Now, I wish I had someone to blame for this freakish (albeit cute) conundrum, but I don’t. I am the reason Annie has a pink tail. Believe it or not, I actually paid someone to do it. I think the cold weather must have sent my common sense into hibernation.

It was Saturday morning, and I was dropping off both dogs at the groomer. My daughter – who made excellent grades last semester – was deserving of a reward. And a couple of her classmates were coming for a sleepover, to work on a school project. I wanted to do something to make all the girls smile.

“Make Annie look extra girlie,” I told the groomer.

“How girlie?” she asked. I must have given her a confused look, because she said, “I can dye her tail pink if you’d like.”

No way! I thought. That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Dying a dog’s tail pink? There’s no way I’m going to become one of those strange people who does weird things to their dogs. Next thing you know, I’ll be dressing her in a pink tutu and sunglasses. But even as my thoughts screamed in rebellion, I could hear my mouth saying, “Yes! That would be precious!”

Next thing you know, Annie was being hauled into the back room of the puppy salon for an extreme makeover. Poor thing never knew what hit her.

(Picture taken by my daughter.)

She was a big hit at the sleepover. The five bucks I spent on that little project was more than worth the giggles and smiles that tail invoked. But still, I can’t help but feel a little silly. What will the neighbors think? Will she be shunned by the neighborhood dogs? I’ve decided that Annie can only be let out at night, until her dye-job fades in about four weeks.

But as I look at Annie, tongue hanging out, pink tail wagging, I realize once more that she totally trusts me. She doesn’t care that her tail is pink, or that I am responsible. She didn’t fight or growl at me or ignore me. She just loves me, she knows I will take care of her, and she’s good with whatever I want to do with her. She’s unaware of the greater purpose she is serving – to bring joy to her family. She simply trusts.

I suppose that’s how I should be with my Master. I need to trust Him, knowing that He will never hurt me. Sure, He may put me through some things that I don’t understand, but I can trust Him completely. After all, He has a greater purpose for my life than I could ever imagine. When I get anxious or angry and rebel against the things He brings my way, I make it harder for that purpose to be fulfilled, and I bring a whole lot of stress and misery on myself and the people around me.

The love God has for me far surpasses any emotional attachment I have to my pink-tailed puppy. Yet, I want my love for Him to mirror the total trust and devotion she feels toward me. I want to be able to bound into His arms without a thought for anything except that He is my Master, He loves me, and I know He will always take care of me.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him and He will make your paths straight,” Proverbs 3:5 – 6.

I’ve tried the whole New-Year’s-Resolution-starve-and-exercise-yourself-half-to-death-in-January thing. It doesn’t ever work for me. I always wind up, well, starved and exhausted. In the end, I break down and eat a whole pan of brownies. So why not cut out the middle man? I’ll just make the brownies right up front, and we’ll call it even.

Of course, there are some things we can do to increase our chances of meeting our goals. It’s been found that men succeed more often when they set small, specific, achievable goals. For example, “I’m going to lose two pounds this month” is a better goal than “I’m going to lose this big belly by the end of the year.” And women are more likely to succeed when they share their goals with a friend, and ask for help.

But even then, only twelve percent of us succeed. Thus, my pan of brownies. Then again, I suppose I could strategically form my list of goals, hoping I’ll fail. After all, if most of us fail to keep our resolutions, why not make the list with failure in mind? Yes, that’s what I’m going to do.

In 2010, I plan to:

1. Gain weight.

2. Exercise less.

3. Spend less time with family and friends.

4. Go deeper into debt.

5. Stress out over everything.

6. Relax less.

7. Become less organized.

If I fail to meet these goals, then by the end of the year I’ll be skinnier, healthier, happier, and more relaxed. The way I see it, I statistically have a much greater chance of failure than of success. Here’s hoping I fail.

