As seen in the May 2008 issue of Bella Magazine

Nothing like having a few teenagers to take the wind out of your sails. My little lovelies, for instance, take near constant delight in correcting me. It’s hard to imagine that I’ve misspoken, mispronounced or misjudged as often as I do now that I have a houseful of teens. They constantly point out my errors. It’s like living in a minefield.

“That’s not how you say it, Mom!”
“You just told us that a second ago!”
“I told you that first. Geez!”

Humble, her name is Mother of Teens. Mother of Teens is not paid in butterfly kisses and dandelion bouquets like her sister, Mother of Toddlers. Oh no, those days are long gone. Yet there are so many benefits to having Big Kids, as I lovingly call my teens. As a Mother of Teens, I extract my payment, er, love in other ways.
Consider this. Big kids can carry in all the groceries…and put them all away. Big kids can wash the car…and drive it to the library to return my overdue library books. They can cut their own toenails, brush their own teeth and in general, do all their own personal hygiene. (When they feel like it, that is.) Big Kids can make dinner …and do the dishes afterwards. It’s a delight. When you have teens, every day is Mother’s Day.

Now some might say that Sunday, May 11th, mark the date, Mother’s Day, is just another Hallmark holiday. Cynics. Many mothers would protest coyly, “I don’t need a WHOLE DAY” while secretly wondering why a 3-day weekend wouldn’t be more commemorative. I think that Hallmark took over where preschool teachers left off. Think about it. Preschool teachers do a glorious job with their Mother’s Day celebrations. I once was so desperate for recognition, I bought a new van so I wouldn’t miss the Mother’s Day Tea at preschool. (True story.) That hotplate with our child’s handprint still occupys a position of honor in the kitchen. Once out of preschool, however, the Love Fest Ends. It’s every child for himself. That’s why we need Hallmark…to remind, guilt or otherwise plague our offspring into sheepishly recognizing us, if only once a year.

Moms, relax. The accolades will come. They might not come on Mother’s Day. They may not be in a card that cost $4.95 and plays “Wild Thing.” But you’ll feel the love, in various ways, as your Big Kids become adults. Here are some moments I’ve either experienced or dreamed about.


Academic Award Day. You’ve stopped paying attention because the child being lauded sounds so perfect, so gifted, so wonderful that you know it can’t be yours. As you’re digging in your purse for a stick of gum, you hear your own child’s name called! With tears of pride, you realize your tissues are in the car…with the camera.

High School Field Trip Day. Other people’s sons and daughters fight to be in your car because they heard you are cool and that you stock in Skittles for the ride as well as let them listen to their radio station full blast. Your child can’t suppress a grin because, hey, that’s my mom.

Poker Day. You cajole your way into the game with a bunch of hairy teens who laugh at you and your ineptitude…until you win every hand.

Graduation Day. In the commencement address your valedictorian quotes Abraham Lincoln: “Everything I am or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.”

Wedding Day. The bride-to-be thanks you with sobs for raising the perfect mate for her. In particular she is grateful that he always lifts the seat and takes out the trash without being asked.

First Grandchild. They’ve decided to honor their sweet mother by naming their baby girl after you.

(Okay, this is where my kids draw the line. I’ve floated these fantasies out there and no one is cooperating. Julia did name her obese Lots-To-Love doll “Baby Martie” in hopes of satisfying me. I’ll take what I can get! )

So hang on, Mothers of Teens. Hang on, even if you have to make your own breakfast on May 11th. Hang on, even as you make dinner reservations so you don’t have to cook on “your special day.” You are loved. Dearly loved. The teens just like to keep it a secret, is all. But your day is coming. They’ll honor their mother one day. I’ve seen it in my dreams.

Martie Smith Byrd would like to take this opportunity to thank her mother, Claire, for raising such a nice girl. Thanks, Mom, for being Girl Scout Cookie chairman, picking me up from crew practice, and always liking what I write. I love you! Martie is a motivational speaker and freelance writer who lives in Roanoke.

Last night, I dreamed I was on the scale. It was reflecting a really good number, for me, and I was thrilled. I was saying, "I can't believe I lost 20 pounds without even trying!" I was incredulous but really happy. It was a really great dream.

When I woke up, I ran into the bathroom to weigh myself. GUESS WHAT???? It was only a dream. Glaring up at me from the floor was the same horrid number I've seen since January. I am now officially 5 plus 5 plus 5 plus 5 past my goal weight. (That sounds better than 20 pounds to me.)

Does what it says on the scale actually matter? And if you say, "No", then do you care what your Body Mass Index is? Should you?

My dear husband brought home a little BMI chart. An actual reporting of my weight had me in the orange section (and surprisingly close to the RED ZONE.) Here's the sad truth of that little exercise....I overreported my height. See, I've shrunk about an inch, but when it comes to matters of reporting, I still claim 5' 4", which I ONCE WAS! Hey, it's my story, and I'm stickin' to it.

Since I'm sharing true confessions, I guess you'd want to know that I've also lied about my weight. I lied about my weight on my drivers license. There, I said it. And last week I gave blood and rounded down 5 pounds when asked my weight there, too. So I've made myself taller, on paper, and thinner, too. Is this an issue?

Does God really care what we weigh? Or our BMI? Why or why not? And am I the only one dreaming about this stuff? Don't even get me started on the dream I had about the perfect pair of jeans..........

Home Economics was one of my favorite classes in high school. This was not very cool, liking Home Economics during the midst of the Woman's Liberation Movement. But I enjoyed everything about it. I liked making pudding from scratch. I liked eating a homemade snack during school. Most of all, I liked the biscuits.

