So, about blogging, I decided to try again by taking from my day just one moment which was pleasant, and pouring all my energy into recording it well. So here is today’s, with a little history behind it.

As a young teen I lived with my family in Great Britain. With my mom and sister we built a Victorian wooden kit dollhouse. We loved it and collected furniture and tiny items that made me squeal with delight at their intricate detail. The tiny reproductions of cups and saucers, Coke bottles, fireplace and brass bed sparked my imagination. Along with books like the Borrowers, of course. I was also fascinated by the times of the Victorian age. The fashion, stories, traditions all inspired me. It probably came from my experience in Great Britain, visiting so many of the historic sites. We even visited Queen Mary’s elaborate dollhouse. Playing with my own dollhouse I could dream up my world and live big inside its tiny walls. It became my favorite hobby. I poured over dollhouse magazines, made tiny aprons and flower pots and looked for sales on miniatures in toy shop(pe)s.

I always thought I’d pass that dollhouse on to my daughters. I was one of four girls. Three of us were very girly. Naturally the Victorian part of my soul felt destined to live on through my own set of Little Women.

After college my Victorian interest skipped into the Flapper era and 1930s, 40s. I just couldn’t get enough of all things vintage. Especially the music. After college I shared an apartment in Chicago with a friend and had mostly vintage eclectic furniture. Eventually I met my husband, we moved overseas and my daughter was born. Then twin sons. The years went by and there was no possibility to bring that huge dollhouse overseas without great expense and the risk of it falling apart during transport. So I gave my mom permission to give the dollhouse to a neighborhood friend.

However, my mom kept for me all the furniture and items from that old Victorian dollhouse. They have been sitting in a box our attic now for several years. I kept thinking I will find a used dollhouse or kit for my one little woman. She will be eight years old next month, so this year I thought must be the year she gets it, so she can get long imaginative use out of it during her growing years. It took me months browsing online to find a dollhouse that will fit in her small bedroom and still accommodate my hand-me-down furniture. Finally I settled on one and we ordered it online. It came unassembled in a flat box.

Today was Christmas. Last night I wrapped the dollhouse box, still unassembled and brought down that box of dollhouse furniture from the attic and opened it. After all these years, my own memories have turned vintage and tumbled out with some of the broken pieces. Most of the items are intact, but looking their age. I can still walk through that Victorian dollhouse in my memory, and envision this now faded velveteen green couch next to the ceramic gold piano my older sister had painted.

She opened her present today, was generally excited and Tati assembled it for her and put it in her room. I gave her the box of furniture and tiny items to put into it. That’s when her excitement grew. As she put the little pots and pans in the tiny kitchen, she kept oohing and ahhing and told me once “I think I’m going to cry” and I felt the kindling of our kindredness. We put the furniture in all the rooms, and she showed everyone the tiny hangers in the wardrobe and the toys for the children.

I left her to play and could hear her in there making the voices of the whole little family. Then she came to me here at the computer “Mommy can you come play with me? Please, please, Mommy!” So I did, and she said “You be the mom, cuz…you know how to do that. And I’ll be the kids.” The mom was lying in bed. “Hmm, that must be nice,” I said. So she started with the kids bursting in to the mom’s bedroom, “Mommy?! Are you sleeping?!” Because life in miniature doesn’t get any less real.

She’s asleep, and it’s midnight thirty and I just went in there and opened the windows and doors of the dollhouse, you know, to air it.

I’m a 6 inch plastic figure with a 5’1″ mommy build.

Tomorrow I am going to make little rugs from coiled twine. Between Christmas clean up and wiping Vick’s chest rub off the boys’ bedroom door. If you need me, I’ll be on the balcony. There’s a balcony. With french doors.

K, it’s late. I have to sleep. Cardboard mattress, but it’ll do.

When I’m driving, I have to remember to give the right of way at random crossroads to the car entering from the right. There are no stop signs or yield signs, just this understanding from the driver’s rules. It’s disconcerting especially as there are many smaller roads which intersect the road I drive to the kids’ preschool and I find myself on autopilot just getting there. (DESTINATION: FREEDOM!) So I am training myself to watch for the small roads as I go along, ready to give way if I see a car at the corner. I am nervous that some car will just pull out in front of me without my noticing. I have some strong opinions on the importance of the two-way stop signs, but most people here prefer this method of giving way to the right. (Fewer signs, fewer rules in the face…feels freer?)