Even though I may fail at my own plans, I know that God has great plans for my life. And more than anything, He wants to see me succeed. His plans for me are often different from my own agenda. But even though His goals for me might be different than the goals I have for myself, I know His goals are better. You see, God doesn’t really care if I have a lot of money. He wants me to be wealthy in spirit. He doesn’t really care what I look like in a swimsuit, but He does care what my soul looks like under pressure.

Yes, His plans are always good ones. He wants me to have peace. Integrity. A kind and loving spirit. He is my biggest cheerleader, and He’s already given me everything I need to succeed. He’s made the plan clear to me in His Word, and as long as I stick with that plan, I’ll achieve every good thing that He wants for my life. Success is guaranteed.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future,” Jeremiah 29:11.

Until . . .

Until it was time for our dear children to play with their toys. This year, Mark and I decided that our children were technologically deprived, so we tried to catch them up to the rest of their peers. There were hand-held games and MP3 players and computerized guitars. Mimi and Poppy even joined in, and purchased a Wii for our kids.

What were we thinking?

You see, all of those things require some level of technological savvy to make them work. Otherwise, they’re just a bunch of wires and discs in a box. A bunch of blasted, doggone, confounded wires and discs which speak a language I have never learned.

I am too old to have kids this age. Seriously. My poor kids can’t have any cool stuff, because their parents are too dumb to know how to make anything like that work. Next year, I’m going to hire a twenty-something techie to come to our house on Christmas morning, just so our kids can play with their toys.

Honestly. Our parents had it so easy when we were kids. All they had to do was make sure we had the right sized batteries. Open a toy, find a plug outlet, and we were good. Or better yet – locate the on/off switch.

Ka-Bam. Instant fun.

Now, there is no fun to be had until you’ve uploaded, downloaded, installed, connected to the internet, purchased the additional online settings . . . it’s insane. And it nearly drove me insane.

One particular item just about did me in. I spent hours on the computer, trying to figure out this dad-gum hand-held computer game. It’s hand-held, for goodness’ sake. When I bought it, I thought all it needed was some batteries and an on-off switch.

Boy, was I wrong. After three hours, I emerged from my room, wild-eyed, hair standing on end, and I had the shakes. I couldn’t even speak properly; I was stuttering.

Mark and the kids looked at me as one might look at a rabid animal. “Set the game down, and back away slowly,” Mark said. I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or the kids.

“I c-c-can’t m-make it w-w-work,” I told them.

With manly force, Mark spoke again. “Put the game down, and step away!”

I obeyed.

Fortunately, the kids had more than enough fun to keep them occupied, even without the hand-held game. After some recovery time with some low-tech therapy (cleaning out my closet), I am now speaking without a stutter. And yes, we eventually got the little game working just fine. So all’s well that ends well, right?

Speaking of high-tech gadgets, I’m now in the market for a time travel machine. Next Christmas, I plan to travel back to the 1950’s.

“Do not say, ‘Why were the old days better than these?’ For it is not wise to ask such questions,” Ecclesiastes 7:10.

Behind the little group rests several porcelain snow-capped houses with chimneys and a tiny snow-capped church, with a sign that reads, “Christmas Service, 12:00 a.m.” At the moment, the angel Gabriel is resting on top of one of the chimneys. Perhaps he’s waiting for Santa.

As I watch my son maneuver this little crew, I can’t help but chuckle at his imagination. “Look, Mom. They’re having a party!” or “Mom, they make a village!”

Indeed, they do.

For years, I have collected nativity scenes. Each Christmas, I pull out these replicas of the first Christmas and display them around my house. I have big ones, medium-sized ones, and microscopic ones. I have nativity scenes from Mexico, Europe, India, Equador, Africa, and more than I can count which were made in Hong Kong. Some are humorous, such as the snowman nativity scene displayed in my entryway. Some are colorful, some are plain. Some have elaborate detail, others are simple.

