Paper Plates and Purpose: Cultivating a Family Culture Where God Feels Familiar
What I didn't know then, and am just now beginning to understand now, is that my elders spoke of a family culture- one filled with standards, traditions, boundaries, and customs. Fast forward to now living in my 30s, married with 5 young kiddos. For a few years, I felt the Holy Spirit impress on me to consider carefully the culture my husband and I were cultivating within our home.
I didn't really care for children’s books growing up.
I didn't experience the joy of reading compelling stories until I was in middle school. However, what I found myself drawn to were the stories I stepped into by happenstance during the holidays.
My aunts, uncles, parents, grandmothers would tell of a past that I enjoyed imagining as I sat on a couch observing with great anticipation to hear which cousin threatened to hurt who. Papa was spied on by the FBI when? Daddy took her to homecoming ? I beckoned at the chance to relive a time filled with such suspense and thrill, though the throes of Jim Crow would hardly be characterized as a time worth reliving.
One thing I garnered from listening to my family’s past were the often-said statements prefaced with the words,
"Papa would always...Mama didn't allow us to...Big Daddy made it a point to...Auntie never let us walk out the house with..."
There were these unknown figures, at least to me, who created such an indelible mark on my elders that long into their old age they still recalled what their elders instilled in them and what they would later try to pass down.
What I didn't know then, and am just now beginning to understand now, is that my elders spoke of a family culture- one filled with standards, traditions, boundaries, and customs.
Fast forward to now, living in my 30s and married with 5 young kiddos.
For a few years, I felt the Holy Spirit impress on me to consider carefully the culture my husband and I were cultivating within our home.
When we didn't have children, my husband and I could binge-watch multiple series on Netflix.
Popcorn and ice cream could suffice for a few dinners.
Carelessly spending here or there could go without much consequence.
And our visions/goals were important but didn't feel quite vital.
When our firstborn arrived, we felt the following verse deeply, "Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom (Psalm 90:12)." Some things needed to change.
Why culture?
Culture is a powerful tool.
It can imprint habits within the soul of an individual and thereby mold certain thinking. It has the power to apprehend young maturing souls to establish rhythms and patterns with ease when it is steadily threaded into one's fabric to "just do so."
It's what makes the 80-year-old man take off his shoes when entering anybody's house despite hearing polite pleasantries to not.
It's what commands the mama to cook a pot of black-eyed peas every Jan. 1st, without fail.
It's what obliges the father to watch every single football game of his favorite team, less to do with discipline than nostalgia.
The questions my husband and I needed to ask ourselves were, "What are we trying to imprint and what sort of thinking are we attempting to mold within the minds of our children through the daily rhythyms of our home?"
Like I said, fast forward. My husband and I now have five young children. Life has come at us with lightning speed. Over the years, my husband and I have read the books, made the charts, written down the goals, and at the end of the day, we conclude that we just want our children-and one another- to know the Lord, be known by Him, and be obsessed with His Presence.
So…
whenever I sometimes begrudgingly but determinedly pull out the table cloth for my kids to place their paper plates around our secondhand round table, I do so with the purpose of creating a moment. In time, multiple moments to capture a memory. Memories to thread a story. A story that points to a remembrance of a hoped for future utterance which states, “When we were growing up, we ate together.”
It's the same when I pull out the muffin tins, or bake the sourdough, or stay up late on a Saturday evening prepping for Sunday morning church, or budget for date nights, or say "no" to the multitude of evening extracurriculars to protect our family time.
I desire for my children to recall a childhood filled with inviting smells, good food, healthy rhythms, and moments of pause.
But why do I take such efforts to vie for these things, specifically?
Speaking transparently, I have a bigger purpose than just a home that smells nice and occupies children with full bellies.
As the culture says, I have an agenda haha.
I do these things so that when my children taste and see that the Lord is good, it tastes somewhat familiar.
When they experience sweet intimacy with the Lord, they recall seeing it first between their parents.
When they smell the aroma of Christ, it's recognizable from taking in its whiff from those intentionally placed into their lives.
When they encounter the overwhelming love of God, they harken back to the remembrance of their Mama's embrace.
When they experience the merciful pruning from their Saviour, they don't shudder in shame but naturally welcome its refining due to years of doing so under the care of their earthly father.
And when they feel it's time to be still in His Presence, they've practiced the art in their day-to-day.
Yes, culture is a powerful tool.
