During the summer months, our family has always conducted something called “Super Summer Family Memory Nights.”

These weeks, our family night includes far more than the homemade buttered popcorn and Andy Griffith/Waltons/Brady Bunch-type fare—we use the time to bond the truth of God’s Words to our girls’ hearts with memorable fun.

Each week, one memory verse is assigned. We hand out the typed sheets to everyone on the kick-off night. (We began when our youngest was 2½ years old; we highlighted a shortened version for her, but she usually knew our version by summer’s end, just because of all the repetition!)

We begin our evening by reciting our verses. Small prizes are awarded to those who know their verses (a candy bar, fun notebook, pen, game for all of them to share, a coupon to stay up late) and thanks to friendly peer pressure, all the girls—and their parents—have learned all of them. The verses build on each other, so that by summer’s end, all of us have committed nine verses of scripture to memory (12, if we do the bonuses, which have the biggest prizes!).

We pray together, do a REALLY fun devotion, sing a few choruses and then let the snacking and shows begin! They love that one night is an ice cream sundae bar; another is a buffet of cheese cubes, fruits, veggies and dip and tiny desserts; one night is a jammies run to a fun destination.

We often use the Heritage Builders Family Night Tool Chest Books—Introduction to Family Nights, Wisdom Life Skills and Tried & True for Teens are some of our favorites. One year, we adapted Group’s Kids’ Travel Guide to the Ten Commandments and included knowing those commandments in order as part of our memory work. All of the lessons are easily adapted and we have added and cut as needed to fit age and interests. They don’t take more than 15 minutes.

All four of our girls still talk about the evening on our driveway, where a roll of Mentos candy was added to a two-liter of Coca-Cola and spurted everywhere, a vivid visual reminding us to be contagious Christians whose joy spilled over on others.

Another favorite was making a list of our worries in sidewalk chalk, the summer of Greg’s kidney transplant. In the middle of those worries, we wrote one of our verses: “Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” We prayed on top of those worries and let the garden hose wash and make of those worries a beautifully rainy tapestry, whose colors mirrored the sunset.

We’ve had scavenger hunts and planned tricks. We’ve ended the summer with a family talent night and laughed until we cried. One year, our oldest daughter, for her “talent,” dove in the pool at our annual end-of-summer Bed & Breakfast getaway and touched the drain! She has always been terrified of them since she read that someone’s long hair once got them sucked down a drain. We teased her mercilessly and applauded hysterically when she conquered her fear for those few moments.

Our girls have written their own Psalms, surrounded by the bounty of God’s world, serenaded by cicadas, and all of us have written down the five things we’d want to tell each other if we knew those would be our last words.

We begin the summer season, as we do the back-to-school season, with a family meeting. As our girls grow, we have wanted our summers to blend relaxation with productivity and memory making with down time. We agree on a few guidelines that prevent lots of nagging and arguing.

Here are ours for this summer:

• bed made and clean clothes put away daily

• only one block of TV/movie time daily

• 15 minutes of Webkinz or Facebook (oldest only) or Wii daily

• devotions and exercise daily

• generally, in bed by 11:00 p.m. and up by 9:30-10:00 a.m.

• one special day to do Summer List activities every week

• weekly rotation of learning to do laundry, dishes, and cooking with Mom

• one sloth day each week in which you can stay in your jammies and just do chill-out activities

I’ve included this year’s memory work to help you get started. Every family is unique and what works for one won’t always work for another, but part of the fun is adapting and treasuring each other! I can’t wait to hear all about what you do!

Super Summer Family Nights 2011

June 10

“Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for he who promised is faithful. And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds…but let us encourage one another—and all the more as you see the Day approaching.” Hebrews 10:23-25

June 17

“The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective. Elijah was a man just like us. He prayed earnestly that it would not rain, and it did not rain on the land for three and a half years.” James 5:16b,17

June 24

“Finally, all of you, live in harmony with one another; be sympathetic, love as brothers, be compassionate and humble. Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing.” I Peter 3:8,9

July 1

“This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us. And if we know that he hears us—whatever we ask—we know that we have what we asked of him.” I John 5:14, 15