I’ve lost count of how many of these scenes I have. Last time I counted, it was in the fifties. But it never fails. Every year, somebody breaks or gets lost. And every year, when it’s time to put away the holiday decorations, new figures are added to the large zip-lock bag that holds the hodge-podge scenes.

Each of the other scenes has one thing in common: they are perfect, complete replicas of the perfect, complete first Christmas. Although, one could argue that any time a newborn rests in the hay alongside farm animals, the scene is far from perfect. But that’s another story altogether.

The scenes kind of remind me of the pictures I see displayed on Christmas cards and portrayed on television. You know the ones – where the entire family gathers round the tree, with a blazing fire in the background. Everyone is smiling and laughing. The children are behaving. The dog is sleeping cozily by the fireplace. The perfect Christmas.

Over the years, as guests have commented on my nativity scene collection, I’ve been asked, “Which is your favorite?”

I’ve never been able to choose. Each one is unique and beautiful. Each adds a variety to the collection that I wouldn’t want to do without. But this year, I’ve finally decided on one which, in my mind, reflects the true spirit of Christmas.

It’s that little mismatched scene on my hearth. The only imperfect one in the bunch. The one that best represents reality.

Yeah, sure, we’d all like to have a perfect Christmas. We’d all like to have each of our loved ones together with us, healthy and strong and happy. We’d all like to sit around a cozy fire with everyone who matters to us, drinking egg-nog and singing carols. That would be pretty close to perfect.

But that rarely happens. Families get separated by jobs and life circumstances. Loved ones move far away. Sometimes they are too sick to travel. Sometimes, they have passed on before we were ready to say goodbye. And then, our hopes for a perfect Christmas are dashed.

We can either sit at home, sad and lonely, wishing things were different, or we can do what the little figures on my hearth have done. We can gather together, creating a family from whoever wants to join. We can love the people we are with. We can laugh and sing and celebrate, knowing that even though things aren’t perfect, one thing will never, ever change: God’s love for us.

You see, Christmas isn’t about having everything perfect. It’s about the One who is perfect. It’s about a holy, sinless God, loving us in spite of our flaws, in spite of our missing parts and broken pieces. It’s about Him knowing that we could never travel to Him, so He came to us.

It’s not about perfect circumstances. It’s about perfect love.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life,” John 3:16.

I got an i-phone.

A pink one.

I was fine without one, until my friend Robin showed me hers. It was way cool. And she’s older than I am.

And since Robin is way cool, and I want to be just like her when I grow up, I decided I needed an i-phone.

I know, I know. I’m supposed to be my own person and all that. I need to be comfortable with my own identity. But now, I’m very comfortable being a hip forty-something mama with an i-phone. I think it fits me quite well. Pair it with some jeans, high-heeled boots and a denim jacket, and watch out! Mama’s goin’ to town.

There are so many cool features on this phone, it’s hard to choose one I prefer. It plays all of my favorite music, from classical to gospel to hip-hop. Yes, I do like hip-hop. Some of it, anyway. Don’t act so surprised.

It has a little microphone so I can record memos to myself. “Remember to get canned pineapple chunks at the grocery store.” How awesome is that? It also has a little notepad section where I can type in my notes. That screen-page is yellow, has little lines and everything, just like a memo pad. Way cool. And it doesn’t even matter to me that I could buy a real yellow notepad for 79 cents at Wal-Mart. That’s beside the point.

It even stores the entire Bible in every known translation and about a gazillion different languages. I just type in the passage I want to read, and poof! There it is. I can even type in a keyword, and it will find all the passages with that word.

And it has maps and directions! As long as I have my handy-dandy i-phone, I’ll never get lost.

But I think my favorite feature is the way it flips. If I hold it horizontally, the screen is horizontal. If I hold it vertically, the screen flips to vertical. I spent the better part of an hour the other day, just flipping my phone back and forth, watching the screen move. Fat screen. Skinny screen. Fat screen. Skinny screen.

I wish I could flip myself that way – fat. Skinny. I’d stay on the skinny side. But at least I’d have options.

