We All Fall Down



Photo credit: stock.xchng

If you're a mom, you already know this--motherhood requires multi-tasking. So, frequently when one of the kids practices, the other two kids and I also try to squeeze in some exercise. Last spring I found myself scheduled to attend yet another flag football practice on a gorgeous spring evening. I loaded up all three kids, one scooter, and a bike and donned my running shoes. While Jot practiced with his buds in the large field behind our church, Justice rode his scooter and Jewel sang songs while riding her bike in the empty parking lot on the far side of the church. A lovely neighborhood sits beside our church, so I can run the curvy streets while still keeping an eye on the kids as I loop around the parking lot every quarter mile.

Just into the beginning of my third lap it happened. "Skillet" spilled from my iPod into my left ear (gotta keep the right one free to hear traffic or the kiddos) and  the sun warmed my face as a light breeze made for enjoyable running weather. I rounded the corner on the tiny stretch of busy roadway that I had to travel into the the sub-division. Before I even had time to prepare myself, I sprawled in the gutter. It seems there was a thin metal circle hidden in the silt along the side of the road. My left foot stepped on it and the toe of my right foot caught in the follow-through. It effectively hobbled me and threw me to the ground before I even knew what happened. Like most adults do, I hopped up, scanning the horizon and wondering if anyone saw my spill. I dusted off my scratched and pebble-encrusted hands and peered at the nice-sized tear on the knee of my running pants. (And wouldn't you know it, these were my favorite pair of pants--the ones that made me look skinny!)

I finished my lap and as I neared the kids I yelled and asked if they had seen me fall down. They hadn't seen a thing so they were full of questions as to where and when this all played out. "Did you get hurt?"

I showed them my road-rashed hands and my ripped pants. "Pull up your pant leg!" yelled Justice, just a little too enthusiastically, I thought.

As I yanked up the leg of my grey running pants, I notice the blood trickling down to my sock. Upon further inspection, a deep abrasion graced my right knee. The kids were totally enthralled. They asked to see it again, as soon as I'd lowered the fabric. So I hauled it up again and sported my injury.

"Does it hurt?" they wanted to know.

"How did you do it again?" they inquired.

"Where were you?"

"Did anyone see you?"

It seemed as though I couldn't answer their questions quick enough. Why all this interest in their fumbling momma? As we returned to pick up Jot from practice, they announced it to the other moms and dads then raced to be the first to tell Jot of my wounded status.

It took several weeks for the wound to totally heal and the scar still hasn't totally faded. Over that spring and summer my kids would frequently ask to see my knee or have me repeat the story of how I fell.

Like He usually does if I'm willing to listen, God taught me some lessons through my fall and my children's reaction to it. God reminded me that He can use our falls, injuries, failings, and wounds to teach others. My kids didn't have to take a tumble themselves to learn that sometimes danger hides in everyday places. They didn't need to feel my pain to understand that we must always be cautious no matter how safe we may think we are.

God also reminded me that my kids need to see me vulnerable. I'm a strong, independent farm wife, so usually I just get things done myself. I don't like to rely on others. My kids don't often see me hurt or unable to care for myself--but they need to. They needed to see that sometimes I get hurt. Sometimes even their Mom falls down. They needed to see me tend a wound and to ruin a pair of pants and to squish my eyes closed when I poured peroxide on that road rash. They delighted in seeing my human-ness.

And God showed me in living color the truth of  2 Corinthians 1:3-4: Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort,  who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. My kids were full of ways to help me find comfort in spite of my injury. True to their personalities, Justice gave advice ("Wear shorts so it doesn't rub."), Jewel drew me pictures, and Jot smooshed his head against my cheek and patted my back. My past run-ins with the pavement were far-removed but my kids knew all too well what it felt like to come face-to-face (or knee) to the asphalt.

God used that spill for a lot of good in my life and in the lives of my kids. I wear my scar with honor. How about you? Has God ever used pain in your life to teach you (or someone else) a lesson?


Nikki Studebaker Barcus

Out, Out, Dark Spot!

Photo credit: sanja gjenero

Each year when spring bustles in, I have good intentions of spring cleaning. I remember my mom turning the house upside down and inside out, washing windows, cleaning carpets, and searching out every mote of dust like a blood hound on the scent.

But with the busyness of spring on the farm, all the extra school activities, and all the dust kicked up by the farm machinery, I rarely have the time or the desire to spring clean.

But come fall, it's a different story. I usually host both Thanksgiving and Christmas and when you throw in Justice's New Year's Day birthday and assorted gatherings of friends and church family, we have a lot of company between the middle of November and mid-January. So the house that looked "okay" in the spring is really in need of a deep cleaning to become company-worthy.