My prayer is that my children look back on the years residing in my and my husband's home and can honestly say, "My parents attempted to bring God's Kingdom culture within our home in the midst of the daily."
What culture are you creating within your home and why?
"Are you going to die?” my four-year-old son asked. Tough questions during everyday moments.
“Are you going to die?” my four-year-old son asked.
You’d think this would be his first time asking such a question. I mean he’s only 4 years old.
“Are you going to die?” my four-year-old son asked.
You’d think that this was his first time asking me such a question. I mean he’s only 4 years old.
Nope. He’d been asking me this same question for weeks up until that point.
I’d made the mistake of watching the movie Downton Abbey, while my son and his two-year-old sister played in the background.
It had been a long week. My feet were tired. My pregnant belly extended further than it had just days prior. And my one-year-old daughter was down for a nap. I couldn’t wait to escape through the means of a movie. I figured that Downton Abbey was innocent enough.
And it was.
But then there was a brief funeral at the end. And that’s when the questions began.
“Mama what’s that? Did she die? Are you going to die?” my son asked feverishly.
I knew this wasn’t the first time he witnessed death through the means of a screen. He’d seen a dinosaur die in his favorite show, a land before time. He enjoyed smashing ants with triumphant victory whenever he saw one crawl through the crevices of our front door. I knew that he had a general concept of death and finality. But this latest question felt different.
I could see his little eyes grow a bit anxious as he awaited my coming answer. To understand the concept of death is one thing. To unpack its meaning in relation to someone you love…is another.
“Yes, sweetheart, but when I die I will go to heaven. It’s like me going to sleep and waking up alive again but in heaven,” I tried to reassure.
This was a truth I’d come to cherish for over 20 years. But it was a truth felt with so much more weight as I tried to explain it to my son at that moment.
But he didn’t quite understand.
“Are you going to die tomorrow? Am I going to die? Let’s pray and ask God for me to never become an adult so I won’t die. Can I ask God that, Mama?”
I wanted him to know that He could ask God any question he wanted. And so we bowed our heads and he prayed.
“Did God say ‘yes’ Mama?”
The way he said ‘Mama’ typically didn’t melt my heart, as I’d hear him so often yell it…scream it….whine it….throughout the day. But in that moment, seeing his innocent eyes search for meaning, made me want to hold him tight. I could see him wanting to feel safe.
“I don’t know son. But I believe God has many big plans for you and wants you to live a long time and become a husband and father one day like daddy. “
“Okay. But Mama, I don’t want to die.”
If you’re a Christian, you don’t really die, son. It’s like going to sleep and waking up in heaven. (How could I explain the differences between the first death and second for believers vs. non believers?)
“Okay. So Christians don’t die?” he asked.
“No, not really sweetheart. They like go to sleep and wake up in heaven.”
For weeks, he kept asking questions regarding death. I tried my best to be honest and sure without provoking fear. His curiosity grew and so did the depth of his questions.
One random day, while waiting in the car for my husband to return from purchasing car tags for our car, my son began his list of questions again. I’d been tempted to let the kids watch something on my phone after two hours of them waiting, but they were cheerfully finding things to entertain themselves with on their own. It was in the third hour of waiting in which the questions began.
“Mama, are you going to die?”
We talked at length again. I explained how Christians have the assurance of being with God forever no matter what. I knew the Holy Spirit didn’t want me to broach the topic of hell just yet.
“Okay, Mama. I want God,” he said gleefully.
“You want to be with God forever?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, somewhat distracted by who knows what.
“Okay, you can have God.” I then spoke about sin and God being a savior and dying on the cross so that we wouldn’t have to be punished for doing bad things anymore. And that when we believe these things to be so, He sends His Spirit to be with us ALWAYS.
I led him in prayer as He confessed that he sometimes did bad things and wanted God to be with him forever.
After praying, he wanted to know if the random passers-by, seen from our front window, were “Christian” or not. And why that random man was smoking. And if that man was going to now die because his lungs would be black. Okay, I digress. It’s quite fun having a curious four year old.
I write this blog post because I learned two vital lessons through these conversations with my oldest son.
The Lord reminded me that my son will not always come to me with hard questions only when I’m ready to talk. It’s going to be in the everyday moments of waiting in the car, trying to get dinner ready, or getting dressed when I must be ready and available to talk with my child when certain questions come up. If I’m consumed by my phone/tv/books or if I create a culture in which my kids are always consuming some form of media or activity, disallowing thoughtful reflection and careful thought, I will most likely miss windows of time to allow my children to ask, think, and ponder on observations seen throughout the day. Having the knowledge to answer hard questions is just as important as being “available” to have a discussion. Fostering a foundation for critical thinking within my children is just as important as making room for my kids to have quiet moments of “nothingness” to simply think and not be bombarded with only content to consume.
