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 Letters from Dell

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Select a Letter from Dell:

• A Lesson from a Two-Year Old

• The Telling of a Story

• It's Monday, Again

• Vertical Blind Adventure

• Just One of Those Days

• My Baby's Touch

• Never a Dull Moment

• A Sad Announcement

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A Lesson from a Two-Year-Old

If you've ever spent a day with a toddler, you've probably had a similar experience - but did you thank God for the lesson from the wee one? This is another humorous look at how God encourages us to grow.  

If I could be as consumed with a never ending devotion to God as my preschooler is to making me look foolish, I could single handedly, turn this world around for Christ.  

My husband, who is a minister, was invited to preach at a church one Sunday morning. On the surface, that would hardly seem like something to write about, because he spoke at a lot of churches before he became a pastor. I hadn't accompanied him in several months because I have a two year old who has a problem with Habakkuk 2:20 ("The Lord is in His holy temple, let all the earth keep silence before Him.") My son fails to see himself as part of "all the earth". Since this church had a nursery, how could I go wrong? I should have stayed home, gone shopping, left the country, anything but gone with my husband.  

I put on one of my favorite outfits.  My hair was looking just right.  I even had on heels.  My favorite earrings adorned my lobes.  I looked and felt so great with my new made up face. My confidence soared.  For once I was going to look like the dignified wife of the guest preacher rather than the usual frazzled mother of three boys, one of which is a two year old. What was wrong with my brain that day?!  What sinister spirit possessed me and caused me to muse on the notion that I might in some small way be able to actually hear the entire sermon?  How propounderous, prideful, and presumptuous of me to think I could sit through the service without having to redirect my train of thought to some goofy matter. 

I took my son to the nursery where he began to play and ignore me. Trust me, my feelings were not hurt. My two older boys and I Sat up front while my husband took his usual spot in the pulpit.  As the service progressed, I honestly believed this was going to be a great day, but after a while, we heard this blood curdling screaming.  It sounded like my son, but I knew it couldn't be because he was in the nursery and he loves the nursery, besides, the nursery is at the opposite end of the church through some double doors and around the corner.  How could it possibly be my son that I'm hearing?  Eventually, the ministers in the pulpit started looking around and the choir behind them as well. My husband told me to go check.  I gave a sigh and figured that was the end of me sitting around looking all cute and dignified.  Little did I know that the "fun" was just beginning. When I got back to the nursery, there was a crowd of people standing outside the doors staring at something.  I peeped through the crowd and sure enough, there was my son screaming at the top of his lungs. He was promptly removed from the nursery.  You'll never guess why he was carrying on like a stuck pig. The lady in the nursery told all the little children it was time to take a nap.  My son didn't want to take a nap.  So now what do I do with this kid?  I decided to go back in to the sanctuary and sit in the back near the exit since I'd more than likely have to leave soon.  I sat my son on the seat next to me, then he got up.  I sat him back down and he got up again. We went through this up and down business about four or five times and then it happened.  He got up and took off running down the aisle toward the pulpit.  We were still in service. This was Sunday morning worship service and we turned it into a three ring circus!  My son ran down the aisle, and I, in my high heels, and scarf flowing like Superman's cape, flew down the aisle after him. My middle son ran after both of us, bringing up the rear. It was truly a sight to behold. The only thing I kept thinking: "We're in service ... we're in the middle of a church service." I could see my two year old laughing as he ran, and people poking their heads out of the pews to see what was the commotion. Rest assured, by the time he made it to the front, the last spec of self-worth I thought I had, was about to be snatched by this "nightmare on two legs". He got up to the front and he tripped and fell. I was so relieved because I figured I could catch him while he was trying to get up. NOT!!! HE did one of those toddler roll over stunts and started crawling across the front.  I reached down in my heels, trying not to topple over -- I missed him again! My middle son caught up to us and grabbled him by his belt buckle.  As my two year old turned to start his usual fighting with his brother, I grabbed his leg.  I dragged him back to the side aisle and scooped him up by his leg and arm and hauled him the rest of the way out of the sanctuary with the middle child trailing behind me. 

