Dear young man ...

It was I who first fell in love with you. I fell in love with you before I even met you. I fell in love with you before I even knew you were what I needed at that exact moment. To this day and for all my days that follow, I will always be in love with you.

I remember my first glimpse of you. It was foggy, things were blurred and the room was chaos, but there you were ... As perfect as I ever imagined you'd be.

I could never forget how you left. Neither you nor I had a choice in the matter. I just knew I had to see you again quickly — no matter what it took.

When I saw you again, I could only weep.

But then I touched you, soft and tenderly, just a brush against your skin, but enough to renew my desire to love you until the end of time.

And, then one day, the clouds parted and God's glory rained upon us, and you were mine to hold for the rest of my life.

My life was changed; it was you who changed it.

For the better. For the worse. For the end of my days.

It's hard to believe it has been 16 years since you entered my life.

I can't count the hugs you've given me, or the hugs I've stolen. I couldn't begin to add up the number of times you've made me laugh, smile or even cry. And you'll never know just how many times I've watched you sleep, or stared at you from a distance, knowing it was you who made me who I am.

With your 16th birthday approaching ever so quickly, I can only tell you my heart bursts with joy, pride and love whenever I think of you.

Oh, I worry. And then I pray. About you. For you.

But you've also brought me so much peace.

That's because I know you're a young man who loves his Lord and Savior. I know you're a man of character, trustworthy and true. You work hard, love with loyalty and tease with the spirit of a child.

Your story is only beginning. We are merely a few chapters in, and there's so much more left for you to write. Not me. You. I only wrote the prelude. The rest is up to you.

I know those chapters will be filled with mistakes. The paper will be crumpled, and the pen will run out of ink. But our God will be there, even when I'm not, to make sure the chapters are filled with love and the story will be one worth telling.

Oh, I know my gushiness will turn your cheeks pink. You'll roll your eyes and probably think I've lost my mind. It's OK. I understand. My parents were dorks, too.

Just know it was you who helped shape me into the woman I am today. You allowed me countless trials and errors. But more than anything you taught me how to love children, and I truly believe God's plans for me have always been to love His children.

In Ecclesiastes 3:1, it says: "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens."

In just a few short years, I will have to release you to the world. I won't be able to catch you when you jump out of the nest. I can only pray that you'll fly.

Your potential is infinite as long as you always believe in yourself and trust in the Lord.

As the next few years pass too quickly, you'll just have to pardon me if I love a little stronger. And if you catch me staring, just know I'm merely preserving memories.

I could've never imagined 16 years ago as I cried next to that NICU incubator that the days that followed would pass this quickly. I never pictured that 5-pound baby towering over me, picking me up off the ground or driving out of the driveway on his own.

But here you stand.

A young man.

And I couldn't be prouder of who you've become.

August 14, 1999, changed my life. It made me a mother, and I thank you for that.

I love you.

Sincerely,

Your Biggest Fan

Thanks for the laugh, Facebook

I'm still a little weirded out by Facebook. I've been on there since November 2007, and I still find myself *rolling my eyes* over it nearly every day, if not several times a day. I blame you, Facebook, but it's not really your fault is it?
We've all been happily addicted to Facebook for years now.
Every time something devastating happens, we request prayer via Facebook.
When something happy happens, we announce it with a smiley face via Facebook.
Facebook is the new medium of finding out a baby's gender, a new pregnancy, a death in the family and we're seriously OK with telling 600 of our "closest" friends we're out of town for the week at Disney World. (Why don't we just hand burglars a key already?)
Here's my secret: Whenever I see something really weird that makes me laugh on Facebook, I text my best friend, and we giggle about the silliness. We pretty much have most of the same friends, so if you do something stupid, chances are we both saw it. And we're laughing about it.
Here's more information for you: I won't post any of my secrets via Facebook. I'm not going to tell you about my health issues, or those involving my family. I have this great thing called an iPhone. I use it to call and text my family and close friends when important things happen in my life. They have the right to know first.
And you probably already know this, but I'm the world's biggest smart-aleck. I want Facebook for entertainment only. I don't want to see teddy bear inspiration memes, or crazy cat memes I've seen 100 times over the past six years. I don't want you to share some fattening recipe a Pampered Chef consultant tricked you into sharing. And, I don't care if you're Republican, Democrat, gay, anti-gun or packing heat. You're my friend. That's all that matters to me, regardless of your beliefs.
And because you're my friend, I love to rejoice in your happy moments. I will cry when you're hurt. I love to see updates on your children. I love to see them dressed pretty. I adore it when you make me laugh with silly stories or crazy photos, and I'm moved to tears by your blog posts.
That's why I continue a relationship with Facebook.
As aggravating as it is sometimes, I love how it keeps me connected.
I wish we could go back to the days where we sat on the front porch, sipping iced tea and sharing our special moments face to face. I hope, in a way, we can create a beautiful balance between Facebook and those private moments with friends. I don't want us to lose the art of conversation to a keyboard or a smart phone.
I pride myself on the limits I put into my affair with Facebook because I prefer my closest relationships to take place in-person where you don't need to use an emoji to express emotion and your friend already knows when you're laughing out loud. That's what relationships need to be, with just a slight enhancement from Facebook.

