A couple of nights ago I had trouble sleeping. The next morning, I woke up and began praying that God would allow me to find joy in all the things that normally drive me crazy. When my kids ran screaming through the house five minutes later, I mustered up some joy that I have kids with functioning lungs.

When I tripped over the five-loads’ worth of laundry waiting to be folded, I said a little prayer of thanks for all the clothes, the people in my house who wear them, and a working washing machine and dryer.

When I called our previous pediatrician’s office two hours later to inquire as to why they haven’t sent over my kids’ medical records to our family practice doctor (whom we’ve been seeing for more than a year now) despite three attempts to get them to do so and they informed me it would cost $15 per record and they didn’t know when they could get it done, well, I ran out of joy.

When Apple announced its newest gadget yesterday and how it will save lives, change diapers, and solve world hunger, I got excited. But, when I saw the price tag (and more unfortunately, the name—does Apple really have NO women on their product marketing team?), I had no joy for that.

While listening to the president’s State of the Union address last night, I found myself throwing out snide little one-line remarks in response. Our kids were in the room and our 11-year-old started doing the same thing, which is not exactly what I want to teach her about politics. It isn’t exactly what my husband wants me to teach her about politics, either, and he said as much in a way that made me stop with the one-liners. For the speech and the hiatus of my own personal punditry last night, I had no joy for that.

While lamenting over various and sundry of these joy-less situations on Facebook, an old college friend popped in to remind me to count it all joy anyway. After all, there are plenty of places in the world where medical records are the last things on people’s minds—they would just like access to doctors.

And the iPad? Do I seriously need one more digital distraction in my daily life? Thank you God, that, no, I don’t have one more way to check the wonderful World Wide Web.

And the State of the Union? There is that free speech thing in that we’re able to respond with our thoughts without being arrested for them (and seeing as how my husband, Craig, live-blogged the speech last night, I take great joy in the fact that he will not be arrested, though I would be surprised if he didn’t get himself flagged on some FBI watch list). I’m glad for our freedoms.

Counting it all joy—the laundry, the administrative hassles, the political disagreements—is what I learned about yesterday. How about you?

We discovered Regina Spektor in December during one of Amazon’s $5 CD deals. I was listening to her album Far one night as background music when the song “Laughing With” came on. Something about the song captured me instantly. I had to stop working and give it my full attention. I found the video on YouTube and watched it over and over. It made me cry.

Speaking of crying, I started hearing about the devastation in Haiti sometime late Tuesday night or early Wednesday morning (I had a daughter with a stomach virus and we were up all night long as she continued to wake and heave—Haiti could wait, I thought). In my lack-of-sleep state Wednesday morning, we slugged our way through the school day with the youngest recovering on the couch, but I kept hearing more about Haiti.

Finally, I couldn’t put it off any longer—I searched online to find out what had happened. My 11-year-old was standing near me when she heard me say, “Oh, my God,” in an audible, non-blasphemous, serious question to the Lord. Tears stung my eyes as I began reading. Concern in her voice, she wondered what I was finding out. I started reading out loud. She had tears in her eyes, too.

We feel so helpless. What can we do? We can pray. We can give. We can distance ourselves from Pat Robertson (we were never that close anyway). And we can listen to Regina—after all, sometimes it takes a skeptic to convey truth in a more honest way than on airways “safe for the whole family”:

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one’s laughing at God when they’re starving
or freezing or so very poor

One thing’s for sure: No one’s laughing at God in Haiti right now.

And despite what some wrongly presume, God’s not laughing either.

Ever heard of the show Wife Swap? My husband and I participated in a “role swap” this week, and while it wasn’t exactly intentional, it was good.

For the past year-and-a-half, in addition to his full-time teaching job and part-time seminary studies, Craig has worked part-time at Covenant Seminary’s bookstore. At the end of every December, the store closes down for a couple of days while owner Nick Gleason and his three part-timers account for every item in the store.

Thanks to Nick’s flexibility, I’ve occasionally covered Craig’s shift when his school schedule has been too tight. This week, as it’s the last of his school vacation, I asked Craig if I could help him out by taking his two full-day inventory shifts at the store while he stayed home with our kids. He was happy to make this arrangement work; thus, I’ve been a “working woman” for the past two days, while he’s been a “stay-at-home dad.”

At the end of the shifts, I came home exhausted, ready to be alone somewhere; he was ready for conversation about the day. I semi-expected the house to be in perfect shape (after all, what did he do all day while I was gone?); he expected me to contribute to the overall well-being of our family existence once I got home.

After making dinner (trust me: neither of us wants Craig to cook), I was checking my email on the computer when he came over, pulled up a stool next to my desk, and suggested we “spend the next few minutes justifying each other’s existence.” It seemed in our two-day “role swap,” we both gained some insight into what the other one does.