A few weeks ago as I hit the house hard in a yellow rubber-gloved frenzy, I texted back and forth with my friend, who happens to clean houses for a living. We were bemoaning the fact that we were stuck indoors on a warm, sunny fall day. God reminded me of another truth as I texted this sentence:

Thankful it's sunny--always easier to see the dirt w/sun shining.

Even as I typed, my heart beat faster at the truth of that statement, for it is always when we apply the Son to our lives that the dirt shows up. Every time I bow my heart in prayer, each time I immerse myself in the Bible, whenever I spend time studying God's truths, it is like a giant, cosmic spotlight shines into my heart and life exposing all the dirt lurking deep inside. The cobwebs of selfishness are illuminated. The crumbs of impatience stand out in stark contrast. The ugly, dirty sins of my life can't hide in the presence of the Son.


And, just like my house in the fall, when the dirt is evident, it makes it all the easier to sweep, mop, dust, steam, or wipe it out.


This holiday season as you prepare and clean our homes, let's commit to preparing and cleaning our hearts as well.


Nikki Studebaker Barcus

Never Be Satisfied

*Usually I write about lessons I learn from my kids. Sometimes God uses other critters to teach me.*

Sit. Stay. Shake. These are a few lessons I’ve taught my dogs.

Be aware of your tone. Say what you mean. Never be satisfied. These are just a few of the lessons my dogs have taught me.

I’m the proud "momma" to two pug-beagle mixes. Four-year-old Dulcie, with her chocolate-brown fur and white feet, takes after her beagle mother. She is intelligent, an insatiable chewer, and tracks every bird or mouse that traverses our backyard. Stella, at 2-years, takes after her pug daddy, not only in her caramel body wit black muzzle, but with her smaller, more delicate stature and her penchant for climbing onto any lap that remains still for a moment.

Their contrasting characteristics taught me more than a lesson in puppy personality. They taught me a lesson about God and His desire for relationship with His people.
 Each morning, the dogs slide from their beds, stretch, and head out into the backyard to relieve themselves, to sniff the air, and to patrol the perimeter looking for anything amiss. Most mornings, they re-enter the house into the fray of three elementary-aged children eating breakfast, completing morning chores, and preparing for school. The dogs always get their breakfast between 7:00 and 7:30, but depending on the crisis of the day, it may be on the earlier end or not until the kids leave on the bus at 7:30.

I never wonder where the dogs are or what they are into during time period. If I’m digging up misplaced homework; they’re right with me. If I’m fetching sports uniforms from the dryer; they’re right behind me. If I’m packing lunches for a field trip; they’re right under me. You see, they never leave my side because they are hungry. They don’t want to take the chance of missing what I have for them or worse yet, that the other dog might get a double portion. Their rich brown eyes follow my every move and their excitement and intensity is evident in the perk of their ears and the wag of their tails. In this, they are the same. I have something that they want and I’ve never let them down.

The contrast comes after they’ve been fed. With the kids gone, I settle into the schedule of a work-from-home mom. Dulcie, now satisfied, goes off in search of a soft bed, a warm chair, or a trash can left unattended. Stella, on the other hand, follows me from room to room, never straying far from my side. If I go to the laundry room, she makes herself comfortable on a pile of dirty clothes. If I pay bills at the kitchen counter, she curls up on the doggie bed in the corner and snoozes. If I move to my office, I hear her tap-tap-tap on the tile behind me and then her contented sigh as she sprawls in a patch of sunshine. Her belly is full, her bladder is empty, yet she stays beside me. She is satisfied in what I’ve given her, yet she still desires my presence.

God wants us to get to the place where we are satisfied, not only by what He gives us, but simply by resting in His presence. I believe in an effort to deepen our companionship with Him, sometimes God makes us wait on an answer or He seems silent in the face of our pleas. He knows that when we receive what we want, often we no longer seek His will or desire His presence. Speaking of the Israelites in the book of Deuteronomy, and their attitude toward Him, God reminds them that He is their God, their Deliverer, and their Provider, but says, “When I fed them, they were satisfied; when they were satisfied, they became proud; then they forgot me.” Perhaps God keeps us waiting for an answer or stays silent just awhile longer because it is only in those times of desperate seeking that we remember Him, and He wants the connection to last just a bit longer. Satisfaction allows us to retreat; desire keeps us pressing deeper into communion in every type of relationship—marriage, friendship, parenthood.

 I love both my doggie-girls, but in her choice to stay beside me all throughout the day, Stella benefits more from our relationship. I talk to her more, because she’s made herself available to me. Our relationship is closer and more fulfilling for both of us. She gets more belly rubs, head pats, and ear scratches than her absent sister. She is blessed with more treats. If a cookie crumb or a popcorn kernel falls from my hand, she is at my feet to retrieve it—oftentimes before it hits the floor.