A feet-sweeping chance meeting

How my love looked when we first met.

Five years ago, I was running late for the council meeting I had to cover in Mitchell for work. Alex, not even 2 years old, was sick. I sent a text message to a friend, who I knew was attending the meeting, and asked her to save me a seat.

I slipped in just a few minutes before the start time, settled in my seat and looked around the room.

I spotted a young man sitting a few rows behind me to the right. Sporting a baseball cap, he was a good-looking guy, but I didn’t have the slightest clue who he was.

After the meeting, he approached me and introduced himself:

Henry Shetler. Former Amish guy. Many mutual friends. Cool.

We exchanged phone numbers, relating to work he’d be tackling for the Persimmon Festival, and went on our merry ways.

Fortunately, our merry way crossed and our lives meshed.

On Monday, Feb. 4, I’ll be covering yet another council meeting, five years to the day we first met. On Friday, Feb. 8, we’ll have dinner again, just like we did five years before.

But these days, we have much to celebrate — our beautiful family, chief among those, and the loving, respectful relationship that makes all of it possible.

When I work Monday night, likely I’ll sit back with a slight grin on my face and look forward to heading home to the man who has continued to sweep me off my feet since our chance meeting five years ago.

And thank the wonderful God who allowed our paths to cross.

Seeing beyond the teen and finding love

If I were forced to categorize myself, I’d say I’m a Little Kid Person. Teenagers have always kind of confused me, even though I seem to relate to them rather well. I’ve just found myself more adept at handling the wee ones, opting for a tenacious toddler over a smart-aleck teenager any day of the week.

But as I adjust to being the mother of a teenager, I am beginning to think my previous view of teenagers is based merely on what I’ve been used to up until this point. I’ve only been the mother of a teenager for about three months, so I’d say my skewed image isn’t a reality, but more in line with the “I just don’t know any better” realm.

So lately, I’ve been keeping an open mind, opting not to just chalk those years up to a lost, stinky cause that we’ll have to trudge through until we reach the light at the end of the tunnel. Instead, I’ve been sitting back, listening and enjoying the newfound world that’s slowly encompassing a portion of my life.

First, I enjoy the independence my teenager possesses. He’s no longer afraid to stay home alone, and actually prefers to stay at the house and watch TV. Let’s just say loading three wiggling children into my SUV only to run to town to drop one off at basketball or football practice is enough of a task without having the oldest one thrown in the mix to instigate.

Speaking of instigating, teenagers are smart enough to do that. Experience has taught them precisely what button to push when in order to instantly send the remaining siblings into a screaming tailspin that leaves parents breathless and begging for mercy. Why? Oh, just because they’re bored.

Well, that is, if we see him. Suddenly the door to his bedroom started closing. It seemed instant. One day, he welcomed visitors to view his world, and the next day, we were barred from entrance. He doesn’t have a lock on his door, so I enter whenever I darn well please, but still, I’ve had to grow used to seeing a paneled barrier where once I would see a little boy sitting among a pile of Lincoln Logs.