Despite—or perhaps because of—my exhaustion, I could better sympathize with Craig’s work at an extroverted job (teaching) from 7:30 to 3:30 every day, followed immediately by either a seminary class or a two-hour shift at the bookstore. When he finally makes it home to our often-disheveled house—complete with dishes piled in the sink, laundry in stacks all over the bedroom, and no place to lie down and rest—not to mention my hope and expectation that he will lend a hand with the girls, it’s a wonder he doesn’t turn right around and go sit in the car for another hour.

I can tell you this: The last thing I wanted to do today when I got home from the bookstore was fold laundry or make dinner; rather, I wanted to curl up into a ball and sleep for three hours. Somehow, though, he chooses to overcome that tendency most days, and I gained a new appreciation for him today as a result.

Based on what he said to me, he, too, could better sympathize with what I do everyday: juggling four girls, 400 pounds of laundry (including coats), bathroom cleaning, bedroom cleaning, and the whole play-in-the-snow/come-back-in-multiple-times/have-hot-chocolate/spill-hot-chocolate/clean-up-hot-chocolate scenario while I was gone. Craig said he didn’t have any problem getting all the work done and making sure the girls didn’t kill or maim each other, but he did wonder how in the world he would have fit in six hours of homeschool teaching and learning had he needed to do so. He said he gained a new appreciation for me and for what it takes to do more than just play referee.

I don’t think every married couple needs to experience a “role swap” to fully appreciate what the other does, but perhaps if we each gave a little more thought to what our spouses do on our behalf, we might live with them in a more understanding way. And, if we really want to get crazy, actually communicating our appreciation for the other’s role fulfillment might just be a great way to start 2010.

Thirteen years ago on December 12, Craig was sitting with me in the snack area of an Oklahoma Walmart while I scrambled to write my half of our wedding vows.

Thirteen years ago on December 13, we rehearsed what was to come the next day, followed by my scrambling to get some bridesmaids dresses finished. (I’ve always had problems with procrastination.)

Thirteen years ago on December 14, I scrambled again—to get to the hair stylist, to get my suitcase packed, to get to the church on time. Once I finally got there, my hair was ruined from rain, my bag was askew from literally throwing everything I had into it and sitting on it to get it closed, and I was crying.

Not exactly a picture-perfect beginning to a wedding.

To a wedding, no; but to a marriage (or “mawiage” in the movie The Princess Bride), it probably was a realistic picture of what was to come. It didn’t take us very long to realize that marriage would not solve all our problems or fulfill all our goals. I believe our first big argument took place two weeks later on Christmas Day.

Looking back, December doesn’t seem the smartest month to get married—particularly when that is the same month one is graduating from college and preparing to move 12 hours away from home. Truly, December 1996 was not a season of peace for us—it was exciting and stressful and hopeful and completely nuts.

Fast forward 13 years to a Monday night in the middle of December: It is our anniversary, as well as the end of finals week at the seminary, which means Craig has an exam to take and a paper to write. It is also the beginning of finals week at the school where he teaches, which means he has test-review preparations to make and final papers and exams to grade.

And I say, “I know you are busy. Let’s just stay home so you can study.” And he says, “I can study later. Let’s go out to dinner.” We get child care secured for our four kids (something else that is different from 13 years ago) and spend four hours in the middle of this crazy month eating grilled chicken sandwiches and sharing a piece of cheesecake, walking and window-shopping around a crowded mall.

It is exciting and stressful and hopeful and completely nuts.

I suppose that’s the way life is. Thirteen years ago I thought it was just that one weekend, but now I know better. And I’m OK with it. If the exciting and stressful and hopeful and completely nuts continue together, I’ll take it. In fact, I’ll take it for another 13 years, please. And another . . . and another. . . .

I’ve recently started reading Not So Fast, Slow-Down Solutions for Frenzied Families, by Ann Kroeker. I haven’t gotten very far because . . . well, because I’ve been too busy. I haven’t been making time to read books like I used to. I’ve grown more accustomed to Twitter streams and (short) blog entries. I’ve been slowly turning myself twiterate rather than literate.

But there is something about Ann that draws me in. The things she says, both in her book and her online presence, that gives me pause and makes me think more about being intentional. It has been a long time since anyone or anything online has challenged me to the point of change. I need this challenge. Maybe now more than ever.

December, ah, the season of peace, which, ironically, is usually anything but. Rehearsal for the Christmas concert? Check, check, check (three kids, three different rehearsals). Actual Christmas concert? Check. Church Christmas party? Check. Homeschool friends Christmas party? Check. Sewing like crazy because that’s what I do in December? Check.

Advent preparation? Finding time to savor the things we all claim we love about this month? Well . . . maybe not so much.

On Ann’s blog yesterday, she posed this question: “This Christmas, as schedules grow more hectic and shopping threatens to consume . . . what do you want to be sure not to miss?”