Kiddos are being taught every day by someone. It’s best that my son, as young as he is, learns what death is (or any other topic) through me rather than through a misguided peer, adult who may not share the same values as me, or culture caught through media. Young kids are never too young to broach certain topics that might seem initially lofty or too heavy, and I ought to not shy away from explaining difficult concepts just because it’s inconvenient or too much to explain.
Is my son saved now? The Lord only knows. But I know that our conversations are not in vain. And I’m thankful for the opportunity to be emotionally and physically present to continue such conversations in the near future. Pray for myself and my husband as we continue to navigate parenthood. We need all the wisdom we can get from the Lord. And please continue to pray for the precious souls of our four children.
If you’d like to help us prepare for the arrival of our 4th baby, here’s a link to our baby registry. Every bit counts and is truly appreciated: https://www.babylist.com/psqicnbvu
-Pondered Thought
3 Ways Princeton Prepared Me for Motherhood
I am my best comparison. Some moms make their kids meals from scratch every day, some are super organized and have weekly toy rotations, some have detailed curriculums and homeschool like Harvard professors, some dress their kid to the nine, and some have sleep trained and potty trained their child by the age of 2.
I personally don’t like arts and crafts. I feel stressed thinking about following strict times to do things. I prefer to stay home all day and do home activities (this quarantine was an easy adjustment). But do you know what I do love?
I am my best comparison
I attended Princeton during the era of grade deflation. This meant that no matter how well you think you did in a class, your grade was based on that of your peers. A certain percentage of students were allotted an “A”, no matter if 100% of turned-in material was “A” quality. So if everyone began acing papers in your small seminar class, the bottom percentage of those A’s were given B’s and C’s in order to proportion out the grades.
Thankfully, Princeton no longer has grade deflation, but during my time there, I and my peers dealt with this unnecessary stress. Learning for the sake of learning often took a backseat. Creatively expressing one’s own thoughts and ideas, often shadowed the thought of how other students were creatively expressing theirs too. You see, competition reigned supreme. Knowing that one’s grade was literally dependent on the performance of a peer, often drove many insane.
After one year at Princeton, I made the conscious decision to do my best and to leave the rest to God. For the next three years, I forced myself to compare myself against myself.
My motto became “You just do you... I’ma do me.”
In motherhood, it’s easy for many to compare themselves to others when it comes to parenting.
Some moms make their kids meals from scratch every day; some are super organized and have weekly toy rotations; some have detailed curriculums and homeschool like Harvard professors; some dress their kid to the nine; and some have sleep-trained and potty-trained their child by the age of 2.
I personally don’t like arts and crafts. I feel stressed thinking of following strict times to do things. I prefer to stay home all day and do home activities (this quarantine was an easy adjustment). But do you know what I do love? I love making vegan and gluten-free desserts for our son. I love the idea of planning out the next set of board books to order from Amazon. I love imagining which parts of the book I think my son will love. I love taking him on walks outside and pointing to the trees and butterflies. I love presenting my son with classic toys made from wood and seeing him explore different ways to play with that same toy over the weeks and months.
Princeton taught me to celebrate and learn from the strengths in others without feeling threatened…because living in a state of constant comparison can easily drive anyone crazy.
2. Nothing usually goes according to plan.
And I mean nothing. A few months ago, when I was much earlier in my 2nd pregnancy, I made plans on taking my son out for an activity and then going to two grocery stores before heading home for lunch. Sounds simple enough, right? After the first stop to the grocery store, I realized that I was becoming faint-like and needed to eat something ASAP. I drove to Whole Foods, which was nearby, and decided to grab a vegan cookie and some chicken (during pregnancy I find that I have to eat meat, otherwise my nausea gets really bad, very quickly). I grabbed my son’s stroller, put him in, and headed straight to the hot food bar.
After grabbing my items and checking out, I couldn’t wait any longer. So I took out my vegan cookie and began chowing away on its sweet goodness while navigating the stroller with my other hand on the way to the car. Unknowingly, when I reached the curb of the sidewalk outside the store, my hot barbecue sauce (you know, for my chicken) poured out of the stroller’s cup holder and onto my son’s pants and down his leg. He was sticky all over.