Honestly, though, I have a question about the whole flipping feature. How does it know? I mean, really. How does it know? Most days, I don’t even know which way is up. But this little phone? It knows everything.

Well, maybe not everything. But almost.

God, on the other hand, really does know everything. He knows my name, all my favorite songs, and even what makes my heart sing. He knows which direction I should take, and as long as I look to Him, I’ll never lose my way. And He always knows which way is up, too. Even when I feel flipped out, topsy-turvy, like I’m hanging by my toes . . . He is right there, setting me back on my feet. It’s comforting to know that with God in control, I have access to all I’ll ever need.

Even without my pink i-phone.

“For the Lord watches over the ways of the righteous . . .” Psalm 1:6

But recently, I had an uninvited guest in my home. He barged right into my house without being asked, and he refused to leave even when we threatened bodily harm. Talk about stubborn and pushy.

Did I mention he was about 16 inches long, and had a checkered pattern?

The scaly creature slithered in uninvited, and didn’t announce his arrival until he was in my daughter’s room. He crawled past her foot and sent her into screams of terror unlike any I’ve ever heard. Then, he wiggled under her bed.

Now, if you’ve not had the experience of looking under a teenaged girl’s bed, you have led a sheltered life, indeed. That slimy fella must have thought he’d wandered into the Amazon Rainforest, what with all the obstacles and unidentified barriers. There were pens, pencils, papers of every size, shape and color, mateless socks, stuffed animals, paperback books, an empty tube of lip gloss, one hoop earring, two bangle bracelets, three dollar bills and a partridge in a pear tree.

Or something like that.

In a flash, he was lost to us. But we knew he was there.

Hiding.

Waiting.

We knew one of us would have to go in after him. But who?

Let me tell you, this was one time I was glad I’m not a man. I gladly played the role of the helpless female. Mark went after the snake.

Rather than crawling under the bed, he removed the mattresses. Then, armed with a hoe and a shovel, he went in.

“You stand at the door,” he told me. “Don’t let him get out.” Then, he handed me a broom.

A broom, people. As if that’s going to protect me.

But it didn’t matter. If that serpent had come within ten feet of me, I’d have been on the roof. Still, I put on a brave front and held my bristled sword at the ready.

Mark scooped and shifted the under-the-bed contents to the side, looking for the sly fellow. Time and again, he caught a glimpse of the scaly pattern, but he was too fast. A few times, he almost had him. He may have been a small critter, but he was feisty. Each time Mark tried to corner him, the snake hissed and tried to strike.

Finally, and just before I had permanent heart failure, Mark got him! “Hold the door open,” he called out, pinching the long, wriggling creature between the hoe and the shovel. I opened the front door, then moved as far away from that thing as I could. Then, on the sidewalk in front of my house, the creature lost its head.

Literally.

“We might want to keep the snake,” I told him, “so we can show it to the Animal Control people.”

“Keep him?” He looked at me like I was nuts.

“Yeah, in a zip-lock. Just ‘til tomorrow.”

Now, how that got interpreted into, “Put the snake in the refrigerator,” I don’t know. I was thinking of something more along the lines of a cooler in the garage. All I do know is that the next morning, I nearly had heart failure for the second time in just a few hours.

The snake turned out to be a harmless garter snake, according to the Animal Control people. Harmless, my foot. He nearly sent me and my daughter into the great beyond.

It kind of got me thinking, though. When a snake came into our home, we did everything we could to get rid of him! We didn’t say, “Awww, he’s not going to hurt anything. Let him stay.”

Yet, we allow all kinds of snakey things to slither into our minds. We fill our eyes and ears with slander and violence and near-pornography, whether through the television or the radio or simply standing around the water cooler. There is nothing positive about those things. If we don’t aggressively work to keep them at bay, and to run them off and behead them when they come uninvited, they’ll make themselves at home. And before we know it, we’ll have a whole nest of the nasty, sinful stuff wrapped around our hearts.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t welcome any kind of snakes into my life – literal or figurative. Let’s do all we can to keep them away, and to run them off when they show up. Let’s make sure that the only thing headed into the great beyond is the Snake himself.