Oh man. Do I really have to answer that? Should I even try? Isn’t it all obvious? I don’t want to spend so much time on activities that pull me away from time with my family. I don’t want to miss making them breakfast because I’ve stayed up too late (again) doing one thing or another. I don’t want to squash my girls’ desire to learn to sew because I’m too busy (sewing) to give them the attention that requires. I don’t want to miss the joy my kids experience as they count all the houses with Christmas lights as we drive around. I don’t want to miss snuggling on the couch with my husband while watching a movie because I’m on the computer writing something (or tweeting something).

In a season that at its core is supposed to be about Jesus, I don’t want to miss Him completely. If I’m not careful, that’s exactly what I’m going to miss. And I don’t want to. I really really don’t want to.

In teaching the fourth through sixth grade girls Sunday school class at my church, I use the Desiring God curriculum, How Majestic Is Your Name, which details the many names of God. Last Sunday we studied Jehovah-Jireh: “The Lord Will Provide.”

As the girls and I were going through the lesson, I had the opportunity to share with them how I was planning to trust God with our future transportation needs. Our van was having some issues, but at that point on Sunday it was still running. I told the girls that I knew I would have to eventually trust God with the van, but what I didn’t know is that the next day our van would break down for good.

Hebrews 11:1, of course, reminds us, “Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what do not see.” Well, we’re living in the tension between faith and certainty right now. Do we sit tight and see how God provides? Do we crunch numbers and see what kind of monthly payment we can afford? If we do the latter, does it negate the former? Is it possible to really trust at the same time you are scrambling to find the solution yourself?

In the past, my mistake is usually that when I trust God to provide, I place parameters on his provision. For instance, in this scenario, I think God’s provision should look like a brand new car in the driveway tomorrow. I realize, however, He has provided for us already by allowing us to test-drive a car from Chevy for the past month and having our pastor offer us his family’s second minivan for the weekend. In addition, when we go to my husband’s family’s farm next week for Thanksgiving, we’ll bring home his parents’ van as a loaner for a few weeks.

At the same time, we will begin looking for replacement options. We’ll sweat a little over it, but we won’t worry. Because the God who can give us a new Chevy for a month, a loaned van for the weekend, and another one for as long as we need it will continue to provide for our needs.

I have faith in that certainty.

The last time I posted here I subjected you to a couple of my home movies. Now I’m the first to know I don’t have one ounce of video expertise. I never even owned a video camera until three weeks ago! I like to think I’m getting better, but only time (and someone really objective—that is, my husband) will tell.

As I’ve carried my little camera around capturing footage everywhere I go, I’ve caught a lot of life on film—the good, the bad, the ugly, the frustrating, the hilarious, and the mundane. All the raw footage resides in iMovie on my iMac right now, but most of it will eventually make its way to the trash can, never to see the light of day.

Ah, the edit function. It isn’t that I don’t want to portray an accurate picture of life as we know it, it’s just that I don’t particularly want to showcase my own sin (or the sin of my children) for the world to see. It is a really great thing to draw the edit box around the 30 seconds of someone’s squabble and just hit delete. Presto! Sin gone!

Oh, if only life were that way. As it is, I have no edit function for the multitude of math struggles and the rest of life’s daily irritations. I can’t drag a yellow box around the things I wish were different and hit delete (even though I really wish I could).

But even if I could edit out my bad behavior, Scripture teaches that I still need a Savior. I wouldn’t see my need for a savior if I could deal with my sin myself. I wouldn’t view my kids as less needy of grace if I could edit out their sinful struggles. I wouldn’t pray and depend on God if I could just move my garbage to the trash can on my own.

Rest assured, I don’t see sin as God’s “gift” to me to learn to depend upon him more—James tells us that God does not tempt (though he does test). But I do see my lack of real-life editing skills as further proof for my desperate need for an editor—the Editor—with His skilled eye focused on editing my story into His, which is the greatest story ever told.

The name of His editing program? Sanctification.

For the past week and the next three, I’m participating in a promotion Chevrolet is doing in the St. Louis area. The company asked six local “mommy bloggers” to test-drive either the new Traverse or Equinox and blog (and video log) our experiences for them here. It’s called the “Mommy Madness” campaign.

It’s been fun so far. I’m definitely enjoying the new ride (our own van has 198,000 miles on it, and let’s just say that new car smell is gone), and I’m even getting handy with the Flip video camera Chevy gave me to record everything I do with it.

Oh, and I’ve also discovered that talking into a handheld camera is semi-therapeutic—a perk, if you will (and cheaper than an actual psychiatrist).

I’m doing my best to present my experiences in as good a light as possible for Chevy, but I confess there are some things I’ve thought twice about before blogging about them. Granted, they’re not big things (as you can see in the videos below, I had trouble figuring out how to open the gas cap and have had continual problems with the OnStar service), but I recognize there’s a part of me that wants to be careful so no one comes and hauls my (temporary) ride away too soon.

