Greg was the ultimate bachelor when I met him. We didn’t marry until he was 28, so that’s a long time to be without the feminine touch. He drank out of 64-ounce plastic Thirstbuster cups and didn’t own any matching silverware. He didn’t have the proverbial beer and old pizza in his fridge; instead, it was more pastoral –orange juice and cheap onion bagels. Still, it was slim pickins’.

I don’t want to talk about the brown plastic couch with duct tape. True, it was comfy. And it was easy to clean (were he ever to choose to do that) after dozens of wet folks plopped themselves on it after waterskiing parties every week. (I learned to waterski back in those days, which is good as my cool days were definitely numbered.) We got rid of the couch when we married, but he still waxes nostalgia over it. He was fine with giving up his bed accommodations though—a sleeping bag thrown on a waterbed.

We kept Mouth, the fish, in those early days. Mouth was a man-eating barracuda that jumped out at you every time you passed it in the hallway. I mean, it was almost a security system, were an intruder actually to break-in through the… hallway. It had razor sharp teeth and an attitude. It was vicious. Greg caught him on the lake behind the house, and like Clifford the Big Red Dog, he just grew and grew until he filled the whole tank.

Greg values people over stuff and is always ready to serve Jesus at a moment’s notice. He is a good reminder of what’s important. That’s why he chose such simple living conditions back in the day. Things don’t matter much to him, which is a good way to be if you can balance it just right. He’s easygoing but not lazy. He frequently saves the day but is impervious to pressure. This makes him a great Taboo partner but also pretty descent missionary-type material.

The reason I’m thinking of this today is because of the mayhem of the day. I’m one of those types that can’t go to sleep with dishes in the sink, and it’d do me well to just let go once in awhile. I’d like to be Mommy with a soft lap instead of the chore drill sergeant, but you know, that’s my choice. I’ve got six babies, which I’ve been thinking, is a lot even by my standards. (Yesterday, some stranger called me “the old lady in the shoe” which was OK except for the “old” part.) The work is hard, but I’d like to balance things just right: to be available for God to speak through the tyranny of the urgent, to be a child of His, to keep things simple and remember what matters. In the end, it’s all my choice because a good reminder walks alongside me.

I emerged from my postpartum cocoon this week and ventured to the grocery store. I was afraid that the bakery ladies had forgotten me (they didn’t), as it’s been months since I’ve done the shopping. That means, I’ve made it this far without being relentlessly assaulted with Feliz Navidad, cha-cha-cha. You already know I have the Christmas humbug every year; I am a reluctant festivity maker. There’s nothing you can do to talk me into thinking standing in a Black Friday line at Wal-Mart at 5 a.m. is a great idea.

It’s been our tradition to buy our kiddos a new pair of shoes for Christmas. Then, we give them each a bag of treats sort of like a stocking: kiddie toothbrushes, hair clips, and new crayons. Presents from other folks have filled their toy boxes, and so far, we’ve gotten away with this simple approach.

Now that they’re getting older, we will spring for a special gift. Any ideas for good, useful gifts? My son, the one who hates math, circled a math computer curriculum in a catalog. Anything to get away from his workbook, which isn’t going to happen. Our toddlers will probably get wooden puzzles for school time. There are special horse books hiding in the pantry for the girls. We don’t plan to buy a horse for the farm; the books will have to suffice. Our friends told us that horses are for people with more money than brains, so don’t remind me of this when we get one in two years.

I’ve gotten away from book reviews this year, but I wanted to mention The ESV Literary Study Bible in case you were looking for one this Christmas. I gave this one to my nine-year-old since he’s not had his own Bible yet. It seems to be the most readable for him, given that we want him to read a translation and not a paraphrase.

The study notes, which aren’t cumbersome and in every nook and cranny, help the reader understand the text in its context. The most helpful aid, in my opinion, is the discussion on how each book fits within the big picture of the whole Bible. Though, I’d say that the first noticeable and main distinction is that the text covers the whole page from left to right, reading like a book, instead of the traditional column format. My son digs this.

He’s used his new Bible so much that he wants a cover and something to hold his pen and notes. Sounds like a better choice than new math material to me.

In the sideblog yesterday, I mentioned that I sometimes feel like a failure for all that I’ve left undone. So much to do, so little time. This is why as mothers we have to choose well. So many details vie for our attention, and we have to constantly choose between A and B. If you’re a mom of many, I should say that sometimes you have to do A and B at the same time while letting go of C, but you know what I mean. God is our Shepherd, and He will help us to choose well if we are listening to His voice. That’s what I learned today.