July 8

“But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that.” I Timothy 6:6-8

July 15

“Do everything without complaining or arguing so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life.” Philippians 2:14-16a

July 29

“Be careful that you do not forget the LORD your God, failing to observe his commands, his laws and his decrees that I am giving you this day, otherwise, when you eat and are satisfied…then your heart will become proud and you will forget…” Deuteronomy 8:11,12a, 14a

August 5

“Don’t be afraid, the prophet answered. “Those who are with us are more than those who are with them” And Elisha prayed, “o LORD, open his eyes so he may see.’ Then the LORD opened the servant’s eyes, and he looked and saw the hills full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha.” II Kings 6:16,17

Bonus:

1. Review Books of Old Testament —$5 dessert of your choice during our B & B weekend

2. “One thing I ask of the LORD, this is what I see: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life…I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.” Psalm 27:4,13,14—$5 dessert + $10 credit to For-All Bible

3. “My soul finds rest in God alone; my salvation comes from him. He alone is my rock and . . . my fortress, I will never be shaken. One thing God has spoken, two things have I heard: that you, O God are strong, and that you, O Lord, are loving. Surely you will reward each person according to what he has done.” Psalm 62:1,2,11,12—Both of the above prizes + $15 credit toward one “extra” item of back to school clothing.

Remember that ALL 3 bonuses AND the memory work must be complete to get all three prizes! J I love you so, girls. Let’s make Dad’s first healthy summer amazing!

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“Mom!” I could read the wonder through the text message. “This guy just told us ‘Thank you for being brave enough to pray before your meals.’ ”

I smiled and yes, a little bit with pride.

My 15-year-old Emmy was at Silver Dollar City with her high school Spanish Club for the day. She and her group of friends all had their food, but by unspoken consensus, they waited until the table was full, bowed their heads and were thankful for the meal, the fun and the fellowship. And it stood out to those around them.

It’s a little thing, but the kind of thing you want your children to do while they’re away. When they aren’t under your watchful eye, steady presence, immediate example.

It’s what we should pray for, strive for as parents, that the legacy of faith and gratitude is instilled so deeply, that praying, whether for food, help or intervention, becomes as natural to them as breathing.

At an age when what is cool reigns, when standing out is not particularly something to be desired, we need to recognize and encourage such efforts.

Emmy has witnessed someone saying something about family prayer when we’ve been out and about. Ellie has been the recipient of similar comments on her behavior and servant heart when she’s been with us, but somehow, it’s richer when it’s independent of your parents.

You see, it means they are coming to own their faith! When I was in high school, there was a commercial with this slogan: “This is not your father’s Oldsmobile!” The idea was to regenerate enthusiasm for this manufacturers vehicles among the youth. Now that I’m grown, I have a different take. “This is not your father’s/your mother’s faith!”

Our job is to be a pre-school of faith, a stepping stone, a building block, a foundation . . . but ultimately, our children must decide whether this nebulous thing called faith is rooted in their hearts. They must own it. They must seek it out, pursue it and relentlessly make it theirs. We can’t walk with them every measured step into the future, much as we might wish to.

As I ferry my middle two girls to ACT exams and help them fill out high school class schedules, I am daily more aware of this. I don’t want God to be their back-up plan, I want Him to be their default mode, so deeply ingrained in their souls, tattooed on their hearts, that they reach for Him first in joy or in crisis.

Celebrate this. Encourage this. Make it your fervent prayer . . . that God Himself, alive and active is stamped on their souls, even when—no, especially when, they are away.

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It’s April as I write this, and I have strep throat.

The combination of the two are making me cranky. Strep throat doesn’t go with April; it goes with November. I waited two hours to see the doctor this morning and another hour to fill my prescriptions. All of this left me precisely an hour and a half to walk the puppy, grab a quick nap, turn in my blogs and stuff blankets and snacks and water bottles into a basket to attend my second born daughter’s track meet.

It’s an away meet, naturally. So, we will drive an hour and forty minutes one way to watch her run for about ten. I’m not trying for either martyrdom or hero’s fame, it’s just that this one’s important.

It’s the only meet that our oldest, who is down visiting from Iowa, can attend. I leave in two more days to go speak in Colorado, so I don’t want to miss anything at home.