My husband and oldest son sat in their respective places, quietly and in utter amazement at the whole spectacle.  I was so embarrassed.  I took my "precious one" outside and I began to pace, clutching him tighter with every step.  I was too upset to reprimand him, so I did the next best thing.  I sat down and cried. My middle son asked my why I was crying. I couldn't even answer him. How could I explain to him that I was crying because his baby brother made me look like an idiot? 

I discovered later that my husband and the Pastor weren't too concerned over the matter, fortunately.  I can't help but laugh every time I think about the three of us racing down the aisle and my scarf exemplifying "truth, justice, and the American way."  That church will never forget us!  
So, what did I learn from all of this?  I should be as passionate about my walk with God as my son is about trying to make me crazy.  I try to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he doesn't lie awake nights plotting and planning the most effective way to irk Mommy. Then again, I can't conceive of him coming up with such fool proof plans on the spur of the moment.  My baby seems to be under the impression that his purpose in life is to cause havoc wherever his little feet may roam. I need to be just as bent on teaching him that his real purpose is to glorify God.

As a parent, there so much I want for my children.  I want them to be joyful and contented.  I want them to be well educated.  I want them to be prosperous and have a good life.  If there was only one thing I could ask of my Father on their behalf, it would be that they have a personal relationship with Him.  I want my babies to know Jesus and have a faith in God that is unshakable. As determined as my youngest son is on having his way, I must be just as determined, and even moreso, to let God have His way. 

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The Telling of a Story

That wild and imaginative little boy of mine has his own story he loves to tell.  His journey through fantasyland begins when asked a seemingly simple question.  How old are you?  Upon hearing these words, his brain triggers an additional set of signals. These "special" signals go to the "fantasy train” that had, up until the asking and hearing of that question, (How old are you?) been sitting idle.  His eyes light up, his lips begin to curl and extend into a huge grin, for this child is about to engage in one of his favorite activities, and he's going to take as many as he can with him on his fantasy trip.

He begins with a very simple, one word answer to that most common request.  He responds: "Two."  A discerning individual would carefully consider his answer.  But no, they all fall into his snare and question him further.  And so, the train heads clickety clack down the tracks.

"I've only been on this earth two years." he grins.  No adult can resist asking him to explain.  It is amusing to see intelligent adults trying to figure out how this child, who stands nearly shoulder high, could possibly be two years old.  "Do you want to know why?" he continues with a grin.   It is at this point that he knows he has you hooked. And so he leans in to corral that last questioning strand of doubt.

"I AM two." he insists.  He commences to reveal his story.  He explains how he's not really human.  He's from Mars (he still pronounces it Mar-ez).  He continues with how he and his dad lived on Mars for four years.  After his real mother died, he and his dad built a spaceship to take them to earth.  The trip took two years.  After they got to earth, I adopted him.  That's why he's only been on earth two years.

Somehow, he tells the story so convincingly that the general response is (directed to me): "You've adopted such a bright little boy."  When I inform them that he wasn't adopted, they look at me as though I am the one who is confused.

The reason for sharing this story is not because I birthed an alien son, but because I felt convicted the last time he told his story.  You see, invariably, when Issie tells his story, the person with whom he is speaking will beckon to the nearest person they see and ask them to come over.  "You've got to hear this!" they say.  He's asked to start over and then another and another joins the crowd to hear him recite this nonsense.

As I stood in the background awaiting the conclusion of his rendition of "Issie in Wonderland", I thought to myself, "When was the last time I told my story of Jesus and a crowd formed around me?"   Have I ever been so compelling when I talked about Jesus that the listener called others over to hear the story?  My prayer is this: "Lord make my real testimony as alive, engaging, and effective as this little boy's make-believe story."  

One way or the other, we all tell a story. 

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It's Monday, Again.