Elisabeth Elliot discusses the question often asked of young children, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” in Keep A Quiet Heart:

“… it implies that the choice is theirs. This can lead to great confusion later on. The child will grow up physically, but spiritually he will not have begun until he learns that Jesus died not only to save him from sin but in order that he should live not for himself but for Him who died (see 2 Corinthians 5:15 and l John 3:16). If a young person has been taught from childhood that he ought to ‘be something’ without at the same time being shown that nothing is better than being God’s servant, he may be preoccupied with ambitions and ideals he has gotten solely from the world. If his conception of ‘where it’s at’ has nothing to do with the Kingdom of God, he is in for trouble when it comes time to discern the Will of God. He will be setting limits to his obedience, defining the terms of his service. ‘For My sake’ is a concept children can grasp much earlier than we generally suppose. A little boy wrote to me that he was learning to lay down his life for others. To him this meant that sometimes when he would rather play he lay down beside his little sister to help her go to sleep.

“Pray that God will show you how to teach your children that life is meant to be lived for God. ‘You are not the owner of your own body. You have been bought, and at what a price! Therefore bring glory to God in your body’ (1 Corinthians 6:20, PHILLIPS). Help your child to understand that the Lord is his Shepherd, and he is a little lamb. The Shepherd will gladly show him the right pathway if he is willing to follow.”

Teaching little ones to be sensitive to God’s leading is done well by example. We want our children to grow in relationship with their Shepherd. We have been bought–that is the key.

We belong to a small local church. Our church is less than a quarter mile from our house; it’s so close that even the toddler can walk there without a stroller. It will be a huge loss to us when we finally move to our farm in Kentucky next year. There is no church at the corner crossroads from our new farm, only an abandoned Amish schoolhouse. We will have to find a new church, and while big doesn’t always equal bad, we’ve found several positive aspects to belonging to a smaller congregation.

I got to thinking about this because I am sitting home on a Sunday morning with my newborn daughter and runny-nosed toddler. Greg is putting out fires at work. My older four children, aged three to nine, absolutely hate missing church. This is a good thing. It’s like cutting off their arm to miss church, and so, they rarely do.

Being close to the church and her people, they don’t have to miss church. There is always someone willing to pick them up and take them. And here’s the rub: They are with their family, even when they’re not. I don’t have to worry that they will get lost in the crowd or that they will be unsupervised. Everyone knows the Scott kids and not just for notorious reasons. They receive both correction and lunch invitations, discipline and love. They are unable to get away Scott-free with anything, as everyone knows them and their parents. I like it this way.

When we first began visiting churches six years ago, we attended the local mega church. They had good music. One problem with the whole situation, though, was that we had to leave thirty minutes early even though the church was only a five minute drive. We only had three children back then, but by the time we signed in everyone, got labeled, got numbered, and got three different beepers and pagers, the morning was half over. It was a big production then with three children, I can’t imagine how long it’d take with six!

One morning, we decided to keep all our children in a mega church service with us. It just made more sense, and it’s not because we read it on the internet. It was Easter morning. Our children are used to sitting still at home during evening readings anyway, so they are pretty good. We were sitting near an exit so that we could leave without disturbing anyone if necessary. Well, it wasn’t long until the baby started babbling quietly. Immediately, an usher approached us and asked us to leave. We left and never went back.

It’s not my style to give anecdotal evidence as support for an argument. I’m not making an argument; there are lots of fine large churches. Not all big churches ask people who might not be saved to leave on Easter morning, but the reality is that you can never know who is who in a crowd of thousands. Our children can run to the van for a forgotten item without us worrying about kidnappers and other shady strangers. Call me shallow, but I just like visiting with folks after church without worrying about keeping all six of my children on tight leashes. (That sentence sounded like Andy Rooney could’ve said it, and that’s how I meant it.) It’s been a blessing to raise a family in a place where everybody knows your name, to borrow a phrase.

Another reason I like our small church is because of the preachin’. I prefer more poignant, convicting sermons. When you’re in a crowd of thousands, it’s easy to assume the preacher is talking to the other guy. When you’re in a small church, it’s very probable the preacher is talking to you, especially if he was at your house this week and saw your kids acting up. Maybe he heard about the time I flung dog poop in the neighbor’s yard. Maybe he read that on my blog.

I like our church of 150 people. We know their names and their trials, and we almost always run into someone when we shop at Publix on Saturdays. In a culture where bigger is almost always better, I prefer to hang my hat at the small local church instead. Your own mileage may vary.

Greg told me the other day, “I’ve got the kids. Go do whatever you want.” Maybe your husband does this too sometimes. I am with the kiddos all day, every day, and I don’t go on business trips with steak dinners and lobster. I’m not bitter, I’m just saying. So I thought about what I’d want to do with my new found freedom.