My own mother is fussing at me. She thinks I should be curled up in bed with those blankets, sleeping until the magic point that all of the medicines and rest kick in, making me more like the normal energetic mommy I try to be. I probably should.

“The first one isn’t even my best event,” Emmy protests. “You don’t have to come.”

No, I don’t. But I want to. Chances are, if I am here, the laundry will call my name, the dishwasher light will turn green, begging to be let out of their confines and back onto the shelves. The puppy will scratch on the screen door. I will roll over the wrong way and see dust bunnies, glimmering silver gray in the twilight. The phone will jar me from my slumber and I will picture bus wrecks or Olympic medal worthy times if I don’t answer. By the time I explain why the person on the other line can’t hear me very well, I might as well just get up.

And if I am up anyway . . . well, you get the picture. As the mother of four, I’ve had chances to see incredible solos, parts in plays, pieces played in recitals, and races run. I’ve seen games where the only point my child made was one free-throw. I’ve seen plays where the line offered as “The Wind” was cringe-worthy. But none of that was the point. So if I can do it, without endangering anyone, then I’d like to.

Em might pass someone on the last lap of the two-mile and blow us away. Or she might come in dead last with a little finish. I won’t be able to cheer audibly this time, but perhaps my presence, along with her daddy’s and all of her sisters’, will make a big difference.

Have you thought about how much your presence means to the finishes, both big and little, in your teen’s life?

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As I type, I am driving in the dark with my husband, Greg, to St. Louis. It’s a ridiculously early morning hour. My eyes are sandpaper with streaks of red. I’m tense, but reminding myself that this is a much easier trip than it was twenty months ago.

Twenty months ago, on our 15^th wedding anniversary, we headed to St. Louis for my husband’s kidney transplant. He had an estimated 7-9 percent kidney function; this was our last shot at saving his life.

Looking back over these past months, I see God’s hand everywhere. I look over past posts and scraps of journals and see lessons.

There was the day we found that a perfect donor match found. She was a former student of my husband’s at the University in some crime scene classes. Her parents had forwarded her a prayer chain e-mail. We received one from her: “You may not remember me . . . your integrity and faith made an impact on me. I can’t stand the thought of your wife and girls growing up without you. I had myself tested and guess what? I’m the perfect match.” We wept tears of gratitude.

Over the next months as we waited for an opening, our girls and I watched their daddy and the love of my life, decline. One morning I posted: “Last night Greg was hurting too badly to sleep. He went downstairs to the sleeper sofa. All the girls took their sleeping bags downstairs, made a guard around him and they had an Andy Griffith show marathon. I went upstairs crying, not saying a word about anybody needing sleep. Some things are more important.”

Then there was the morning I wrote: “Ellie cried this morning for the first time during all of this. Her daddy was too sick to go to church.” I’ll never forget the outpouring of responses, including one precious friend who wrote: “I’m crying with her.”

On the morning of the surgery, 37 people had made the five-hour trip to St. Louis to be with us. They flooded the waiting room with prayers, laughter, hugs and strong coffee. They paced with us, entertained our girls, were patient with my distracted worry and expressed confidence in the outcome.

One of our friends brought a journal in which people could write their thoughts and prayers for Greg. Our minister and friend preceded his humorous comments with this: “Greg, the fact that I am writing in this tells you I am confident you will be here to read it.”

More than 300 people followed surgery week on Facebook. If there weren’t constant updates, we heard about it. They expressed personal prayers and the marshaling of churches all over the world to pray on Greg’s behalf. To say our hearts were touched is a little like saying Mandisa can sing.

When the surgeon came to tell me the surgery had been successful and that the new kidney was taking over, loud whoops filled the room. I don’t know what the medical team thought of us. When the girls got to see their daddy in ICU, there was not a dry eye.

All through the week, people came to see Greg. A high school friend rerouted his business flight to be able to see him. The entire youth group came by on their way home from CIY conference. So did folks from the church where my daddy preached in St. Louis as I was growing up. It’s not every day you get to stand by a miracle.

People came to drive my mother and the girls back home after the surgery. For three weeks after all of us arrived home, friends and church members brought meals and mowed our lawn. The men’s group from our church painted the house. It was humbling and amazing. Our girls watched all of this with wide-eyed wonder.

