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RHYTHM SHAPING VALUES Posted by Reggie Joiner  Rhythm in your home actually shapes your family values.
Think about it. It establishes what is acceptable and what is not acceptable. The rhythm in your home determines what gets talked about and what doesn’t get talked about. What we are inviting you to do is to become more intentional about making the rhythm in your home more strategic. After you have evaluated the typical routines in your home, think of ways you could improve your rhythm. There are so many different possibilities:
What are some other ways to create a more effective rhythm in your home? About the Author: Reggie is founder and CEO of Orange (The reThink Group). He has co-written three parenting books, Don't Miss It, Playing for Keeps and Parenting Beyond Your Capacity as well as other leadership books including A New Kind of Leader and Think Orange. Reggie lives in Georgia with his wife, Debbie, and has four grown children, Reggie Paul, Hannah, Sarah, and Rebekah.
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SIBLING WARFARE Posted by Sarah Anderson  Three years ago, when I found out I was pregnant with my second boy, I was relieved. I already had one, so the immediate thought in my mind was, “I got this. I know boys. This will be my oldest son—version 2.0.” But literally, from the moment I was able to feel my second little guy move, I knew he was, in no uncertain terms, nothing like his brother.
Every moment since has confirmed what I suspected then. I may have two boys, but they are their own deal. I have one more sensitive, compassionate, and intuitive. He is a thinker, a learner, a great question asker and a budding evangelist. I have another one whose love language is teasing, whose first word was “go”, who runs and skips more than he walks, who laughs when he falls down and sees rules as more like an opportunity to make a joke than to actually obey. They are an absolute blast on their own. Together…they are more like oil and water. We get glimpses of harmony, shared giggles, and (melt my heart) handholding. But more often I witness the playing out of a “fun fact” I recently learned of: Brothers under the age of seven fight every seventeen minutes. And it is my personal opinion that when they have been apart for most of the day, they feel the need to make up for lost time when reunited. It’s exhausting—for me, the adult/peacemaker/referee. But I know it’s exhausting for them too. One wonders why the other won’t just lighten up. The other wonders why it is so funny to disrupt his very involved story telling. I imagine consciously or not, they see each other as so alien and feel to some degree, a sense of frustration. Family is complicated enough—but add in our glaring disparities and the fact that we are surrounded by each other all. the. time—and, the whole concept of family can start to feel like a cruel joke. But several months ago I read a quote from Jeffrey Kluger that shifted my opinion on siblings from exasperating to endearing. He writes, “Siblings are the only relatives, and perhaps the only people you’ll ever know, who are with you through the entire arc of your life. Your parents leave you too soon and your kids and spouse come along late, but your siblings know you when you are in your most [undeveloped] form.” He’s on to something. There is something powerful that comes from the sibling relationship. Something that can’t be replicated. The tricky thing is, though it has dizzying possibility, it isn’t a promise. It’s a gamble—it’s a relationship that has to be fought for both now and later—when the kids who share baths, bedrooms, and germs have outgrown the homes they come from and start to create their own. It would be easier most days for me to let each of my boys do their own thing. To separate out their lives to a level of ease, convenience and quiet that sounds really appealing. Why break up the fight over that toy, when I could just buy a replica so they both have one? Why not hang with one and my husband with the other so both get individualized attention without threat, disruption or annoyance from the other? That way would be easier. But I know the quiet I am anxious for comes at the expense of something special, profound and slick—something that could slip away so effortlessly I wouldn’t even realize it until my boys were long grown and gone. The potential for something great. The hope for something lasting. A relationship with each other, in spite of each other, where they may actually manage to like each other. We can’t force our kids to be best friends. But we can create homes and opportunities for them to learn to appreciate the things that make them maddeningly different and inspiringly unique. We can celebrate differences and facilitate dissimilarities. And we can let them know, always, that as different as they maybe, they are a gift. To us. And to each other. Now hold on. My seventeen minutes is up and someone is crying. About the Author: Sarah Anderson is a writer and communicator who has been involved in ministry since 2003. She is a lead writer and content creator for Orange's XP3 High School curriculum. Sarah lives in Roswell, Georgia, and is a big fan of her husband, Rodney, her two boys, Asher and Pace, and, in her weaker moments, McDonald's French fries. MAKING PEACE WITH YOUR KIDS Posted by Sarah Anderson  Have your kids ever hurt your feelings? I don’t mean their critique of your clothes, cooking, or stupid jokes. I mean the thing they say that just cuts to the quick.