I was thinking of this today as I realized how many great truths I’ve been convicted of in Scripture lately, how I’ve seen the correct way marked out before me, and I’ve prayed for God’s help to stay that course. I even post great articles on my Facebook page, as though that will solidify my intentions to follow through on the points of conviction therein.  Then through my day, I am intent on getting there (DESTINATION: BEDTIME!) and losing sight of the hidden intersections and ending up in some ugly collisions with those around me, because I forgot to give way to their “rights”. I’ve been working on posting/memorizing verses in strategic places at home so I can see them as roadsigns on my journey. It helps. There are a few areas where I fail almost every time in the same way. I can see it coming. And it is going to take a concentrated effort for me to train myself to watch that approaching intersection and prepare myself to give way to the rights of others. To remember the “rules of the road” while I’m actually on the road.

Last night when I was singing with R before bed, I sang “I have decided to follow Jesus”, which I’ve sung with her many times since she was born. I usually sing three verses including “The cross before, the world behind me” and “Though none go with me, I still will follow”.

Last night after I finished the third verse, she was wiping tears from her eyes and she said “That song made me cry” and started weeping in my arms. I was surprised but wondered about the “none go with me” phrase and asked her what made her cry. She said through her tears and choked voice, “Because I don’t want to be without my family.”

We talked more about what it means to “follow Jesus” and how it’s a way of life, not actually leaving to go somewhere and how the “though none go with me” is talking about deciding to live God’s way even if no one else decides to.

I told her Mommy and Tati already decided to follow Jesus, and that we’re “going with her” on this journey with Him, if she decides to follow Jesus. I told her we still don’t know if her brothers H and L will decide to follow Him, but we pray that they will some day.

She calmed down and even asked whether her cousin Viki will “go with us.” Then she turned the topic to what heaven will be like.

She turned five a week ago. It’s encouraging to have talks like this with my daughter as I see glimpses of God’s work in her heart and see a desire to follow Him. It’s also heartrending as I know if she really chooses to follow Him she will have to make difficult choices in her life, often leaving her feeling alone. I pray for great strength for my children. And I am so thankful I always had my family who still goes with me on this journey to our Promised One.

Look what I wrote a year and half ago, when my daughter was 3 and my boys were just over one year old. I found this draft and wonder why I didn’t post it. It still applies though, so here it is!

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I’m a missionary mom. Do you know what that really means? Godly people are supporting me and my husband as we attempt to build God’s church in a foreign (for me) country. We now have three small children.

It’s hard to be concerned about the neighbors who don’t know God, when I know that my own little girl and boys are also on their way to hell, (some days I think they are actually on the brink) and I am the one who can shape their hearts to seek after God. When I have to get them fed, bathed, clothed, diapered, taken on walks to keep their bodies healthy, direct them to toys and games which will cultivate their imagination and intellect and then find some way to discipline them which will keep their spirits healthy, I have days when I don’t think about anyone else but myself and these three kids. Thankfully my husband benefits from the meals that are cooked, but otherwise he ends up low on my focused priorities.

I have about 10 books always stacked by my bed. Titles such “Well-versed Family” Setting Limits for Your Strong-willed Child” “Dobson’s Strong Willed Child” “Toddler-Wise” “Love and Logic” “Shepherding a Child’s Heart.” Most the time the Bible becomes a secondary resource, as I look for practical how-to advice, so that I won’t find myself spanking my child 20 times a day. I need direction. I even ordered one book called “Pocket Parenting”. It’s got topics you can flip to, and find suggestions for what to do.

You could call me a desperate housewife. Just tell me what to do when she won’t eat her dinner, or stay on her chair, or stop some annoying interruption. I have no problem ending the meal for her, but if I send her to her room, she just plays and makes a huge mess and gets into stuff she shouldn’t. I can’t spend the time to go after her and talk it though, when I’m feeding two babies in high chairs. Just tell me what to do NOW! This moment…do I let it go? Do I allow her to cause havoc for the rest of the family?

It’s hard to be concerned about the neighbors. It is so hard to be a Christian when you have small children. Let alone a missionary!

You know when I think about the neighbors? When I have to holler down the street to my child “COME BACK HERE NOW! Or else!” ….or else what? One consolation is that the neighbors probably don’t understand what I’m saying. But they do know I’m yelling. And they see a child running like an escaped prisoner, and screaming like she’s being tortured.

I fall into bed way too late, after scouring these books for some answers I can arm myself with when the battle begins in the morning. I mumble some prayers throughout my day, mostly in the form of a challenge to God like “See that? What am I supposed to do with that? how do I deal with her? She’s impossible!”

In bed I replay several scenarios, cringing at my angry responses and impatience-laden pushing. I feel like such a bully. I give God my worn out, guilty spirit. I’m learning how to handle the guilt and accept the grace God so lavishly spreads on me. God does way more as He parents me. He is full of grace.

Being a missionary to these three children is my most primary concern.I do have lots of silly happy moments with all of them. And I treasure these times even though I feel at a loss most the time, knowing something is always about to pierce through my wartorn nerves. God is with me.