All of this has carved an ever-deepening faith in the yawning canyon of doubt from those dark, indescribably hard months.

A few months ago, one of my girls snuggled on my lap. “Mommy, I wish daddy wouldn’t have had to go through all of this. But it seems like his faith is even better than before, huh?”

I pressed my cheek against her head, breathing in the scent of childhood. She wasn’t finished. With a contented sigh, she continued, “I guess that makes all of this worth it, huh?”

Indeed.

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“Let your yes be yes and your no be no.”

Those were Jesus’ wise words of advice. When we give our word, we need not embellish it with fancy promises or pinky swears. We just need to be known as women of our word.

It’s a Tuesday night, and a call comes in requesting that one of our girls babysit for a young couple in our church. She eagerly responds, delighted, not just to watch the children, but at the prospect of earning some cash for more spring clothes.

On Thursday night comes another phone call, this one with a request from some friends to go with their family to a nearby theme park. An agonized daughter comes down from her room to present her dilemma to us. It would mean she wouldn’t be back in time to make her babysitting engagement. Isn’t there some way out of it? After all, she could give them two days notice.

We listen politely, and even though she knows what our answer will likely be, the mini-speech comes forth anyway.

“Sweetheart, I know those situations aren’t fun. I remember so many just like that when I was growing up. But I’m going to tell you what my parents told me. You’ve already made a commitment to that couple from church. They are counting on you in order to have an evening out. The kids are looking forward to having you play with them. You’ve even pre-allocated your money for some things you were hoping to purchase. Sorry, hon, but you need to honor your word.”

Then comes the slow sigh, the head hanging and the trudge back up the stairs. Things look slightly sunnier in the morning, but grow cloudy again when the weekend approaches and another friend talks animatedly about going to the theme park.

Truly, this isn’t any fun for the parents either. Part of me wants to offer to watch the children for her until she can make it back to babysit; another, smarter part knows I can’t do this.

She packs her babysitting tote and musters a smile as she heads out the door. We wave to her and promise to wait up.

It’s a little after 11 p.m. when she returns, weary, wearing catsup stains on her shorts and waving thirty dollars in the air.

She flops down on the sofa and tells us cute anecdotes from her evening.

“Sounds like you’re glad you went,” her dad offers.

She shrugs with a rueful grin. “I didn’t really have a choice. I did promise them first.”

“Yep, you did.” I grin back and swat her on the behind with a magazine. I know she has learned the sweeter lesson—it is a prize to be someone whom others can count on.

To be known as a woman of her word.

How can you best guide your daughter when difficult choices have to be made? Try discussing different possible scenarios in advance.

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I have been home only twelve hours as of this writing. I’ve been on the other side of the world, speaking to missionary women on the island of Taiwan at their annual gathering. Getting there involves 24 hours of flying (or in this case, 36, thanks to flight delays and missed flights) with a 14-hour time change.

I’m exhausted. I’m exhilarated. I took my third-born daughter with me.

I spoke on the life of Elijah—The Showdown: How God Fights for Us in the Battles of Our Lives. The second session, I reconstructed the altar that Elijah restored on Mt. Carmel, reminding the Israelites of their fallenness. Of their abandonment to serving, yes, even worshipping idols.

In the shadow of homes whose balconies carried idols and personal gods, we shouted along with the repentant of Israel when the fire of the One True God fell from the sky and burned up Elijah’s sacrifice and everything around it—“The LORD he is God! The LORD he is God!”

It stirred our souls, gave us goose bumps and brought us to tears. There we were, ministering to those who minister to those who still worship idols. Who believe in false gods. Who place their trust in something that is not valid.

Our last day, I took my daughter to Lungshan Temple in Taipei. It was packed with those who needed to burn and wave  incense in front of a variety of gods. Those who were leaving offerings of fruit, oil, flowers, and yes, even Diet Coke. Those who were buying and burning god money in order that those they worshipped might not be angry. It was a fearful sight.

We prayed hard before we entered. Darkness and oppression and the cloying scent of incense blanketed us. It seemed I could hear the long ago echoes of the apostle Paul as he entered the Acropolis and beseeched them to worship the One True God, whom the people only knew as “the Unknown God.”