There is a book of jazz Christmas carols on the piano in the living room. It is sitting there calling my name. People used to ask me to play for them and now they do not. I know why. The reason is that I used to be descent and now I am not. I thought about navigating through the jazz book with its 13th chord tricks, but then I thought that I’d be better off not doing something that will depress me and remind me of how badly I’ve become. I’m fragile, you know.

I thought about the quilt sitting in the closet. It is a log cabin with subtle hues of browns, pinks, and ivories. They are colors found in nature, soothing and pleasant. It was supposed to be a wedding present for my mother several years ago, but they already divorced. The quilt colors are perfect though, and I think so even if years have passed since I first chose them. Finishing the project is worthwhile. The problem is that it is that the project is so huge, and by the time I set up my machine and find the rotary cutter that slipped behind the shelving, my afternoon of freedom will be over. I will wait until my sewing room is set up in the new house at the farm.

I thought about real estate, one of my favorite subjects. When I used to have blocks of time like these, it was my habit to scout neighborhoods for real estate bargains. But the market has tanked, and we aren’t investing anymore. (Not that I was a wheeler-dealer before.) I no longer subscribe to the local Real Estate Hotsheet. We already bought our farm so it’s no use browsing United Country anymore. There are no phone calls to make, no faxes to send, no requests for tax information.

Like many mothers of babies and toddlers, I relish time to regroup. I love my children, but I also love my sanity. Don’t hate me for saying so. There is a certain sort of panic that overtakes my mind when given time to do something alone. What should I do? What do I like to do? Do I have interests beyond math curriculums and vaccination pros and cons? Who was I before all this? Am I still me? (Does it matter?)

One of the problems with this incredibly busy time of life is that I’m afraid I’ll forget it. If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, does it make a sound? If I live these moments and tell nobody, does it really matter? Is it enough for God in Heaven to see? My toddler bends his head, lowers his eyebrows, and growls when you ask him to “Do scary, do scary!” He won’t do it for the camera, so will it be lost? Will we forget? I think so—unless we tell the stories, write the stories, remember the stories on purpose. My oldest is only nine, but so much of it is a blur.

By the time I’d decided to grab a coffee and read a book (that I’ve long since forgotten its name), my time was over. The baby needed nursing, and I am the woman. I hear her beginning to wake even now.

Economists say that it’s going to be a “bad” Christmas. Sales are down, fueled by anxiety about everything from the mortgage debacle to oil prices. I like a strong economy as much as the next guy, and the market was bad to us this year. But will Christmas really be a disaster? Maybe we should measure a successful holiday season by diminishing divorce, suicide, and child abuse rates. Maybe then we wouldn’t need to band-aid our loneliness with more debt. Christmas cookies, footie pajamas, hot cocoa, a fire, carols playing in the background… nobody fighting…that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

Last night was our church’s annual Christmas play. The old story was told again by our little ones: Mary and Joseph, God’s Son sent to us in a manger, and angels singing for the redemption of mankind. We need Jesus, they reminded us. Ain’t that the truth.

Afterward, Greg and I tucked our brood into bed, and we wrapped a couple of gifts. The temperatures finally dropped from the 80’s to the 60’s and we were able to turn off the air conditioning. None of the lights have gone out on the Christmas tree, and when they do, it’ll be the ones in the back. One can hope. Funny how your priorities change over time.

My four oldest. They used a baby doll for Jesus instead of our newborn. She cries too much for the “no crying he made” kind of Jesus. Plus, my preschooler noted, “She’s a GIRL and Jesus is a BOY!”

Two wiseman and a chief priest.

Make that two wise guys and the court jester.

“This present is for me, and I’m going to LOVE it.” I hope so.

Speaking of Christmas cookies…

…who let the toddler down?! Guess who the dog loves best.

The whole house is down for the count. Greg flew to D.C. on business last week and brought home a great gift–a nice flu bug. I’m singing, All I Want For Christmas Is a Good Night’s Sleep… I’ll be back to checking email and blogging badly after this passes.

Before I go, a quick story. There was this family who used to live behind us with 10 kids. Greg never wondered aloud about how they “did it.” Instead, Greg kept saying, “Can you imagine what it’s like when they all get sick?” Ha. Throw in a newborn who doesn’t sleep, and I totally know now.

Am I complaining? Wah. Oh, and my girls got dolls that cry. I told them to not push those buttons on the babies until things get better around here.

How do folks distinguish big kids from little kids? What is the line of demarcation? Ours is not potty training. It’s not moving up to a big bed. It’s not kindergarten. Here’s what it is: when you’re old enough to make it to the bathroom without throwing up on yourself. That’s when you’re a big kid.

Merry Christmas to all our family and friends. I hope it is a good one for you. Drop us a line, a link, an email or whatever and let us know what’s going on.