It's Monday, again. The day greets me with laundry hampers running over with dirty clothes, towels, and the like.  I just did the laundry Friday. There wasn't even a dirty sock in the house when I finished Friday! Obviously, my children must be gathering dirty clothes from the neighbors. Surely we couldn't have accumulated all of this in a couple of days.  But, then it came to me again, it's Monday - it's always like this on Mondays.

Its Monday and the house is a mess!  No matter how hard I try to keep it together over the weekend, by Saturday evening I throw up my hands and allow the chips to fall where they may. 

It's Monday and Issie's ready to eat.  He's not particularly interested in getting up.  All he really wants to do is eat and resume sleeping off the weekend.  On Tuesdays, like the rest of the week, he'll want to eat and then play - but not on Mondays.

It's Monday - my eyes hurt.  My head hurts.  If I had a nostril that was actually functioning, it would probably be hurting too.  I'm so sleepy.  
It's Monday, again, and I have 40 lbs. of "baby fat" that's still clinging to me.  I've come to the firm conclusion that "baby fat" only looks cute on a baby.  I really need to lose about 60 lbs., but if I could shake 40 lbs., I'd look so much better, who'd worry about the other 20 lbs.?  I don't know what possesses me to think I'm going to wake up one Monday morning and suddenly be slim and trim.  So here starts another week of trying to figure out which ingenious plan am I going to think up to help me lose weight.  

It's Monday, again. I dread Mondays, but for some strange and Divine reason, I'm looking forward to this particular Monday.  Yes I still have all of the work to do plus some.  But, this time it's different.  Although it's cloudy and yucky outside, there's joy on the inside.  Instead of seeing the laundry as the mountainous chore that it is, I thank God for the privilege of being at home and being able to do it.  I wrote a song some time ago called "Joy in Servin' the Lord" There is!!!  There is so much joy in serving the Lord.  Joy is constant, but happiness is dependant upon the situation or circumstances.

Although I may never say "It's Monday, again and I'm happy," I can say: "It's Monday, again, and I've got joy." 

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Vertical Blind Adventure
(Learning to Wait)

I've had stupid days, but this seemed to be the grand daddy of them all. What started out to be a perfectly splendid day quickly turned into a preposterous escapade, but to my amazement, concluded with invaluable lessons in the ways of God.  

I had been wanting vertical blinds for the patio doors in our master bedroom for quite some time and I finally got them.  I decided not to rush into putting them up, but to wait, get a good night's rest, and tackle it the next day.  