Ellie’s eyes grew large as she took in the bustle, the noise, the sad, 3-D, live and in person demonstration of full-fledged idol worship. We walked quietly and prayed for the lost around us.

We prayed alongside my sister, a missionary there, who prayed for several women in Mandarin Chinese, having asked their permission to carry them before the throne of God. They were intrigued. Only one God.

Only One God. Ellie and I have had many mini-conversations about this. You see, we worship idols too. We can worship at the idol of self-promotion, self-gratification and flat out selfishness. We can worship products, appearance, achievement and stuff. We can long for things and miss out on the real blessings.

We can place our trust in what we can do, buy and merit, forgetting that all of that can be gone in an instant. So then, sometimes we too forget, and need a Mt. Carmel reminder that the Lord, He is God.

Stones of remembrance. Get some. When your children see them and ask you why, tell them. It makes all the difference.

Read I Kings 18:16-40 together. Choose a stone of remembrance, signifying some way in which God has worked in your lives. Then, covenant together to remind each other than there is but ONE true God.

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I didn’t run until I saw the car.

My neighbor casually strolled across the street. “Hey, Cindy, the girls have been in an accident, but they’re okay. I thought you might want to go sit with Emmy.”

I thanked him. His daughter had called home, but he hadn’t seen the car. My other neighbor across the street had seen the car. His face was tense as he opened the gates that cut through his property for me to walk across an acre to the ditch. I chattered inanely about whatever came to my mind at 7:42 a.m.

When I saw the car, knocked 70 feet in the opposite direction, scrunched up in the ditch, airbags deployed, I broke into a run, searching for Emmy.

Smoke hissed from the engine, curling up like a malignant chimney in the frosty morning air. Flashing blue and red lights from police cars and ambulances weirdly illuminated a variety of neighbors, passersby and First Responders. I barely noticed and at last spotted Emmy, huddled with a Highway Patrolman’s coat around her shoulders, sitting on a blanket that some kind soul had thrown across the icy grass.

I tried to hug my 15-year-old who suddenly looked about four, but bruising already, she flinched. I settled for stroking her hair. “Mom, please stop petting me.” Her eyes were glazed and unfocused. I inspected her for damages, and still somehow remained dry-eyed, an odd thing considering the galloping beat of my heart.

I hugged her 16-year-old friend who had been driving. She leaned against me tearily as her mom came sprinting across the road. “I’m sorry, I’m just so sorry.”

“Shhh,” I soothed. “It was an accident. I’m just so glad you’re both okay.”

Pieces of the story came from neighbors and their friends who had been right behind them on the way to school. They hadn’t even made it all the way out of our neighborhood. The driver—who is very careful—looked both ways, but made an inexperienced guess as to the distance she had to pull out and make a left-hand turn.

A huge red truck applied brakes, but it was too late. The larger vehicle struck the little car at 45 miles per hour. In a matter of seconds, the noise, the bright glitter of shattered glass, the chemical smell of airbags, the crunch of metal was over. Twenty feet of skid marks left mute testimony.

I left the girls as EMTs looked them over so I could inspect the car close up with Emmy’s friend’s mother, careful to stay out of the way of the workers.

We inhaled sharply at the same moment. When we looked in the car and began taking out backpacks and purses, when we saw the damage, we knew this could have been a very different moment. It was an awakening. Tears spilled over. We hugged our girls. Prayed over them.

Emmy’s friend’s mouth was cut from her braces. Her hands had cuts all over them. I put antibiotic ointment on them and Band-Aids. She laughed when I told her we called that “magic cream” at our house. Then she cried some more. Her head hurt.

Em had a knot on her head. A huge swollen bruise from her calf hitting the console. Later we were to find out that her kidneys were bruised and full of blood clots. They feared one had become detached.

The girls were fortunate. Blessed. And as we watched them struggle and quietly heal (they are healing still) we had one more wake-up call as mothers. Our days are always, always short.

Is there a wake-up call in your family that you can use to process life’s preciousness with your teen? Make some time to love up on them today.