A couple of weeks ago, one of my boys said something and it hurt so much, it felt like the wind was knocked out of me. He’s young enough where I don’t think the words were said with the intention to hurt, and he was oblivious to how hurtful his words were. But I am not naïve. I know a day will come when my boys will know the power of their words. And then they’ll use those words to cause pain on purpose. Family is messy. At this stage, most messes come in the form of food under the kitchen table, diapers in a full diaper genie, and endless leaves, rocks, and flowers filling my counters. But at some point, I know the messiness will come in the form of verbal shrapnel. I know the messiness will be less literal and more figurative. (Or maybe with two teenage boys by that time, it’ll be both.) And I knew from a couple of weeks ago, when the words from one of my kids hit me like they did, that I had better figure out what I was going to do when those moments come. At the time, I shut down. I got him ready for bed and I read him books. I was present physically, but emotionally distant. But when it was time to pray, to sing, and close up the night, I realized something had to give. He may not have known I was holding back, but I did. And I decided then and there to do what felt like the exact opposite of what I wanted to do. I decided to move close. To not let careless words create a rift. To not let hurt feelings dictate my behavior towards him. To move towards the one I felt inclined to back away from. I decided to be a peacemaker. To be a mender of things made wrong—even when I was the one who had been wronged. To move past what had been broken in me, in order to make right what was broken between my son and me. Not just a peace-liker. Not simply a peace-supporter. But a peace-maker Jesus said peacemakers are called the children of God. James, the brother of Jesus, said peacemakers reap a harvest of righteousness. I say peacemakers have a better chance of a healthy relationship with their kids in the future. Making peace is hard. Moving towards the one who’s hurt us is challenging. It’s counterintuitive and not all fair at times. But a parent who makes peace with their kids now sows a relationship of peace in the future. And at the end of the day, that’s my goal. Our kids are growing up in a world we know all too well. One that thrives on conflict, revels in drama, and has no problem writing relationships and people off because of mistaken steps and words. Let’s show them an alternative exists. Maybe not in culture, but in our homes. Let’s show them peace exists, and it’s worth fighting for. No matter what my child does or says, no matter what my child doesn’t say, or doesn’t do, I want there to be no doubt about what he’ll get from me. A mom who’ll go to great lengths—not to keep the peace, but to make the peace. To create space in our home for reconciliation. To make a habit of moving towards one another—of being the first one to take the first step—no matter what. If my boys leave my home certain of nothing else than that, I’ve won. I’ve showed my boys no conflict mattered more than my relationship with them, and I’ve demonstrated the same tenderness and tenacity our heavenly Father shows us. He’s the God of peace after all. As parents, let’s work on resembling our heavenly Father in this. And live in expectation of what might happen when we do. About the Author: Sarah Anderson is a writer and communicator who has been involved in ministry since 2003. She is a lead writer and content creator for Orange's XP3 High School curriculum. Sarah lives in Roswell, Georgia, and is a big fan of her husband, Rodney, her two boys, Asher and Pace, and, in her weaker moments, McDonald's French fries. THE POWER OF A GRANDPARENT’S STORY Posted by Sherry Surratt  It’s time somebody said it. Grandparents matter. We step in and dare to tread where even the bravest of parents won’t. We invite those little people to climb in our lap with their damp bottoms and sticky fingers. We listen to endless jokes that have no punchline. We cram our oversized behinds into itty bitty pink plastic Barbie chairs for princess tea parties that don’t even include tea while wearing a plastic tiara that digs into our scalp. And we like it. We like it because that five-year-old who invited us is the perfect balance of spicy delight and winsome charm.
These are not the activities I would choose to do on my own, mind you. The other day I listened to an endless description of a little boy on the playground that had big ears and a rip in the seat of his shorts who happily shared his candy corn. (That story went nowhere by the way. I think the point was that he had candy corn and candy corn is good.) But as I gaze into the faces of three-year-old Mollie Rose and five-year-old Maggie Claire (both southern girls, hence the double names) who share such stories, something happens. Life gets bigger. I am captivated by these short people that belong to me even though I didn’t give birth to them. Their faces hold breathtaking glimpses of days long past and delightful promises of days to come. These glimpses remind me that the days are long but the years are short and fly by with lightning speed. It causes me to slow down and consider the implications. Being a “Mimi” (nobody utters the word grandma in my house) is so much bigger than having the joy of saying “yes” to another roll of Smarties before we’ve even had dinner. My husband Geoff and I are the life-giving keepers of their story. We hold the story of how their daddy came into the world and was the most beautiful creation ever but who also looked a little like Yoda, all arms and spindly legs. We share the wonder of when each of our kids and grandkids came into the world and how it was magical and overwhelming and the most wonderful day EVER all rolled into one. When we share these stories, we’re not just sharing words. We’re giving a peek behind the curtain of our family in ways only we can. As we share the funny (the time their daddy broke eggs on the kitchen floor because he wanted to see their insides), and the frustrating (the time Aunt Boo shared her brilliance by writing the word “FOX” on her wall and carpet and bed with a permanent marker), and their lineage (how their daddy was the first grandchild to my parents and how Maggie Claire was their first great-grandchild.) With our words, we’re not just passing on a legacy, we’re outliving ourselves. The Surratt name has a rich history of characters who mostly did the best they could, making both good and poor choices, some insignificant and others profound. As we tell the story, both the funny and the hard, the brilliant and the obscure, we paint an imperfect picture; a hot-mess-of-a-crew connected by more