Being a Warrior in My Own Home

Let’s be honest, most of my days are filled with cleaning dishes, entertaining a whiny toddler and putting things back in their places after said toddler blows through the house like a hurricane.

Seriously, toothpaste ends up in the kitchen, socks under the dining table, cooking spatulas in the shoe bucket. I’m thankful our house is a little bungalow or else it would take me hours to go from room to room replacing things.

A good day usually means I get a shower in. Actually, a good day means I get some writing in. I usually opt for the keyboard over the shampoo when given twenty quiet minutes, sorry hubby.

It all seems the exact opposite of being a warrior on a battlefield. Warriors wear armor, shout battle cries, risk their lives and gain glory each and every single day.

I am fascinated with King David’s Mighty Men in the Bible, who have crazy tales of admirable feats. There’s one story in which David says he wishes he could have a drink of water from the well in his hometown. At the time, his hometown of Bethlehem was occupied by the enemy, the Philistines. That’s no problem for three of David’s Mighty Men. They risk their lives, breach enemy lines and smuggle back a pouch of water for David’s parched throat. (2 Samuel 23:15-17)

At another time, one of David’s men, Benaiah, fights with a lion and wins. (2 Samuel 23:20)

And a third battle that fascinates me is when Eleazar stands his ground against the Philistines while his army flees. The Bible says his sword became fused to his hand. Thanks to God, Eleazar beats the Philistines almost single-handedly. (2 Samuel 23:9-10)

Glory and honor. Fighting against a dark force and beating the odds.

Minus the blood and guts, there’s something really cool about being a warrior. It’s being called to fight for something, it’s taking action against a dark enemy, it’s finding courage when there really shouldn’t be any.

So I’ve been toying with the idea that maybe I CAN be a warrior—in my own home. Maybe I’m in training. A young Jedi, I suppose. (I got you, Star Wars fans.)

I fight for my family and I fight hard. I fight to keep our basic needs met—ya know food on the table and babies in clothes, ahem CLEAN clothes, kinda thing. I also fight to keep us physically healthy—doctor appointments, medicine, cleaning to keep the germs away, although notably not my strong suit.

I also fight to keep us doing things that are mentally engaging, and restful and social—fulfilling those needs.

Now spiritually I could do more, but my husband and I pray and pray hard for our marriage, our children, our children’s spouses and futures and more. That’s definitely a battle.

There are many times I want to give up. I want to stay in bed all day and stare at the ceiling, oh that would be beautiful. But I get up. I face another day, another battle and fight sometimes valiantly and sometimes just enough to keep us alive.

But the truth is that my role as a mother at home is honorable. I may not have stories written about me in the Old Testament, thank heaven, but I am certainly a HUGE part of my son’s and my husband’s stories. I may not slay thousands or risk death by battle wounds but if I didn’t do what I do then my household would crumble.

Yes, it’s a much smaller scale but it’s really important. And while I’m changing another diaper, or putting all of my son’s books back on his shelf (again) it doesn’t feel very admirable, but it is. It’s a thousand tiny, small things done with love that lead to one big thing— impacting someone’s world.

One husband, one son at a time.

I can raise my sword to that.

Meet Levi - Approaching Life With Common Sense

I’ve always said that every life has a lesson to teach, no matter the generation. We tend to think that the learning only happens with someone older than ourselves.

Meet Levi. He’s eleven years old and a gentleman. He opened every door for me, among his other impressive manners.

We sat down for lunch recently and shared a few stories. We also talked about birth order, movies, goals, and change.

No matter the subject, what stood out to me was his attitude. There isn’t a trace of complaint or discontent in his attitude. (Talk about convicting.)

Based on our conversation, I could tell that Levi approaches most everything with the common sense of a much older soul.  And I learned.

I came home and jotted these down, courtesy of Levi:

Being a first born carries responsibility and a need for daily patience with younger siblings who always want to follow you around. (He has three younger brothers.)

Being home schooled allows the student to totally focus on their studies and accomplish more learning in less time. Levi often gets the afternoon off. That's a good gig.

Having a Dad who likes the same kind of movies that you do makes for a fun and easy way to connect.

Not having a sister is okay. They would probably get their own room.

Levi is very close to getting his black belt. He says it takes dedication and perseverance.

His karate instructor’s words of gold that have stuck with him: "When opponents compete, it’s not the rank of the belt that matters, but it’s what actually happens when you spar."

TV is overrated. History is not.

A word of gold from Levi regarding big changes: “My family recently moved. It was a lot of work. But I could do it again if I had to.”

Did I think like that in fifth grade? I'm guessing not.

But I can now.

Her Chairs

Mom worked every day of her life. Advanced age and debilitating health weren’t about to change that. She woke early, drove a 45 minute commute and then began the chore of getting to her second floor office. Congestive heart failure limited her steps. If she walked too far wheezing and panting made her desperate to catch her breath. It was especially hard to watch as the years wore on. 

Chairs were strategically placed every ten to twelve feet. The first one just inside the front door, with others next to the elevator, inside the elevator, outside the elevator,  down the hall, and finally at her desk. She would walk in the front door and sit down. Then get up, walk to the elevator and sit while she waited for it. Once on the second floor, chairs dotted the hallway.  When she needed to rest...a chair was waiting. The routine was repeated at the end of the day.  She was tired then and her strength was fading. So the trip down the hallway took a lot longer.  And every chair was needed.

Strength, resolve, grit, determination…whatever you want to call it…she had it all and then some.  No complaining….no whining…no pity…no excuses. Five days a week, twice a day for years. And even on her last day – though she never made her commute - her clothes were laid out on the bed, ready to dress for work. None of us knew she was taking her last breath. She quickly and quietly left this world.  

No more chairs.

She’d never imagine her chairs would leave such an impression…not only for what they did for her…but for what they’re still teaching me. When things get to be too much, sit down. Catch your breath. Doesn’t matter how many times.  

As the years go by and I mature, I realize the wisdom, strength, and faith she lived every day.  Maybe we don’t realize it at the time for a reason. Maybe we’re just not ready. What I do know is that her legacy is rich…yet as simple as a trail of chairs.

Walk as far as you can…take a break…keep going.