This got me thinking: If someone goes on and on and on about how they have it all together—how their homes are perfectly kept 100 percent of the time, how their children embody the essence of the fruits of the Spirit, how they never get to week three of a four-week budget and stress about how they are doing to make it that last week—that really doesn’t help me. Sure, I try to be happy for others when good things happen to them or when things are going well, but I know there’s more to life than just the good stuff.

I find I am most encouraged by others who are honest about the same road I’m riding on—for instance, the homeschooling mama who has seriously wondered if her children wouldn’t be better off learning in school after all because then they wouldn’t argue as much, another mama who understands how debilitating stacks of laundry and dishes can be, and yet another mommy who, just yesterday, experienced the same internal meltdown I experienced today.

These conversations—all actual ones I’ve had in the past week—are the things that build me up as a struggling homeschooler, mother, and wife. I don’t want to see perfection; I need to see imperfections redeemed. In other words, I need to know other mommies’ OnStar buttons sometimes work as little as the one in my new test-drive Chevy Traverse.

I need to see grace worked out in real lives, not test-drives. I’ve got plenty of “mommy madness” to go around; sometimes I need to know there are other mommies on the road.

Two completely unrelated incidents collided this week as to briefly take my breath away and reconsider life as I know it and wish it to be.

The first event came in the form of a trailer for the soon-to-be released film Motherhood. In the movie, Eliza Welch (played by Uma Thurman) is a “mommy blogger” struggling to find her voice in the midst of her life as a stay-at-home mother. In the trailer, her husband, Avery (played by Anthony Edwards), looks at his wife and says, “I want to know what makes you want to live a life with passion.”

When I watched the trailer (see below), tears welled up in my eyes. It could have been that particular day or just this particular season of life (the stay-at-home/homeschool mom season), but while deep inside I know what the answer should be (Jesus, right?), there are days I dread thinking about the question.

The second breath-taker: I recently decided to go through World Harvest Mission’s Sonship program. My book arrived this week and I began listening to the first lecture. I didn’t get very far before I had to pause again. In lecture one Jack Miller, the late 1970s pastor/evangelist, reads several verses from Galatians and then says, “The key question that the book of Galatians brings to us is this one: What happened to all your joy?”

Again, tears. What happened to all my joy? What makes me want to live a life with passion? If I can’t sincerely answer those questions with Jesus, then I’ve seriously lost touch of who I really am and was made to be. I can get so wrapped up in my identity—as a mom, as a homeschooler, as a writer—that I forget the very essence of the “why?” behind the “what?” of the “where?” and the “when” of the “how?” I do what I do.

And for Whom? That’s what I really need to ask, isn’t it? That’s the question: for Whom?

What makes me want to live a life with passion? What happened to all my joy?

How would you answer the questions? I’d love to hear from you.

Last week I went downstairs to pull some meat out of our deep freeze and noticed the seal on the door was no longer working. Our deep freeze has been on its last legs for a while, so I knew this moment was coming; I just didn’t expect it to arrive at 9:45 on a Tuesday morning. The last thing I wanted to do that morning was haul a quarter of a frozen cow upstairs to my sink, simultaneously announcing my plight on Facebook in hopes that somebody would come to my rescue by offering some freezer space.

The freezer needed to be defrosted. I just kept putting it off. But when the emergency hit, I sprang into action.

Just last night I took a closer look at my kitchen counter and saw a clear sticky substance gluing down everything from the food processor to the stack of small white boards I had left on the counter. I couldn’t quite figure it out, until I opened the cabinet above and realized that the last time my daughters experimented in the kitchen, they didn’t tightly close the lid on the corn syrup. Of course, the bottle got knocked over in the cabinet and now I have a(nother) mess to deal with.

The cabinet needed to be reorganized. I kept meaning to get to it. But now that there was an emergency, I sprang into action.

I’m sensing a theme here that I really don’t want to extrapolate into my relationships with my kids; yet just yesterday, one particular daughter and I had some relational struggles. At the urging of my husband, I decided to take her out for a little one-on-one time after picking her up from choir practice. It’s in these times that we’re both removed from the triggers of everyday life that tend to set us off—we see each other’s hearts and are able to catch a better glimpse of one another’s perspective.

Living this way isn’t easy; it’s much, much easier to close the freezer door and think, “I’ll just deal with that later,” or to look at the disorganized kitchen shelf and again, close the door for another time. But if I do that with my kids, I may find one of these days that not only is the mess still there, but the meat has spoiled and there are ants in the cabinet.

I don’t want to parent out of emergency. I pray God will attune my heart to the proper daily maintenance and initiative my family requires. Oh, and if anybody knows of a good deal on a deep freeze, let me know.