And although I do seem to be adjusting to most changes, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to The Glare. You know the look we get when we make them do something they really don’t want to do. Silence almost always accompanies The Glare. The eyelids turn into little slits while fire spews from the millimeter left open. He’s still a boy though so The Glare is usually short-lived.

But the most amazing part of having a teenager has been seeing glimpses of maturity peek through the ashes of childhood.

He understands situations that I’m still unaccustomed to discussing with him, so it surprises me. He sees truth, the way most children unabashedly do, but he understands the truth now. In one recent conversation, I told him of an upcoming happening. He smiled at the excitement of it, but after a few seconds of thought, he saw through the disguise and realized the root of the situation. And without hesitation, he expressed his disdain toward the injustice. I just smiled at him and said, “We don’t have to like what they do, but we’re called to love them. Just remember that.” He nodded with understanding, and we moved on to another conversation.

And the conversations are grand. He pulls me aside now to discuss situations in adult language. And even asked his youth minister about some pretty deep faith-based questions, which shows he not only trusts the adults in his family, but he is being resourceful and candid to others who’ve earned his trust.

It’s a new world for me. And I rather like it. Sure, it’s different, but underneath the surface, there’s still a little boy who captured my heart the instant I met him all those years ago. And that sort of love never changes — it just grows deeper.

A Dream Come True: Building our marriage

I’ve got to admit that before Beloved Hubby and I started building our new home, I was more than a little worried about the endeavor.

We’re both stubborn folks, and when everyone looks at you and says, “If your marriage can survive building a house, you’re good for life,” then your nervous meter begins working overtime.

Who wants to get a divorce over a house? What if building a house puts a tremendous strain on your marriage? Is it worth it?

But I’m here to tell you I am now convinced that’s one of those old sayings people who’ve never built a house together make up as an excuse as to why they’ve never built a house together.

BH and I are the direct opposite of that old adage.

Building a house together has strengthened our marriage. Like the steep foundation our house stands upon, our marriage has never been more rock solid.

BH mentioned as much to me last night.

I told him I agreed, but I can’t pinpoint why it has strengthened our marriage. I could only surmise that building this house has given each of us more respect for each other’s talents.

You see, in our house-building endeavor, BH is the head contractor, building extraordinaire and expert on all things construction. I question nothing when it comes to how that house stands. He’s a very talented builder who always does things the right way. I worry about nothing. I know he’s building us the best house possible.

But because BH is the CEO of our construction project that means he’s not home a lot. He spends many days and most nights at the construction site. He’s missed more church services than he’s attended this year, and it’s not unusual for us to not see his smiling face until 9 o’clock at night.

I don’t help much at the construction site. I make required decisions, on his sage advice, but I’m not picking up a single paintbrush or hammer.

Instead, while he’s CEO of the new house, I’m CEO of the old house. I’m the one fixing dinner, doing homework, giving baths, making lunches, making 12 trips a night into town to pick up kids and organizing our very scheduled lives.

And it’s OK with BH that I’m fulfilling a different role and not lifting a finger to help at the new house. And it’s equally OK with me he’s not at home right now because I know he’s building our home.

He respects the work I do at home, and tells me as much. He’s constantly amazed I work a full-time job, and still manage all I do at home, without his help. He doesn’t understand how I do it. Truth is, I don’t understand how he looked at a blueprint and built a house from the ground up just by looking at those pieces of paper.

And I think the endeavor has surprised us both beyond measure. He thought, before construction began, I would be upset because he wasn’t home much. I figured he’d be more restrictive in the overall design of our house, and we’d be arguing over siding colors and flooring materials. Truth is, there’s been none of it.

Instead, we’re more thankful of our time together. When he arrives home, he quickly wraps me in his arms and I welcome the break from the insanity – even if it’s only for a moment.

I tell him constantly how talented he is, and how much respect I have for him and all he does for our family. I urge him to take breaks, when I sense he needs it, and I no longer mind if he spends a few hours on Sunday afternoon immobile on his recliner.

And he reciprocates by offering to scrub a toilet when I seem overwhelmed with housework, or jumps at the chance to give the little boys a bath and wrap them in cozy pajamas when the opportunity arises.