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With my high schooler’s announcement of off-season training came the reminder: It’s about to be track season again.

Roughly, that means I will be driving up to two hours to sit on hard aluminum bleachers in alternately extremely chilly, rainy weather or blisteringly hot weather, at the mercy of spring’s capricious whims. If my daughter runs in all of her events, I will likely get to see and cheer for her a total of 4½ minutes.

I am tempted to grumble to myself in advance until I remember one important fact: she is a 15-year-old sophomore. I only have two and a half school years left with her. And they will fly.

I recently read a book and loved one quote from it: “The days are long but the years are short” (Gretchen Rubin, The Happiness Project). It’s too true, and so as I am often tempted write on this theme, I wanted to remind us today not to ever allow our oh-so-important schedules to overrule the real reason we want to be with our children. To influence them, guide them, love them, cheer them up and on, to just be with them.

I thought back to one day when all of my girls were in school, except my youngest one. I was out running errands, keeping to the tight timeline I carried in my head. The two of us stopped in to a store to pick up a roll of developed film and grab a few bags of candy for the other girls’ school Valentine parties.

I wanted to get in and out quickly; then two-year-old Elexa Rose had other ideas. She patted every stuffed animal in the place. She oohed and aahed over the shiny hearts hanging from the ceiling. She handed me her coat with an impish grin.

“Too hot, Mama!” she said, and took off running. I chased. She giggled. I stood at the end of the aisle and announced firmly that it was time to check out. Right now.

“Looking at cards, Mama,” she replied in that tiny voice with the cheerful lilt.

I took a deep breath and a moment to look at that aisle from her perspective. It looked fun. Rows and rows of colorful, shiny, glittering, perfectly folded greeting cards. Matching envelopes to boot. Ribboned gift sacks, rolls of pink red and white wrapping paper, perfect for wielding like swords. A stuffed bear or three-dimensional heart thrown in here and there for good measure.

So I waited for her to finish. Then we held hands and paid for our things and I let her hold the sack like a “big girl.” Her small fingers were warm and wiggling in mine. Her face looked up at me with that pure delight only a child has, and everything on my schedule faded into its proper place—into the background.

Though it’s more rare, I still see that look on my 13- and 15-year-old’s faces when I don’t rush them through the clothing displays at Target or look too often at my watch when we’re enjoying a cup of hot cocoa in the midst of a packed day of errands.

“Can’t we just look at stuff?” one of them will ask.

“Yeah, Mom, what’s the matter with just trying stuff on?”

I am tag-teamed.

And I’m okay with that. I will try to remember in a few weeks on those hard bleachers. It will only be a moment before the run around the track becomes the run to college and straight into lives of their own.

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On a beautiful April day in 2007, 33 people died during the Virginia Tech shooting, and the resounding question was “Why?” Just like we asked at Columbine and Jonesboro and Paducah. Why?

When are we, as a nation going to stop kidding ourselves? Our children are allowed open access to cable television and internet smut. They play Grand Theft Auto, and learn that Playboy and violence—like sneaking a cigarette and swearing—are suitable rites of passage.

Many of our children’s classmates listen to insidious music preaching rape, glorifying killing and spouting hate. Worn-out parents either scraping to make ends meet or coughing up money for the latest cool toys, toting laptops, smartphones and iPods let their offspring’s eyes glaze over in front of Xbox and a steady stream of whatever happens to come on TV. Even the loosely governed ones on cable.

What happened to going outside to play? Does anyone read anymore? Does anyone actually have a conversation on a front porch swing instead of via text message?

Some schools teach that we evolved from sludge and that there are no moral absolutes. Right and wrong is whatever you want it to be. And if that is the case, then the question of the hour is “Why not?”

Perhaps we need reminding to teach strongly that life isn’t really all about us. Right things are right. Period. Wrong things are wrong. Period.

These days parents are afraid to parent. Just last week, a 13-year-old girl in our neighborhood’s parents discovered that she had a secret boyfriend. Their solution? They weren’t happy, but they decided to let her continue the relationship. Conflict is unpleasant, for sure.