than birth. In the very telling of it, it sets the stage. It says “Yes, you will make mistakes too, but you’ll also do great things. Either way, you are one of us, and we will imperfectly share mercy and grace and try to love you like God loves us.” When we share the story of how their great-great-grandpa started a church in an old storefront and gathered the family for the reading of the Christmas story mispronouncing some of the words with tears rolling down his cheeks, we’re passing along the foundation of who God is and how it shapes who we are today. In the telling and the listening, we are saying it’s okay to be imperfect and messy and broken, but we’re Surratts and that means something. You belong to us and we’re proud as can be. My role as “Mimi,” and Geoff’s role as “Papa,” matters. When we listen to the grandkids stories that have no point or plot, and as we play games where the rules change with the breeze, our presence screams loudly, “You matter! To me and to our family.” So grandparents, tell the story. If you don’t live nearby, you’ll need to get creative with Skype or Facetime and tell it in a way that melts the distance into nothingness. Don’t for a moment think that being a grandparent equals irrelevance. You matter. No one else can do what you do. To think about: What’s the most creative way you’ve shared stories with your grandkids? About the Author: Sherry Surratt is the Executive Director of Parent Strategy for Orange. She is the author of several books including Brave Mom: Facing and Overcoming Your Real Mom Fears, and Just Lead! A No Whining, No Nonsense Practical Guide for Women Leaders in the Church. A shoe freak and coffee lover, Sherry resides in Denver, Co with her husband Geoff who is Pastor of Church Planting at Southeast Christian. She has two grown children and two incredibly gorgeous granddaughters. SHARE YOUR KIDS Posted by Melissa Thorson  I’m learning that friendship, as a parent, is even more life-giving (life-saving?) now than ever before. And this says a lot coming from a friendship-nostalgia-freak who has a file box of every single note I received in middle and high school organized by name of the sender. (If anyone under 25 is reading this, a “note” is a piece of paper that was meticulously decorated in milky gel pens and folded into the shape of a Chinese star, passed discreetly during Mrs. Lombardi’s lecture on hypotenuses.)
Friendship back then had a narrow span of depth—the easy stuff was choosing who you would go to lunch with on early release exam days. The “tough” stuff came when you consoled a friend who was dumped the week before prom. But now, in the days where many are drowning in diapers and debt and strained marriages and miscarriages, friends can be the lifeblood that help keep us going. The trouble is, finding time and energy to invest in friendships when your time as a parent is so monopolized by caring for your kids. Amid the constant advice to prioritize our marriages, be present with our babies, and lean into our careers, little attention is given to focusing on our friendships. And truthfully, there’s something about trying to make new friends, as a parent, that seems a little more intimidating. Now we aren’t only putting ourselves on the line of potential rejection, but we feel as though we are being sized up on our parenting styles and children’s behavior. It’s easier to settle for a second-rate sense of “community.” We can read a blog (ahem, thank you for reading this one) or join a secret Facebook group where we can post our most embarrassing questions about toddler bowel habits or decoding teenage text-speak while we unload the dishwasher in our sweats, ne’er to be seen by a non-family human that day. These connections are a great way to be reminded we aren’t alone, but they can’t replace authentic, face-to-face friendship. The kind that is built on a couch over coffee or a front porch over appetizers. In our family, we are very fortunate to have doting grandparents and aunts and uncles–so many branches of the family tree that have helped us celebrate and mold our kids. But the blessing of our friends, who we now refer to as “aunts and uncles,” have helped our family tree thrive. These friends entered the delivery room with teary eyes and beaming smiles within minutes of our babies’ arrivals and were some of the first arms my kids felt loved, though. They’ve shown up with hugs and comfort food and listening ears to help us process the miscarriage of our third child. They’ve been sideline cheerleaders who made our peewee soccer player feel like a FIFA star. They’ve told us they are proud of our children’s character (even though they’ve seen it at its worst). They’ve said “Good job, mama,” when I’ve skulked out of the room with a bucking toddler who needed some correction. They’ve allowed us into their most intimate marital and childrearing struggles and triumphs while loving us through ours. They’ve let us be “aunts and uncles” to their kids, too. It can feel risky to introduce yourself to the parent wrangling a child into a puddle-jumper at the pool or cheering on the sideline of the soccer field. It can feel burdensome to come up with a menu and hide the clutter in order to invite people over for dinner when you’re just trying to survive the witching hour. But these initial steps are what build acquaintances who become friends who become family. I’ve never met someone who didn’t want to be noticed and pursued. We are all busy, but someone has to take the first step to build adult friendship and family community. Invite some neighbors over for a clean-out-the-fridge potluck before going on vacation. Have you child’s teammates and their parents over for hotdogs after the big game. No fancy prep needed–sometimes the more spontaneous and low-key the gathering is the more comfort it builds among the guests. Aside from gaining our own friends, when we invite more adults into our homes and lives we can also be opening doors for powerful influence on our children. The neighbors you invite over for s’mores today might end up being the sounding board for your angsty teen tomorrow. Now, go text that person you’ve been hoping to get to know better and invite their family over for pizza. About the Author: Melissa is a former high school English teacher turned stay-at-home mom who traded in the essay grading for diaper changing . . . both of which offer their fair share of crap. She has always loved teenagers and feared little kids until she had her own. 90% of the joy in her life comes from her husband, Steve; her sons, Crosby and Miller; and her amazing extended family and friends. The rest comes from cooking and taking online personality assessments. |
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