Santa only gets credit for stockings. I'm not giving him the glory for the American Girl dolls under the tree. Haha!" (Sigh.) Not even I'm convinced. And then I want to explain, but I'm not sure how to start so we usually just sort of grin and talk about the weather or some less confusing topic. And I walk away half pondering the question that I've been asked a thousand times, (Do we do Santa -- big fat question mark???), but I'm too busy with life to try to untangle the mess in my brain concerning the jolly ol' big guy so I carry on.

But, here's the deal friends - I'm getting off the boat. I just can't do it anymore. I can't skate through Christmas sort of doing something, totally unclear on why, but only because I haven't taken the time to come to a happy answer that would sit well with all of my Trask's, age 34, right down to 10 mos. I owe it to my kids to be more clear, to be more precise in my (in our) belief that the big guy in the red suit isn't better, or more appealing, (or more worthy of our adoration) than a baby in a manger who foresaw his barbaric violent death, thanks to our sin, and still said, yes. It's a hard sell to little ones, especially when the subject matter is so heavy, but I know we can do better, so we will work toward that end. Merry Christmas! Joy! Joy! :) I won't be mad if you stop reading.

I know there are a lot of ways to address this, and certainly every Christian in America varies to some degree on what's acceptable for their home and what's not, so please read this as a, "this is me, and not you" commentary, and please, for the love, don't think I will judge you for doing things differently than we do. Please don't do that. That sort of reaction makes me want to vomit. Okay? Please? I'm not saying we are right. I just can't shake the sickness in my own gut over what Christmas has become so this is my honest response.

So, last night as I'm washing dishes I blurted out, "We aren't doing Santa this year." 

My 7 and 8 year old in unison, "Whaaaat?!! Why?" 

(2-year-old and 10-month old couldn't care less.)

"Because he's not even real." (Slow down, Jenny Trask. Take it easy.) "Do you know who the real Santa was?" 

"Yes," they reply. (Josh told them that story a few years back.) They continue, "Santa's name was, St. Nicholas. He went around giving gifts to people."

"Right. So, there's a real Santa -- St. Nicholas -- and a fake Santa. It's fun pretending, but it's not why we celebrate Christmas."

"We know."

Indignation is rising. I know better than to continue, and anyway, busyness interrupts so that's the end of the conversation for now.

Here's the thing - I love tradition. I like regularity (kids do too). And I love the magical feeling that December brings, but it's all become a big tangly mess in my mind. I also really like doing fun things to make memories for our family to hold onto, and Christmastime is ripe with tradition, memory-making potential so it's fun trying to find traditions we love and ones we can carry on. This year we are scheduled to visit different countries (from home) to see how they celebrate Christmas. It's been fun so far, but guess what? Almost every country has some form of Santa Claus as part of their traditions. Religion too. But mostly some sneaky guy, creepy elf or freaky witch that comes in at night to leave something. This discovery has only stirred the pot of grossness in my guts. My fix? I boil it down to a few fun basic facts about a particular country's traditions, mostly historical, we eat fun food, and that's that. And then I realized that this is the same thing we've done in our own house. Focus on the cute parts, touch on history, eat, be merry and give gifts. I think we'll stay in America next year. Don't get me wrong, we do lots of things that celebrate Jesus, but then we throw Santa in the mix and with him comes a mess...especially since we have no chimney. :-)

This past weekend we visited Old Salem in NC, and learned how the Moravians celebrated Christmas. It was really interesting and fun. The Moravians had simple Christmas traditions, mostly because they had no money, but also because they believed in focusing on Jesus at Christmastime.  Elaborate nativity scenes were found in most every home and they were used to remind children, and everyone, that Christmas is truly a time of remembering Jesus. They also have a tradition of coming together to worship Jesus by singing over candlelight - their Christmas vigil.  The tradition began with children being given a burning candle made of beeswax which represents the purity of Jesus, and also symbolizes Him being the light of the world. The candle was wrapped with a colored band to help them remember Christ's birth, passion and wounds. As special as this history is, it felt significantly dumbed down by the town of Old Salem for the sake of commercialism and appealing to the masses. What has happened?

Christmas is losing it's magic. It's nostalgia is fading. I can't keep up and I feel like I'm suffocating. I need relief. We need Jesus.

Here's where we are headed -- 

Christmas tree - yes. I'm not getting into history here. We like the Christmas tree. It smells good. We do not worship it. It's not a paradise tree (garden of Eden reference) and when we look at it we don't think of it as being a source of redemption (Jesus hanging on a tree). We just like it. It's adorned with memories and warmth and it's not leaving.