How about “E” for everyone ratings on games in your household? That if Hollywood thinks you need to be 13 to see a film, you read for yourself at pluggedin.com or moviemom.com or commonsensemedia.com. We might be saying ‘no’ more often, even to ourselves. We need to say that second graders don’t need cell phones. Yes, I need to know where you’re going this weekend, and yes, I’ll be checking in with you.

We probably can’t make people stop producing this stuff, but they will make far less of it if we stop buying for our children or allowing them to get it on their own.

We can tell our friends that we’d like them to tattle on our children if they see them doing something we wouldn’t want them to be doing. Oh, I hope someone tattles on mine.

We can welcome our children’s friends in our homes. Establish family meals and family nights. I know, there aren’t any guarantees, but I’m positive it beats giving up.

Too simplistic? I only know that when I tuck in my four blessings I am always overwhelmed with the feeling of blessedness that comes when they are safe. And I pray. Hard.

Is prayer everything in this solution? No, but lately, it seems the world discourages us as a community from praying. There’s a battle. It’s very real. The Lord of Heaven’s Armies is listening.

Fight for your children in prayer. Battles are never won if they aren’t fought. Fight for your children as if their lives depend on it. When we understand this, and we pray, we won’t be asking “Why?” quite as often.

How fervent and specific are your prayers in this season of your child’s life?

(adapted from Cindy’s Joplin Globe editorial)

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“Dad!”

It was the voice of my oldest child, panicked and disbelieving. “You have so got to be kidding me. You’re not driving me to school in that!”

“Sorry, but totally serious, Edes.”

He delivered this verdict in that cheerful parent-y way we have of presenting a best-case scenario. She groaned one more time, contemplating the utter humiliation of our parental choice of vehicles, brought about by that b-u-d-g-e-t word. Ok, so it’s missing a mirror—but not the one you need for passing, or passing inspection. And that loud grinding noise? Nothing that can’t be solved by turning the radio up a notch.

She launched into her List of Things That I Will Never Do when I am a parent, and it was my time to roll my eyes when she got to how she would wash and wax and vacuum her totally cool car every single week and would never allow a trail mix of Cheerios and petrified French fries to gather in its seats and floor grooves.

Whatever. Truth is, someday she’s going to accept that peculiar mix of expired snack food as survival insurance in case she’s ever stuck in a blizzard.

When her dad was tired of the griping, he threatened to take out his law enforcement bull horn and announce her arrival at the high school: “Attention Eden Dagnan! This is your dad. Get out with your backpack up! Have a great day!” Interestingly enough, the complaints ceased.

At 16, she was terribly affronted and disgruntled about the fact that her one and one/fourth income family cannot provide her with her own vehicle like “everyone else’s parents.”

So would everyone else’s parents please just let me know how you’re doing this? Do all of your children truly drive brand-spanking-new vehicles to the high school, when I haven’t owned a new car since 1994? They don’t even have to help out with their car insurance? You don’t lecture them about how a car’s purpose isn’t even in the same neighborhood as cool. Nope. A car’s purpose is to get you from point A to point B safely. Do you never embarrass them? Truly?

Ah, well. Since around age 14 we seem to be able to embarrass our children simply by breathing. Her last year of track, I was unable to make one of her meets. I hated that.

“No big deal, Mom. I know you want to be there.”

“Thanks, Sweetie, but isn’t it kind of nice to have your ol’ mom squeeze you when you’re done running and feed you snacks? Who else’s mom runs along the fence with you promising you anything you want at Shakes Frozen Custard if you win?”

“Um, no one’s, Mom. That’s kind of the point.”

Sadly, my oldest two have forbidden me from delivering the special honk—“Shave and a haircut—two bits!”—when I drop them off at school.

Undeterred, their daddy leans his head out the window promptly upon hearing, “Please don’t honk!” and yells, “OK! I WON’T HONK! BYE NOW. HAVE THE BEST DAY!”

I love it.

Because I know that when they are grown, we will see them look around our table and grin. “Oh my gosh, you guys! Do you remember when dad took us to school in that stupid car? And what about the time the teacher said that Mom ‘cracked her up’ at parent-teacher conferences?”

They will look at each other, laugh with remembrance and realize that even when we embarrass them, it was with much love.”

What embarrasses your teen today that might be a treasured memory later?

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