Dulcie wants what I can give her; Stella just wants me. In her satisfaction with a small bowl of dog food in the morning, Dulcie misses out on an entire day of rewards and relationship from her master. Through her loyalty and constant companionship, Stella reminds me to stay close to my Master and to never be satisfied with the depth of any of my relationships.

Congratulations! It's a...

...Book!

I've been expecting this little darling since last summer, so I'm so excited to share the news with you!

This little baby made a safe delivery on March 8, 2011 to all the places you like to buy books.

Here are the stats that I know you're dying to hear.

Name: Chicken Soup for the Soul New Moms: 101 Inspirational Stories of Joy, Love, and Wonder
Born on: March 8, 2011
Time: Anytime you need a short, enjoying read.
Measurements: Just under 400 pages, about 5" x 7" x 1", lightweight enough to fit in the diaper bag, purse, or hold one-handed during those 3 am feedings.
Proud Parents: Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing and over 100 contributors, including me!

You can find my story of a lesson learned as a brand new momma on page 246. Noah to the Rescue recounts the harrowing story of the day I was locked in the nursery and how help came in the form of a very unlikely hero.

I hope you'll check it out.

Nikki Studebaker Barcus

Keep Your Hands Off My Jesus!

This originally appeared as a blog post on Hoosier Ink .

You know those Christmas movies where the whole family gathers around a beautiful tree, singing and decorating while they munch on popcorn and sip steaming mugs of cocoa? You know, the ones where the whole family fits at one gorgeous dining table, dressed in their finest and eat from fine china? Yeah, those movies make Christmas seem so sweet and warm and wonderful.

Well, that is not the way things go down around my house. Inevitably, the lights on the tree don't work and hubby grumps and growls, kicks the cat, and finally gives up, turning the dark spot toward the wall. The kids fight over who gets to put on which ornament and while their attention is diverted the dog slurps the marshmallows off the top of the hot chocolate. Our entire family never fits at the same table and elastic-waisted pants are in vogue. And even if we owned enough china for the whole clan, what nut would trust the kids with it and who wants to spend the afternoon sweating over a sink full of suds anyway?

But every year I look forward to the one tradition that is mine and mine alone. I can complete it to perfection, it always produces beautiful results, there are no fuses to blow, pieces to loose, or someone to show up at the last minute and throw off my carefully laid plans. It is the staging of the nativity set. In the minutes after the tree is up and the stockings are hung, when hubby carries boxes to the basement and the kids lose themselves in the rediscovered Christmas books, I pull out my beloved nativity set. No one begs to help. No one tells me how it should be done. No one gives me unwanted pointers. You see, it's always been my job.

In the little wooden stable created by my dad when I was a young girl, I arrange the ceramic animals. The donkey rests beside the feed box and the ox balances the scene with her dark bulk near the door. Then comes the Holy family. Mary is always on the right; Joseph to the left; baby Jesus positioned just so, front and center. Finally, I symmetrically arrange the three wise men and the shepherd boy carrying his lamb. I stand back and sigh a contented breath. No one can mess with my artful arrangement, my pleasing symmetry, my balance of color and light. Amid the chaos, it is one thing I can count on year after year to give me peace.

That is until the year someone couldn't keep their hands off my Jesus. The kids were small, all still in single digits, and I never did find out who did it. I'd walk past the stable only to find the entire entourage lined up shoulder to shoulder facing the newborn King. I mean, you couldn't even see the little guy because they stood like a police line-up, backs toward the open doorway. I'd re-arrange everyone and breathe in a happy sigh, setting things to rights.

The next day, I'd walk by and now the whole crew formed a protective ring around the Tot in swaddling clothes. Reminding me of wagons circled to guard against enemy attack, there they stood, laid, or rested, eyes focused on the Baby. I'd huff, thinking that in their messing with my manger, my kids were likely to break one of the fragile figurines.

Then God spoke to my heart. Was Christmas about presenting a perfect picture? Was it about projecting a polished and put-together presentation? Or was Christmas about Jesus? Wasn't He the star of the show? Wasn't it His story that needed to be told and remembered?

For the rest of that year I left my hands off Jesus and His posse. I let my kids have their way with the cold, hard figurines because God had melted and softened my heart by their innocent actions. This week leading up to Christmas I pray for each of us, that we'll make Jesus the star of our holiday. That we will focus on Him. That we will strive less to create the perfect atmosphere and work more to capture the perfect attitude. I pray that in everything we do--working, writing, loving, entertaining, preparing--that we never fail to keep our focus on the One who came as a helpless babe, into a dirty, flawed, and sin-filled world so that we could be made perfect.