Biscuits are both simple and hard to make. Simple because they only have five common ingredients. Hard because you have to use the right combination of ingredients, and mix them gently, in order to produce perfect biscuits.

It occured to me this week that faith in Christ is like Baking Powder Biscuits. We need the right ingredients and need them in a good combination. What are the ingredients? Perhaps belief is the flour, experience is the salt, worship is the shortening, study of the Word is the milk and Christ himself is the all-important baking powder that makes the whole mess rise.

We need all the ingredients for faith to be made perfect. Sometimes we err on the side of too much of a good thing. We focus on the worship, but don't have truth. We look to our experience, the salt, and focus on that, instead of belief, which is the primary ingredient. Or, we try to rush the whole process by not allowing the dough time to set, or the stove time to preheat, or the biscuits time to cook into their brown and yummy goodness.

What are the simple ingredients that make your faith good enough to eat?

I love American Idol. It's one of the few shows that our whole family watches together (given that neither Dave nor I will watch Cartoon Network.) We discuss contestants at the dinner table. Dave gets on websites predicting who will next be voted off and tries to ruin the suspense for the rest of us. We cheer. We boo. We love it. (I especially love Simon!)

Last night we watched the "Idol Gives Back" program with great joy. Over $60 million was raised and still more donations stream in. It is so wonderful to see the show...and major stars...turn their attention to giving. Giving to our neighbors. You see, when you look up the definition of neighbor in the Bible, it actually means...EVERYONE! Everyone in the world.

They closed the show last night with a worship song to Jesus. Yet to be politically correct, the opening words were changed from the original. The Darlene Zschech song Shout to the Lord normally opens, "My Jesus, my Savior." Last night the Top 8 Idols sang, "My Shepherd, my Savior" instead of the name of Christ. I imagined that in editing the song, producers told singers to belt it out to "whoever or whatever you consider god." (My own crush, Michael Johns, proclaims his beliefs through attire. He's worn a shirt that asserts "Music is my Religion".) Removing the name of Christ was a typical American concession for both contestants and viewers. American Idol wants the Christian votes--and donations--while not offending the atheists, Buddhists, Humanists and the rest.

Yet, you can call Him Shepherd, you can call Him Fred, they were still singing to Jesus Christ, the Lord. Every word of that song is from Scripture that proclaims Christ. He is the Living Word. He inhabits the praises of His people. So my question to you is...can you inadvertantly praise Christ to all the world?

I think so. I think we just saw it last night.

My Jesus my savior (Titus 3:6, 2 Peter 1:11)
Lord there is none like You. (Psalm 86:8)
All of my days, I want to praise, (Psalm 44:8, 52:9, 72:19, 86:12)
the wonders of Your mighty love. (Psalm 136:4)
My comfort (Isaiah 40:1, 49:13, 51:12)
My shelter (Psalm 27:5, Psalm 91:1)
Tower of refuge and strength (Psalm 61:3)
Let every breath all that I am never cease to worship you. (Psalm 150:6)

Shout to the Lord, all the earth let us sing. (Psalm 100:1, Isaiah 49:13)
Power and majesty praise to the King. (Psalm 47:6, Psalm 47:7, Daniel 4:37)
Nothing compares to the promise I have in You. (Philippians 3:7-9)

Shout to the Lord, all the earth let us sing. (John 12:13, Revelation 19:6)
Power and majesty praise to the King. (1 Chronicles 29:11, Psalm 47:7)
Mountains bow down (Psalm 97:5-6, Psalm 148)
and the seas will roar at the sound of Your name. (Psalm 69:34, Psalm 93:3)
I sing for joy at the work of your hands. (Psalm 5:11, Psalm 81:1, Jeremiah 31:7)
Forever I'll love you (Psalm 23:6, Psalm 136).
Forever I'll stand. (Psalm 20:8, Proverbs 10:25, Matthew 10:22, Luke 21:19)
Nothing compares to the promise I have in You. (Proverbs 3).

Would you take a few minutes and look up some of these Scripture? There is real power in the Word of God. It's alive. Jesus is in it. Don't take my word for it. See for yourself.

I recently read a biography of Deidrich Bonhoeffer. He was one crazy dude. He was a pastor in Germany before the outbreak of World War II. He figured out very, very early on that the Nazi party was a dark force. He and other believers broke away from the National Church in order to take a stand for Christ.

He had this awesome idea that loving your neighbors meant loving all your neighbors. He cited the Sermon on the Mount as His inspiration. He got it. He just got it. He didn't have to wear a plastic bracelet that challenged him, "What Would Jesus Do?" He knew. He knew that Jesus came for all, died for all. He wasn't afraid to do the same.

Here's what I think is crazy and inspirational and awe-inspiring. Bonhoeffer was offered refuge in the United States as things heated up in Germany. He could have stayed. He would have easily survived the war in comfort and security. But he knew comfort wasn't for him. He knew he was meant to go back to Germany. He knew it would likely cost him his life.

And still, he went back. He got on a ship and went back. He hoped to participate in a successful assassination of Hitler. He was martyrd for his faith during the last days of the war.

Deidrich lived a large life. He loved his neighbors as himself...actually, more than himself. I feel kind of guilty about the love I have for my neighbors. It's a "wave when passing" kind of love. It's a "say hi when I'm having a yard sale and they come to buy my old dishes" kind of love. It's a "gee, I never knew you were a single parent" kind of love. Come to think of it, that might not actually be love.

As I was researching this, I realized I was spelling Deidrich's name wrong. I was spelling it: Died-Rich.

And he did. He died rich. He died as rich as the Lord he followed. It occurs to me, I want to do that. I want to die rich, too. Even if it means getting my hands dirty, getting involved, being uncomfortable, even being afraid.

I want to be Bonhoeffer-like.