Gifts & spending - Americans overindulge. Enough said. We're implementing this for our kids -- something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read, and something to give (all categories with a spending cap, of course), inspired by Jen Hatmaker. I'd also like to think more about giving experiences as opposed to cheap tee shirts or Black Friday Barbie dolls. (Ie. My kids will remember our trip to Old Salem better than they will remember almost every gift they will receive this year. Long after Barbie is headless, the memory of our trip to the Great Wolf Lodge will remain.) There's nothing like Christmas morning with kids. Nothing on earth. Our kids are extra blessed on Christmas morning only because we live across the country from our extended family so they have gifts from several families to open come December 25th. This is special, and we are so so so grateful, but they are not spoiled by us on Christmas. Finances won't allow it, and even if they did, I'm not sure Josh and I would allow it.

We will also continue to make gifts for teachers, friends and family when and where we can. This is fun, and oftentimes the end result is super awesome and usually something you might pay a good amount of money for, so it's a win-win.

Santa - Sorry, buddy. We will watch Polar Express and Elf because they're like any other good kids' movie -- pretend and sweet. We will also encourage our kids to hush about Santa being a big fat faker when they're at school. 

Pictures with Santa, fine. If we happen to encounter a friendly one who doesn't give me the heebie-jeebies or make our kids scream, and they want to get in on that hype, whatevs.

Mailing wish lists to Santa. Nah. It's just a set up to be let down, unless you're Donald Trump, and can (and will) buy everything on your sweet child's list. Note: Even if we could, we won't. This is the real world.

You can't have it all just for being the cutest kid on the planet. Real life doesn't work that way. Character doesn't come that way. Buying love like that is dangerous.

No more milk and cookies for Santa. Maybe we can make a special treat to leave for Daddy as a gift on Christmas Eve instead, to say thanks for providing for us all year? 

Stocking credit will now belong to us, or we might adopt my sister Andrea's idea and make them "sibling stockings," filled by each other, for each other. I like that idea a lot! 

Nativity scene - yes. We have a lovely one handmade by Josh's dad. It's precious.

Other traditions - 

* We will continue to read, The First Miracle by Jeffrey Archer on Christmas Eve Eve (we have plans with friends on Christmas Eve). 

* We will continue to pray on Christmas morning to thank Jesus for being born before a single gift is opened.

* We will write poems called, "Jesus, Because of You..." each year. No rules here. You can list words. Write sentences. Or be a rhyming machine. It will be fun to look back at our answers as the years pass by and the babies get bigger.

* We will read the Bible story of Christmas.

* We will attend Christmas functions.

* We will give to someone we don't know, in secret.

* We will bake and share our treats. We will craft. We will be merry.

* We will always love school craft Christmas presents made by our babies more than anything.

* We will probably only buy small, meaningful gifts for our extended family -- parents, nieces & nephews, and have a spending cap on our own kids' gifts.

* Josh and I rarely exchange gifts. This makes birthdays more special, and we can buy socks any old time of year. Seriously. 

Bottom line: We will simplify. We will remember Jesus. 

Kids are a bottomless pit of questions. 

Why do we get a Christmas tree at Christmas? Who were the first people to have Christmas trees? Do reindeer really fly? Jesus knew me before I was born? 

This blog is my conscious attempt at having some answers - having some black and whites where there've only been gray's. 

So, now when the question is asked, "Do you do Santa?" the answer will be, yes. We most definitely do. We try to give to the poor and sick in secret, just like he did. We try to protect the ones who are in danger of being abused, just like he did. We give without wanting. Just like St. Nicholas did, and just like Jesus wants us to do. 

Oh, you mean, do we try to get our kids to behave in December so that Santa will come? Go into huge amounts of debt so that Santa will be lifted up and glorified? No. Definitely not. If I can't get my kids to behave between my husband, Jesus and I, there's no way I'm handing the reigns over to some strange fat guy to do the job for me. No.way. Plus, I figure they'll end up in counseling eventually for being let down year after year, and never getting that one thing they asked Santa for, so we're really doing them a favor. 

We will make Christmas sparkle once again. It will be magical, and meaningful and special and joyful. It will. It will. I can feel it.

I believed in Santa when I was little. I don't think he ever disappointed me, but then again, fairy tales never disappoint, do they? Life does, however, but the disappointments are always trumped by the man I know as my King. He's the reason for the season. He's the encounter that matters to these kids He's put Josh and I in charge of. He gets Christmas. Period.

Be One On Whom Nothing Is Lost

Be One On Whom Nothing Is Lost

It's one of those nostalgic phrases that I had to repeat to myself over and over again in order to fully appreciate it's weight. The more I said it, the more movement it created. The movement caused a dusty portion of my brain (overrun by cheap media and an illegitimate language) to perk up.  Neurons fired, lethargy left, and revelation came. Hallelujah!  My name is Jenny Trask and words win me. And Henry won me again with his smart words a few days ago. 