Merry Christmas!
Nikki Studebaker Barcus

Maddox the Magnificent, Part 2 (or KittyBoy Genius)

After quite a long absence, I hope I'm back for awhile. The harvest is complete, the field work done and a graduate class to renew my teaching license is on the books, so I hope to have a little more time to devote to writing this blog.

When we last talked, I'd introduced you to the newest member of our home-zoo, Maddox the kitten, affectionately called Maddox the Magnificent by Jot. I've affectionately (or not) renamed him MadMax the Assassin Cat. But that's another story. Since you last saw him, he's taken over the house, whipped the dogs into shape, made two trips to the vet, and had a delicate (ahem) surgery scheduled for just before Christmas. But he's also been teaching us lessons. He's taught the kids that, unlike dogs, when you tease kittens they seek revenge. He's taught hubby that kittens can sleep so soundly when snuggled up to you that they appear dead; even sometimes after you shake them. And the little guy's reminded me of another lesson about just how much God loves me (and you!).

One afternoon shortly after MadMax moved into the house I found a few spare hours squeezed in between working, cooking, and running around like the proverbial headless chicken and took the little guy to the vet. I knew he had fleas and despite my countless baths (not a job for the weak), I couldn't get rid of them. And if he was going to live in the house he needed his vaccinations. So, in the carrier he went and off we headed to fix the kittyboy up.

The vet laughed at his blond-fluff appearance, cooed at his reluctance to exit the carrier, and cringed at the fleas vacationing in his long locks. The poor cat didn't know what hit him! He received two shots to rid him of untold maladies, a shot of some yucky yellow cream down his throat to kill the worms in his belly (yes, he had them), a dose of a smelly, oily topical to fend of fleas (yes), ear mites (oh, yeah), and more worms (you betcha). A thorough investigation of all his parts and a not-to-welcome thermometer in an unmentionable place sent him scurrying back into the carrier wide-eyed and fluff-tailed.

When I finally deposited him at home, you won't believe what that filthy, parasite-invested, diseased feline fiasco did. He didn't wring his hands thinking of the bad things he had done. He didn't slink embarrassed that he was full of gross stuff and wait to emerge when he was cleaner and healthier. He didn't scratch his way through the screen and run away, too mortified to face the family who loved him now that he knew how far from perfect he really was. Nope. None of that. He slept.

Yes, he crawled into his little bed under my desk and slept the afternoon away, only to awaken when the calls from the kids after school floated through the open window. He purred in response to their petting. He wove in and out of their legs as they stood making snacks. He crawled sleepily into their laps as they perched on the couch to watch cartoons. In short--he reveled in their lavish love of him.

Unlike so many "smarter" humans, that kitty didn't try to get himself clean, right, or holy before he accepted the love of his master. How many people do you know who try to clean themselves up, get their life in gear, or walk the straight-and-narrow before they will accept the love and salvation of their Master? We should take a lesson from a tiny kitten. Submit to the perfect care of the One Who loves us and He will become the Remedy for all that ails us.

Just like Jot says, "Maddox, you're a genius!"

Nikki Studebaker Barcus

Fan the Flame

Crisp fall leaves, warm jackets, bonfires, s'mores. All the things we love about fall. And those things aren't just fun, but just like most of life, if you look close enough, you can find a lesson.

What's the lesson in a bonfire? Click here to read my story on the home page of this month's Devo Kids website. The story, Fan the Flame, is written for kids, but the lesson is for everyone who wants to know what to do with the gifts they've been given.

Check it out and remember the lesson the next time you enjoy a gooey s'more or sit in the glowing beauty of a fall bonfire.

Nikki Studebaker Barcus

True Love Story: Part 1 Toilet Tissue Romance

We are going to break from the norm this week on celebration of my True Love Story running on Shannon Taylor Vannatter's website this week. I wrote the 3-part story to help Shannon give away a copy of her book White Roses a sweet, contemporary romance published by Heartsong.

The book is available now to Heartsong Club members and will be release mass-market in November. If you leave a comment on my story this week, though, you get a chance to win a copy! Cool!

Just click on Real Life Romance--Part 1 of 3 to read the Real Life Romance on how I met my hubby. Click over Wednesday and Friday to read more.

Nikki Studebaker Barcus

Welcome to my blog!

Today is the first day of a new journey. I hope I make it to the end--whatever that is. My goal is to post a few times each week just about stuff. Isn't that what most bloggers do anyway? Write their random thoughts for the whole world to see?

So, I invite you into my own private (not so private now) musings. Maybe you can learn from the lessons God is teaching me. Maybe you can get a good laugh. Maybe you can think to yourself, "My life and my thoughts are no where near as crazy as these. I must be normal!"

Either way, grab your latte to go, buckle your seat belt, and pull your mini-van in line behind mine.

Nikki Studebaker Barcus