I got up bright and early today.  I tended to the things that were needful. My plan was to take a few minutes to put up the vertical blinds and the rest of the time would be free to write.  I had some devotional messages to work on, but I couldn't seem to get them together.  I felt kind of dry with respect to writing, but I knew I needed to write.  So, I said, "Lord, I don't have anything to write - give me something to write about."  The hours rolled by without a single noteworthy thought.  I decided a better use of my time might be to jump into this vertical blind venture.  I looked at the box and reassured myself it wasn't necessary to wait for my husband to get back in town, even though he had given me specific instructions not to do anything until he got back.  "This is going to be a cinch," I thought, "only three brackets and six screws."  As I opened the box and poured out the contents, I couldn't help but think how easy this was going to be: "Just put the screws in and snap the rest in place.  The main portion is pre-assembled!"  The first mistake occurred before I brought the blinds home.  I assumed that my friend's patio doors in her bedroom were the same size as ours WRONG!  Who knows why I didn't bother to measure the doors?  I suspect I'll go to my grave never figuring out that one.  Anyway, when I measured for the brackets, I discovered I had 15 inches too much.  Not to worry, I was sure it was adjustable.  The rest of the measuring went smoothly (sort of).  "Now for the screws," I thought.  Because I have a different way of doing things.  I decided to get some nails and pound them in first and then screw in the screws. (If my husband would let me use his power tools, I wouldn't have to go through this.)  I hammered the nail half-way in, removed it and inserted the screw. "Hmmm - this screw is stuck - not to worry, I'll just get a bigger nail."  I hammered the larger nail all the way in and then tried to remove it and put the screw in.  Well, evidently, I hit something very hard. (I later found out I hit a stud) in the wall.  The hammer was so large and heavy it took both of my hands to even halfway control it.  As I struggled to get the nail out with the end of the hammer, somehow, I managed to knock a rather large hole in the wall.  I was nearly in tears.  I tried so hard not to hit the glass doors, but I ended up knocking a hole clear through the drywall!  I got myself together, concluding that tears wouldn't fix the wall.  I went out to the garage and got the paint. I filled up the brush with paint and let it ooze over the hole and I figured it would eventually fill it in.  Well, I soon learned that wasn't such a great idea because the paint, of course, continued to run down the wall.  Being the "clever" person that I am, I decided just to hang the valance a little higher and no one (especially my husband) would see the hole until we moved; and by that time, who would remember how it got there?  I proceeded to hammer in a second nail, hoping that I wouldn't hit that "hard part" again. This time the nail went only in half way before the nail bent and the head wore out. "Just don't make nails like they used," I sighed.  Considering the fact that the track containing the louvers wasn't very wide, that nail sticking out didn't seem to be that big of a deal. Carefully avoiding the studs and not knowing I was supposed to be attaching the screws to them for stability, I moved on to the outside brackets. They screwed in with ease. "No problem." "This is great!" I thought, "All I have to do is snap this track in place and we're in business!"  But before I snapped it in place, I kept thinking how much nicer it would look if the louvers didn't extend over so much wall space.  I soon discovered that these blinds weren't adjustable.  I always say: "With the exception of Salvation, there's more than one way to do everything." And with that thought in mind, I theorized on how I could make these non-adjustable blinds adjustable.  The theory was nearly 100% successful on the first try.  Instead of being 15 inches off, I had gotten it down to about 3 inches off on one side; the other side was perfect. So why didn't I leave well enough alone?  I concluded what the problem was and what I needed to do to get those few extra inches for a custom fit.  What I didn't know was how I was going to go about achieving this. I decided to cut the string. I soon found out that I had become the owner of a pair of useless vertical blinds.  I began to sob. "What am I going to do?" remembering my husband's instructions to not do anything until he got back.  

Even in this seemingly disastrous situation, I had to look beyond what appeared to be in front of my nose.  Since the Lord had so graciously answered my prayer for something to write about, I began to enter the day's events into the computer.  My motive for writing about this incident is as any other thing that happens in my life, it is to encourage the reader to look beyond what they think they see to a greater picture of an opportunity to share what God will teach you through each predicament.  

For the sake of those who may come behind me and read these words, everything turned out just fine and I got the string back together and working and my husband put them up correctly when he got home.  I learned (the hard way) it's always best to measure the window in the first place.  This whole ordeal taught me something else.  It's better to be submissive to your husband, especially when he says "WAIT, let ME do it when I get back."  

My husband is an architect and fully aware of how to put up vertical blinds.  He knows not to mount heavy objects on the drywall but to locate and attach it to the stud for stability.  I didn't even know what a stud was, much less what to do with one.  My husband is muscular and skilled with tools.  I was clueless.  My husband wanted me to wait not because he didn't want me to enjoy my blinds, but because he knew there were some problems that could arise that I might not know how to handle.  God's the same way.  Sometimes He says no or wait, not because He's being mean and doesn't want us to have or do something, but simply because we're not ready to handle the situation yet.  Maybe there's something going on that we're unaware of and He wants us to wait on Him so that everything falls into place at just the right time.  Whatever the reason God asks us to wait, you can rest assured, it is for our own good. 

Day by day, I'm learning to wait.

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Just One of Those Days?