Here's what happened.

I found myself pouring over my latest issue of UC Davis's alumni magazine when I read a familiar quote by Henry James, "Be One On Whom Nothing Is Lost."  (I like to capitalize every word of this phrase to emphasize each word, and to sort of slow down the pace at which it's read, mostly for me, but perhaps it's helpful for you as well. It's not grammatically adequate, but to make my point, I have chosen to write it this way.)

At first I was swept away by the existential ring of the phrase, "Be One On Whom Nothing Is Lost." It encouraged me again to open wide my eyes and ears in order to behold everything and miss nothing. Something I instinctively like to do anyway. It gave me permission to daydream. To observe my surroundings and then linger there for as long as I'd like. To perhaps open my windows to listen (and experience) the contradiction between the whimsical sounds of the forest and the frenzied chaotic musings of my home where little ones fill every square inch with their sounds. To breathe in the moment and savor every morsel of deliciousness afforded to me by God. To truly celebrate my life. I tucked Mr. James's words away in my heart and carried on, thankful that they've come to me again, reminding me yet again to be myself. To celebrate my journey. To pull back from the knit-picky hum-drum workings of life and to zero in on what pulls on the deepest part of my heart: the beauty of life. The details of my life, others lives, the mechanics of life in general, be they pretty and peaceful, or dark and disheartening. His words were a pat on the back. A wink and a nod of encouragement to pursue experiencing life, and to write about it because I've earned the right to do so through experience. I've earned the right. That's a big deal. I've lived something and get to process it, or I've witnessed something and get to re-tell it, be it celebratory or mournful. This is a privilege. This is life-giving. This is a gift.

But, then today happened, and with it, new meaning to this timeless phrase.  I found myself feeling, for lack of a better word, indignant about something, and noticed that more than anything I'd like to use my words to express my disdain and general dissatisfaction with someone, but I knew that it would be wrong to do so, and I was unhappy at the wrongness of using my words. So, in true Jenny Trask fashion I took it out on my bathrooms. I scrubbed and scrubbed, and while doing so I engaged in a mid-paragraph debate with Jesus. It's what I do. No formalities, just mid-sentence/mid-paragraph business. He gets me. We talk. I was carrying on and on, maybe arguing just a little, when He stopped me. And this phrase found me again, "Be One On Whom Nothing Is Lost," only this time without any kind of whimsy attached to it. It came polished and clean, and cold, just like the concrete floor I was standing on. It stung for a minute, but then came relief.

"Be One On Whom Nothing Is Lost." Again, "Be One On Whom Nothing Is Lost." I paused. I understood that even when I am mistreated I must remain one on whom nothing is lost. I must hand my hurt over to my King and grow from the pain set before me. Humility is the high road, and sometimes silence is supreme. In this case it was, and I knew it. Justice comes from God. The gain I received from dying on the inside today was more valuable than what I would've received by misusing my words, and tearing someone else down. I might have lost this battle had I acted the way I wanted so strongly to act, but Jesus and Henry James reminded me that it is more courageous to be one on whom nothing is lost, rather than to lose through flippant disregard for right and wrong. I will savor the good and bad, easy and difficult, and every degree in between. I will do my best to be one on whom nothing is lost, and I pray I can teach my children to do the same.

10 Years Strong

He cornered me in our closet yesterday, forced a hug on me, and said, "I'm sorry you're still waiting." I knew exactly what he meant. I sank into his embrace and savored the moment as I pondered the weight of his words. And then someone needed something, or squeezed herself into the middle of our hug, (I can't remember which), and that was that. A quick little meeting of our hearts, and then it was time to get busy.

Building a new business isn't for the faint of heart. Let's start there. It's difficult. It's fighting past rejection, shrugging off discouragement, smiling through doubt, and pressing on when you're wore slap out. (Is that how the saying goes?) Anyway, we are no strangers to all of the above. We are in our early 30's, 4 kids, a 3/4 finished house, and we are starting a new branch of our existing business. Hello full-time life! Our new branch is called, The BoxKit. He is our inanimate son, made of wood, invented by Josh. And quite like Josh, The BoxKit believes in going forth and multiplying, and alas, we have a whole line of BoxKits. Daddy, Junior, & Mini, (although we never call the The BoxKit, Daddy, to his face. He prefers, The BoxKit. I have a thing for nicknames. We make it work.) They are a family of 3, but not without frills. They have accessories. They are the start of something, and they aren't afraid. Who could blame them, really? What with Josh building them and all. His hands have a way of keeping fear at bay. They're strong, steady, building kind of hands. Safe hands.

