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Dena's passions include cuddling with her two young sons, date nights with her hubby, reading, blogging, and compiling books such as The Groovy Chicks’ Road Trip series. Dena is thankful for her creative life, which is varied and full. She performs part-time at a Christian-owned professional music theater, Rockbox Theater, located in the beautiful Texas Hill Country. Her publishing credits include the book Grace for the Race: Meditations for Busy Moms (Barbour), articles in Focus on the Family, Woman’s World and HomeLife, and tips for Working Mother, Family Circle and Parenting. She’s currently working on a devotional book about moms in the Bible. Visit Dena at her website: __________________________________________ Planting a Garden Let us be grateful to people who make us happy
One afternoon, Jordan noticed the journal and asked if he could write in it. I thought, "Why not?" Here's what my 5 ½ year-old recorded (spelling errors and translations included): "I'm thankful for . . . santa, baby jesus, momy and dade, mi house, or (our) bones, mi (my) presents, or hort (our heart), luv fum (from) momy and dady, for God, apol jows (apple juice), and I am gad dit we r nt mosdrs (I am glad that we are not monsters)." Jordan's creative list inspired me to write down some of the things I'm thankful for: God's never-ending patience with me . . . two working vehicles—and one that's paid for . . . a potty-trained child (I thought he was going to be in the Guinness Book for oldest kid in diapers!) . . . girlfriends . . . the movie Babette's Feast and musical Les Miserable . . . e-mail . . . gooey chocolate brownies . . . good relationships with my in-laws . . . for a husband who cooks, babysits, and does laundry (don't hate me, ladies!) . . . and for a mom who made me write thank-you notes after every holiday—before I played with my gifts—and who wrote me affirming letters as I was growing up, listing the things about me she was thankful for. Come to think of it, my mother was an excellent model of thanksgiving. Even when she went through a lengthy illness, she kept a great attitude. And Jordan's desire to create his own journal page reminded me that gratitude—like many of the attributes we want (or don't want!) our children to develop—can be taught by example. What a scary, but thrilling, idea! "This, surely, is the most valuable legacy we can pass on to the next generation," wrote Arthur Gordon in A Touch of Wonder. "Not money, houses or heirlooms, but a capacity for wonder and gratitude, a sense of aliveness and joy. Why don't we work harder at it? Probably, because as Thoreau said, our lives are frittered away by detail. Because there are times when we don't have the awareness or the selflessness or the energy." I'm going to start praying for that selflessness, awareness and energy, so I can plant seeds of gratitude in my children. Wanna join me? Maybe even on tough days we can model a spirit of thankfulness to all those around us. And pretty soon, we might be surprised at the beautiful garden of gratitude that has sprung up around us. ©2008, Dena Dyer __________________________________________ Falling into Grace
The pursuit of perfection often impedes improvement. —George F. Will I love autumn, with its crisp leaves, brisk air and changing colors. However, as a recovering perfectionist, I’ve had many autumns in the past that fell short of my "ideal" fall. Here are my usual expectations, followed by a dose of reality:
This year was no different. Since Carey had to work on Halloween, I took Jordan to our church's Fall Festival. It was a doozy—bounce houses, pony rides, Bible-themed carnival games, costume contests, and an inflatable obstacle course. I expected a fun-filled night, complete with many Kodak moments. However, only an hour into our evening, Jordan came off the big slide in tears. My first thought was that someone had picked on him. My second thought was finding the little bully and—well, we were in the church parking lot, so I decided against physical violence. "What's wrong, sweetie?" I asked. He wouldn't tell me, but I soon figured out that he had torn his pants. And no amount of cajoling would get him back in the game. So we went home and watched America's Funniest Home Videos. I was a little distraught at how our evening had turned out, especially when the doorbell rang. Since we hadn't planned on being home, I didn't have enough candy for trick-or-treaters. "Mom, kids are at the door!" Jordan yelled at me, while I frantically looked for granola bars or fruit. "I don't have enough candy," I lamented, as he kept pointing to the door. "They can have mine," Jordan said, reaching into his purple pumpkin, full of prizes from carnival games. With my mouth agape, I opened the door and watched him gleefully fill the trick-or-treaters' sacks. The rest of the evening, my son had a ball passing out his hard-won candy to strangers with painted faces, and I marveled at the child who had reminded me: life may tear your expectations to pieces once in a while, but focusing on others helps you forget your troubles. ©2008, Dena Dyer __________________________________________ Going for the Gold
Parenthood remains the greatest single preserve I come from a very competitive family. We’re not super-outdoorsy or athletic, but just try to come between one of us and a piece of fried chicken! At our annual family reunion, we have horseshoe and ping-pong tournaments for kids and adults, complete with poster-board tracking systems and trophies. And while I’m not in the least bit athletic, I do love to watch the Olympics. From the opening to the closing ceremonies, I’m glued to the television. (I guess my hubby is an “Olympics widower.” Poor guy!) So I got to thinking: if this parenting thing were an Olympic sport, perhaps I could be a medallist—or at least a contender. See if you can identify with some of these sports my friends and I practice:
While parenting is not actually a competitive sport, we moms are champions at comparing ourselves to others, and measuring our kids against impossible standards. We want our children to be as fast as Michael Phelps, as photogenic as Shawn Johnson, and as focused as Nastia Liukin. Unfortunately, that usually doesn't happen--and we feel like the competitor who just missed the bronze medal. Before I became a mom, I read all the “right” parenting books, attended classes, and decided that I would never spank, yell, criticize, or use television as a babysitter. I thought I was being realistic: after all, I didn't say that I would nurse for two years, use cloth diapers, or sew my son’s clothing out of recycled draperies. There’s nothing wrong with wanting the best for my family. But I need to remember that I'm human, and my children are, too. I’m the queen of unrealistic expectations--I have the crown and sceptor in my closet to prove it--which only sets me up for disappointment. ©2008, Dena Dyer __________________________________________ Mom's Science Experiment
Here’s how my little science experiment went: Purpose: To cook dinner for the family. Hypothesis: I will burn, break, or bandage something before the night is over. Procedure:
Result: While cleaning up the mess in the sink after dinner, I cut my hand. I have therefore broken a dish, burned a chicken, and bandaged a finger—all in one night. I am culinary-challenged, to say the least. And sometimes, to be honest, it makes me feel like a less-than-stellar mommy. After all, what child doesn’t need a home-cooked goodie now and then to really feel their mother’s love, all the way down to their cute little toes? But you know what I’ve realized (and finally made my peace with)? Cooking is not my thing—and that’s okay! I can do a lot of other things well, and my guys like slice-and-bake cookies as much as the homemade varieties. I know this because they’ve had the other kind at friends’ houses, and never once complained about mine. Either that, or they’re too sweet to say anything! Sometimes we moms put so much pressure on ourselves—pressure that God never intended for us to feel. We look at the mom next door, or at the gym, and she seems more put-together, confident, and adept at multi-tasking than we’ll ever be. And we start to feel insecure and totally inferior. (The problem with that kind of reverse-naval-gazing is that the other mom is probably looking at you the same way. Pretty much every single mother has doubts about themselves.) Add in the constant proliferation of information we’re subject to through ezines, newspapers, magazines, and television shows, and the simple answers the media gives us (“lose ten pounds in twenty minutes!” and “organize everything in your house today!”), and it’s no wonder we feel overwhelmed and under-qualified. The truth is, God made us all unique, and our strengths (and weaknesses) are part of His design. Each of us does a few things pretty well, and we stink at the other stuff. There’s no one who’s good at everything. (Otherwise, why would we need each other—or God?) And take it from me, ladies: if we try to do it all, we’ll be done in. So here’s my “Resigned, yet Joyful in the Gifts I do Have” conclusion to the aforementioned experiment. For the Dyer family, it is not only wise, but physically safer, to have Pizza Hut, Olive Garden and Applebee’s on speed dial. Because when it comes to cooking, there’s definitely a science to it. ©2008, Dena Dyer __________________________________________ Unsung Moments
Nothing has worked. I'm not Catholic, but this sure seems like Purgatory--or at least, one of Dante’s circles of Hades. According to my extensive (okay, two-minute) Wikipedia research, there is actually a level where people are covered in human, well, never mind. The other day, I sat in the bathroom across from our little man, doing my best to affirm him. He seemed to really try, and I felt the slightest glimmer of hope. "You can do it!" I said. Then I got so desperate for victory that I started chanting, "Push it out, push it out, w-a-a-a-a-y out!" I'm on the edge here, people. I know it's just a stage, but I'm glad he's awfully cute. Otherwise, he might spend all his waking moments in time-out. Or I might run screaming out the door. Better yet: I'll leave, and let Dad handle the potty challenges. If I kept score as to who’s changed the most diapers, he'd be waaaay on the losing side. Maybe I should "cash in" all that mommy-duty capital now. (Okay, I’m back now. I had a temporary break with reality.) I know in the big scheme of things, potty training is not a world-shattering event. I also know that one day, the hubby and I will look back on this time in our lives with nostalgia, saying "why did they have to grow up so fast?" Still, it's hard. And it feels like it will never be over. That’s why it’s so nice to know that I’m not alone. Today, I read an online article called "God Sees.” The author, Mary DeMuth, wrote: 'When we attempt to potty-train for the umpteenth time, having given up on M & Ms, begging, and tears, God sees...He sees what we've hidden and is especially fond of rewarding what we've done for Him secretly (Matthew 6:4)." I ask You, is God's timing perfect, or what? He used Mary’s words to remind me that even the smallest, way-out-of-the-spotlight details of my days matter to Him. Perhaps the unsung moments of life are truly the most important of all. So I’m praying for patience, gritting my teeth, and shelling out hard-earned cash for glorified diapers. ©2008, Dena Dyer
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CWO Cover
“Crayons in my Soup” is a column for moms in the trenches. These funny-but-poignant meditations give perspective and hope while not glossing over tough questions. As she shares her own foibles, failings, and frustrations, author Dena Dyer encourages moms to laugh hard, love hard, and lean hard into Jesus.
Last Christmas, I came across a unique book called Ferris Wheels, Daffodils and Hot Fudge Sundaes by Laura Jensen Walker. This gratitude journal, which was inspired by Walker's bout with breast cancer, consists of blank pages to write on, quotes and scriptures about thankfulness, and her own lists of the things—both big and little—she's grateful for.
I cooked dinner last night. Too bad my oldest child had already done his science fair project—the remains of my culinary escapade would have made a great display. My darling hubby was sick, and wasn’t in the room during the ordeal—which makes me eternally grateful. He already has more kitchen stories against me than he can shake a spatula at.
My four year-old is not toilet trained yet. This makes me embarrassed, frustrated, and flummoxed—sometimes all in the same minute. I really think he might be the first kindergartener to go to school in Pull-ups. 