So when people ask me when the house will be completed, I just shrug and smile. Who cares, I think to myself. It has proved so enjoyable I’m in no hurry for the project to end.

Truth is, the results are far more valuable than a concrete and lumber building. In building our house, we’ve constructed a marriage that can withstand the elements for a lifetime.

Off to work ...

I love this picture. I loved it the minute I snapped it. Little man thought he was "working" around our new home site. Daddy was around the corner doing the actual work. Mamma was following Little Man and his brothers, snapping pictures for the scrapbook. Little Man ventured up the hill, shovel in tow. I saw the picture before I could even raise my camera. It was there; I just had to capture it. Those are the best pictures. Not posed. Just life. I try to imagine what was going through his mind at this moment. Can you just picture him thinking, "A man's work is never done," as he trudged up that hill? I've already blown up this picture, and it'll hang in Daddy's office for us to smile at forever.

Parenting manual needs camp chapter

When the first-ever, all-inclusive parenting manual is published, it should include a chapter offering advice for parents sending their sons to summer camp.

I’m even volunteering to write it.

Chapter 99: Church camp.

Men, listen up. This advice will help you not only through sending your son to church camp, but to realize exactly what little boys are all about. Oh, you were a little boy once? Well, then, hug your mother and tell her she’s the most fantastic individual on earth.
 
Walking into the dorm to pick up my second son’s belongings after his first stay at church camp, I immediately noticed the blue towel sopping wet and soaking my quilt was not one of ours.

Lesson No. 1: Mothers know their towels. Even if we have 50, one in every color, we still know which ones are ours. I sent an old steel blue towel, not periwinkle. I don’t own a periwinkle towel. (Yes, periwinkle is a color — one word that men will never use. Ever.) With two fingers, I picked it up with disgust and moved it off the quilt. That’s when a man, a few years older than myself, said, “You here to get Lucas’ stuff?”

I nodded, and he replied, “Well, there’s a bunch of stuff in the shower room. You might want to go in there and see if anything belongs to him.”

With great trepidation, I walked into the shower room with my 6-year-old who had to use the rest room. He walked toward the stalls, while the man — obviously a camp volunteer — followed me into the shower area. There, to my dismay, was a pile of wet, nasty clothing — inside-out socks, swimming trunks, beach towels and underwear.

My gasp must have been audible, or the man sensed my anguish. “Worst group we’ve ever had as far as clothes. They just dropped them wherever they took them off.”

I thought, “Little boys dropping their clothes wherever they landed, then taking off and forgetting about them? Who would’ve thought.”

Looking through the mess, trying not to touch, I realized quickly the towel I sent was not among the debris. It’s why I send an old towel, old washcloth and cheap clothes. I learned long ago those things rarely make it home from camp.

Nearly running from the shower room to escape the clothing massacre, I happened upon my 6-year-old who was zipping his pants.

That’s when the man said, “This group was bad about clothes, but at least they seemed to know how to flush.” He then walked over and flushed after my 6-year-old.

Whoops. Another lesson: Not only do little boys leave clothing strewn about, they find it hard to flush, aim or put the seat up.

Apparently this, too, was news to the counselor. (He obviously raised girls and hasn’t spoken to his mom about his own long-abandoned habits.)

Later, after arriving home, my son’s bag was dropped in front of the washing machine. Emptying it directly into the washer, I noted several pairs of the underwear I sent were still folded as I placed them. Yep. This is a church camp lesson, too: Changing undies is optional when mom’s not looking.
And the bar of soap I issued was unopened, as was the bottle of shampoo.

“Did you take a shower while you were at camp?” I asked my little guy.

“They wouldn’t let me,” he replied.

Lying after church camp? Nope. Not hardly. The translation that can only be interpreted by mom: “I asked to take a shower 30 seconds before dinner, or in the middle of our Bible lesson.” Every chapter in the manual should end with, “Whatever they say shall not be taken literally.”

And whether or not little boys ever shed that quality can be argued later in life with their wives, long after we moms give up. Soap will go unopened, and undies may not get changed. The washing machine may revolt, and we’ll lose a few towels along the way. But in the end, we just shrug, laugh and know boys will be boys — especially at church camp.