 Anyway, we had big plans for our 10-year anniversary. Nothing concrete, really, only pipe dreams. But we had every intention of being long-gone, sleeping in a hammock built for 2, on some remote island somewhere, listening to Pandora play the story of our lives via Brad Paisley come June 22, 2012. And then life happened. Claire happened. And then her sister, Avery happened. And a few years after that, Avery became a big sister to Josh's mini-me, Noelle, and then Jesus said he had one more for us, so then Joel happened. And our Trask party of 2, became the Trask circus of 6 just like that. We are a happening family!

So this year's big shebang of an anniversary celebration never happened. Well, not in the tropical sense anyway. We've never had (4) kids and this much going on in our lives, ever. June 22nd came fast, and that secret pile of vacation money vanished somehow, much to my dismay.

Our sweet day started like most others, only we woke up more tired than usual thanks to #3. Noelle decided to celebrate the longest day of the year (June 21 - the first day of summer) with a pretty raging party into the wee hours of the morning, which for the most part is quite uncharacteristic of her, but she's a Trask, so, Go Big or Go Home. She went Big. At Home. Her daddy and I considered making a run for it, but we were too tired to try (wink, wink). Instead we situated her between us in our bed where she quickly proceeded to study us, poke, prod, elbow, pat and quietly aggravate us for a steady 2 hours. We had no choice but to evict her from the premises, and escort her back to her own bed. She cried. I hated it for her. I hated it for us.

The morning of, no big deal. A groggy, Happy Anniversary, and we were up and at 'em. Business as usual. We considered skipping out on celebrating at all on the actual day of our anniversary because for the life of us we couldn't make it work. We were unprepared on all fronts. Even Google found me wanting. Speaking of, Google should be ashamed for coming up short on such an important date. 100's of inquiries prior to the big day, and nothing. (Okay, it wasn't Google's fault, but I need something to blame, so, tough luck Google.) And then 10am showed up, looking sneaky, sort of taunting me, daring me to try again, insisting that I reconcile with Google and repent for my pitiful disposition. I caved. I grabbed the iPad, said sorry to Google and made things happen.  I quickly formed a plan, okay'd it with Josh, found somewhere for the big girls to be, hired someone to look after #3, loaded up #4 to serve as chaperone, and we were off. It was an "it takes a village to raise a child" kind of day, but the village came together and we had ourselves a little date...with our 5 month old.

A fun walk through historic Old Salem, touring buildings from the 18th century, Krispy Kreme donuts, and Chipotle, and that's how we celebrated our big 1-0.  The craziest thing we did - we ate donuts before dinner.

Here's the thing. Josh was wrong. I'm not still waiting. I'm living. I'm building a life for all time with my very best friend. He builds houses and drums, and together we build character in smaller versions of ourselves. Not only that, but we're building a marriage marked with perseverance, strong love and commitment. We live a life that's currently saturated with deep, thought-provoking talks with 7 & 8 year olds, poopy diapers, sippy cups of milk, microwaved lunches, lots of peanut butter and honey sandwiches, and occasionally cereal for dinner. This is where we are. I can't tell you what's trending on yahoo at the moment, or who the Hollywood "it" couple is, and quite frankly I find it excruciating to discuss politics because I honestly have very little knowledge of what's really going on in the world. Don't get me started on fashion either. I.have.no.idea. BUT, I can tell you who got writing awards on PTO night, who's little feet are click-clacking in high heels too big for her as she makes her way down the hallway, and who's doing what at any moment, anywhere in our house. I know without much investigating who instigated the fight, who's telling the truth, who's stressed out, who pooped, and who needs some attention. I can also tell you who hung the moon, settles my heart and sends me swooning at the very sight of him. My Trask's are all I know at the moment. They captivate me and preoccupy me. The tropics can wait for me. I'm not waiting for them. They will come when I'm good and ready to go, and probably not a second sooner. I will go. With my husband. And we will sleep in a hammock without a care in the world. It will happen.

In the meantime, I will savor long talks with my husband at lunch, movies at bedtime, making fun of our kids behind their backs, and brainstorming about our future. To quote Nacho Libre, "My life is good...reeaaally good." Happy Anniversary to the best, most loving, hardest working, most affectionate daddy and husband in the world. He's everything that's anything to me. He's an inventor with an adventurers spirit. His perseverance is awe-inspiring. He's carried our family on his shoulders for 10 years. My dad once said about Josh, "He's strong for a little sucker." (They were moving a heavy couch at the time.) And I agree.

We will arrive. We have arrived. We are arriving. There's no waiting. Only new days to celebrate new things. And old things. And everything in between things. Ten's a big deal for sure, but it's not as much about standing still to mark a day with an island getaway as it is about being sure that this day will come again and again for the rest of our lives, punctuated with lots of tropical vacations scattered everywhere along the way. June 22nd is only special because it reminds us where we've been and where we're headed, and what we've promised. Here's to the rest of my life with Josh Trask. Cheers!