As we all loaded up into the van, I gave the final instructions for the boys to inform the teacher that I would not be out with Issie because he still was not doing too well.  We managed to make it to the school without incident.  Issie and I arrived home without incident.  He even stayed wrapped in the towel I put around him.  I pulled into the garage and there we sat.  For some unknown reason, I was captivated by the view of the rain in the side mirror.  Then I slumped down for a nap.  When I awoke, I went back to staring at the rain in the mirror.  I kept asking myself: "Why am I sitting here in the van?"  Then I answered myself: "Because it's going to be one of those days."  About 20 minutes or so later, I woke up enough to go into the house.  Issie followed me around everywhere I went!  He was worst then my shadow!  A good light, carefully placed, will remove or at least diminished a shadow.  Nothing was getting rid of Issie.  My hand was beginning to hurt more.  My foot hurt.  My whole body groaned and signed: "It's going to be one of those days!!"

It's funny how even in the midst of what seems to be the making of a REALLY yuck day, the Lord steps in with steady streams of sunlight (or should I say SONlight). The Holy Spirit kept bringing to my remembrance the song I sang the day before -- "It's Been a Mighty Good Day."  It's going to be a good day because the Lord is leading me to write. He's showing me how to take this "one of those days" day and use it to the glory of God and make it "A Mighty Good Day."  I'm giving this day to God.  I'm going to offer up this day to Him for Him to do whatever HE wills to be done.  "Lord, what would you have me to do with the rest of YOUR day?"  Let's face it, any day we offer up to God is automatically a mighty good day.  Anytime we survive a crazy morning, it's a good day.  

I'm writing about this day in hopes that someone else, who might be in the midst of a crazy day, can begin to see a ray of light.  I want to encourage you to understand that not only does the tunnel have an end, but there are blessings all along the way.  As women, we need to share more of how God blesses us.  We need to share more about those common placed events that sometime overwhelm us.  It seems as though we're all alone, but be assured, there're countless others going through the same morning and we'll all get through it as soon as we turn it over to God.  Remember, it doesn't have to be "one of those day," give it over to God and I know He'll make it a mighty good day.

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My Baby's Touch

If it seems as though your children are growing up so fast that you're feeling pushed out of the picture, this short letter is for you.

We've been on the road for 5 days now, in and out of hotels, my fifth-grader and I.  He's growing so fast.  I remember a time when he longed to see me in his classroom so he could climb up in my lap and cuddle tight.  A hug or a kiss from me in public now is unthinkable.  I'm his mother ~~ no longer his Mommy.  Sterile, no emotion, no touch, no warmth.  Ice.  The coolness of my actions often work as an antiseptic on the bacteria of his preteen hormonal surges.  He played with his toys.  He talked with his friends.  He read his books.  Then he laid his head on my shoulder and soon he was fast asleep.  My baby's touch sent a wave of healing throughout my body.  My baby's touch caressed my wounded, pitiful spirit.  I cannot rely on this affection.  It won't last long. This is as fleeting as his soprano voice, which deepens with each passing day. The ice is melting and revealing a fresh, new, invigorated heart.  I must release him more each day to become the man God has called him to be.  But in these few precious moments, I shall bask in the warmth and love of my baby's touch.

Fifth grade class trip to Washington, DC

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Never a Dull Moment

My oldest has a unique slant on most issues. Here's one of them.
 
I've come to the firm conclusion that we need to start eating more vegetables.  At this point, the only thing these children don't faint over is string beans and mixed vegetables from a can. I decided that we were going to try a little bit of everything.  I've also informed my darlings that they are not allowed to refer to the food as "yuck".  They must use the proper table words i.e. "Mmmm; delicious; or looks good".  

I got the great idea of serving some relatively yummy asparagus.  The 3 of them sat at the table with blank looks.  No one even knew what it was. That's sad.  The oldest spoke up and said, "Mom, I know you love me, but I can't eat this because it will ruin my walk with God."  I waited for the remaining explanation to that seemingly insane comment.  He continued: "If I eat this asparagus, it will put me in a very bad mood and then I won't be able to serve God fully and cheerfully the way I should. Therefore, I think it best that I not eat this." 