I made a u-turn, went back inside, finished my cookie of course, and headed straight to the restroom that was some distance away. I somehow cleaned up my son inside the small cramped restroom (with the little strength I had—hello 1st trimester) and then thoroughly cleaned off the stroller, while keeping my ever-wandering child from entering into other people’s restroom stalls.
I kept hearing my roaring stomach and felt extreme fatigue setting in. Finally, we made it back to the car (nevermind needing more barbecue sauce), but upon reaching the car door, I realized that I didn’t have my keys. The hot October sun didn’t make things better. I was becoming weaker by the second.
Retracing my steps through my mind’s eye, I realized that I may have accidentally thrown away my keys when grabbing several napkins to clean off my son and stroller.
At this point, any dwelling on the recently occurred events would’ve led to a breakdown. So I didn’t dwell. I couldn’t. I simply grabbed my stroller once more and headed back inside.
I headed straight to the restroom to make sure my keys weren’t there and realizing that they weren’t, I headed directly in the direction of the manager and explained to him that I needed to do a thorough search of a particular trash-bin. I didn’t have time for judgment. I just needed to get back to the car, eat my chicken, and get home. Thankfully, my “I’m about business” stance dissolved upon hearing that a stranger had actually found my keys and turned them in already. A “Praise the Lord” resounded from my lips, and my son and I were off to the car.
A few minutes later, after ferociously consuming some baked chicken in the driver’s seat, nausea and fatigue set in even further. I knew that I was going to throw up at any moment’s notice (after this, it would take weeks before I could consume chicken again). My son’s cries in the back, as it was way past his nap, didn’t help. Let’s just say, I barely made it home.
Plans? Every mother knows that any day can go in a multitude of directions. From poop explosions to toddler meltdowns, to unexpected messes, to dinner plans suddenly looking like a multitude of “healthy” snacks mashed together, to “I’m going to get an hour’s worth of work done since the baby is asleep” suddenly being disrupted by a shorter than usual nap from your bundle of joy.
Princeton taught me to do the best I can with what I have. In college, sometimes I had only one hour to write a five-page paper. And you know what? I found a way. Sometimes I only had 20 minutes to send a professor an email, run to the dining hall for a quick meal, and download that day’s precept readings. Instead of dwelling on less than ideal circumstances, I learned in college to literally make the best with what I had.
3. You gotta laugh at your mistakes and refuse to place your identity in them
During my Sophomore year, I took Molecular Biology. My friends and I met faithfully in our study groups, shared excellent outlines, stayed on top of our readings, and visited office hours. Leading up to my midterm, which was 20% of my final grade, I felt confident.
On the morning of my exam, I even got dressed up. This was the first midterm in which I felt so sure of acing the exam, in light of grade deflation. When the midterm was over, I gathered my belongings and caught up with some of my study partners to discuss our thoughts on the exam. Very quickly, I discovered that there were a few questions discussed in conversation that I couldn’t recall. Within minutes, I realized why.
I hadn’t completed the very back page of the exam.
I couldn’t believe it. All the hours of studying, memorizing, outlining, office hours. I knew the material like the back of my hand. I emailed my professor and explained to her my situation. After meeting with her in person and making numerous concessions to retake the exam, I was shut down. All the questions that I didn’t answer would be counted against me.
Talk about a major mistake.
I went back to my dorm room and fell to my knees. The Lord listened to my cries and comforted me in a way that only He could. While I felt that this was a HUGE deal, the Lord gently comforted me and let me know that it actually wasn’t. In light of eternity, this was actually pretty small. Although my grade wouldn’t truly reflect my knowledge of the material, it didn’ change the fact that I still possessed that knowledge.
I learned two things that day. 1) Sometimes you just need to laugh at your mistakes and 2) refuse to identify yourself by them.
Just because you may have forgotten to change your child’s diaper in a timely manner and now he/she has a diaper rash...doesn’t make you a “bad mom.”
Just because your child is regressing and is now wetting the bed…doesn’t mean that it’s your fault.
Just because your house is a mess, you haven’t shaved, and you’re finding joy in having to poop because that’s your only excuse and time to be alone...doesn’t mean that you’re failing in life.
And just because you let your child stay up way too late and now he or she is off schedule…doesn’t mean that you’re irresponsible.
Sometimes, you just need to laugh! Perfection is overrated and is never a measure of your worth, gifting, or progress. The goal is to look more like Christ each and everyday…not a Stepford wife.