I can always count on at least one of my children giving me a good belly laugh.  When I finished laughing and wiped the tears, I informed him that God would forgive him and he had to eat the asparagus.  Oddly, I was now the only one laughing. Hmmmm?

Our middle child had to write an essay as part of his requirements for his black belt in karate (along with a myriad of other requirements). I was so impressed, I thought I would share it. This is a copy of what he wrote.  

                   What Being a Christian Means to Me...     
Being a Christian means you have bigger responsibilities than a lost person. It is kind of like Spider-Man (or Peter Parker).  When Peter Parker was bit by the radio active spider, he gained powers.  With his powers he had to save people and also he had to fight crime.  Peter received a new name, Spider-man, and in a way, he got a new body.  Peter got super strength also.  He also received a type of battle armor. 

I bet you are wondering what all this means . . . Peter Parker:  us, when we were lost sinners

Getting bit by the radio active spider:     means you were given the Holy Spirit and received gospel strength to fight lucifer and his angels

Name of Spider-Man:  we will also get a new name and body

Saving people: plain and simple ~ sharing God with others

Fighting crime: fighting in the spiritual realm Battle armor: taking up the full armor of God

That's what being a Christian means to me. 
 
In reading his essay, I keep scratching my head ...Spider-Man?  I guess there's more than one way to look at things.

My youngest ... what can I say about him?  Back when he was in the first grade, he came up with the following "brilliant" idea. I can't help but chuckle at his total innocence.

All across the nation, children are participating in school science fairs.  My two oldest boys were as well.  Little did I know, my youngest was watching every detail needed to complete their projects.  He got really excited about the science fair after I took him to see his older brothers' projects on display at their school.  I promised Issie that one day, he would be in a science fair too.  A few days later, he came to me and informed me of what he wanted to do for the fair.  He had the title, hypothesis, purpose, conclusions, etc. all figured out even though he couldn't come right out and define the categories.  The following is what he decided to do on his own.

• Title:  Making Pee Pee

• Purpose:  to show that drinking liquid makes you pee pee

• Hypothesis:  I think drinking liquid makes you pee pee

• Conclusion:  drinking liquid makes you pee pee

• Charts/Graphs:  (in his charts, he was going to show which made more pee pee, whether juice, water, or medicine)

• Photos: (are you ready for this?........)  
  "I am going to have pictures taken of me pee peeing in a cup to show how it comes out." he said proudly.

It was it this point that I almost lost my pee pee. I was laughing so hard. Issie was dead serious. I tried my best to compose myself enough to explain to him that there are some things we shouldn't do for a science project, especially since it'll to be on display in an auditorium for the entire homeschoolers association to review!!!

You see, in our house, there's no shortage of God's grace and mercy, and
there's never a dull moment.  

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A Sad Announcement

I'm sorry to say, this is not one of my letters.  A friend sent this to me and I knew my readers would want to know about this.  Unfortunately, I've yet to find a spiritual application aside from laughter being good for the soul.

I do not know who wrote this, but if anyone does know, please contact me, so I can give the proper credit.

Thanks.

I would suggest you get a box of tissue before reading this.
              **JOIN US IN THIS SAD ANNOUNCEMENT**

It is with the saddest heart that we must pass on the following news. Please join us in remembering a great icon of the entertainment community.

The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a yeast infection and complications from repeated pokes in the belly.  He was 71.

Doughboy was buried in a lightly greased coffin.  Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies, and Captain Crunch. The gravesite was piled high with flours.  Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy and lovingly described Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded.

Doughboy rose quickly in show business, but his later life was filled with turnovers.  He was not considered a very `smart` cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes.  Despite being a little flaky at times he still, as a crusty old man, was considered a roll model for millions.

Doughboy is survived by his wife, Play Dough; two children, John Dough and Jane Dough; plus they had one in the oven.  He is also survived by his elderly father, Pop Tart.

The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes.
                                                                                                       Author Unknown

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