2 Corinthians 11:3 “But I am afraid that just as Eve was deceived by the serpent’s cunning, your minds may somehow be led astray from your sincere and pure devotion to Christ.”

For example, when I was in school, cell was a term I learned in biology class.  Today, that term has nothing to do with mitosis or DNA. Everywhere I go, I’m being asked to answer my cell, check my cell, turn off my cell. In the old days, a cell number only applied to those who were incarcerated. Now, everyone I know has one.

When I was growing up, I went with my brother to pick blackberries. When the berries were ripe, we had to wear long pants and long sleeves so we wouldn’t get scratched to bits, and our hands were purple by the time our buckets were filled. We’d sample the berries, to see if they were sweet or sour. Then, we took them home and Mom baked them into a delicious cobbler, and the whole kitchen smelled heavenly.

Now, the only reason a Blackberry might turn your fingers purple is from bruising, due to overuse. A ripe Blackberry is one that is fully charged, and if it has a weak battery, it is called sour.

I used to look forward to the cold weather, so I could kindle a fire in the fireplace. Now, for the low, low price of a few hundred bucks, I can Kindle any time I want. No matter how hot or cold it is.

And what is the deal with the letter E? It has become the most important letter in the alphabet. It’s become its own prefix, for goodness sake! All you have to do is add an e- to the beginning of a word and it changes that word’s whole meaning.

We used to check our mail in the mailbox and wave to the mailman. Now we have e-mail. Which we read on our cells and our Blackberries. We used to go to the library to check out books. Now we read e-books. On our Kindles.

I’m still waiting for an e-cobbler. Something tells me it would be calorie-free. But first, someone’s going to have to invent e-taste-buds and e-scents.

And, my word, why doesn’t someone create an e-gym with e-exercise equipment, so that I can do an e-workout and lose that ten pounds I’ve been trying to shed?

The letter I is almost as bad. In my native tongue, a pod was something which contained several peas. But an i-pod has nothing to do with fresh produce. And when my children started asking for an eye-dog for Christmas, I worried that I needed to take them to the optometrist. Then I learned that no, they didn’t want an eye-dog. They wanted an i-dog.

Sheesh.

In the good ol’ days, I looked forward to chatting with my girlfriends over a nice cup of tea. Then I’d tell all my other friends what a nice chat I ‘d had, and invite them to come along next time. Now, I could chat with anyone in the world, any time, night or day, in a chat room. But then I’d have to deny I chatted, because no one ever admits to going in those rooms.

So, as I struggle with this new language, I take comfort in knowing that there is one language that will never be altered. God’s Word speaks love, mercy, and compassion to all. His Word means the same, no matter the dialect, no matter the tongue. God’s e-love is just as powerful as His love, His i-mercy is every bit as overwhelming as His mercy. No translation needed.

“The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God stands forever,” Isaiah 40:8.

I have long been a loyal customer of yours. Over the years, I have bought multiple bags of every variety of your delicious cookie. After mastering the technique of consuming your original product, I’ve moved on to the chocolate filling, the strawberry filling, and the granddaddy of them all, the Double Stuff. I’ve even enjoyed your reduced-fat variety.

Mr. Oreo, your name has become such a common topic in my household that I think of you as a close relative. You’ve had an honored presence at birthdays, holidays, picnics, little league events, and as after-school snacks. You are a part of me, a part of my family.

You’ve been good to me over the years. This is why it pains me so to write you this letter of complaint. But if I don’t let you know of my recent hurt and disappointment, how will you be able to make amends? I’d hate to think that a relationship which has endured the decades would end over one mistake. Yet, it was such a major mistake that I cannot let it slip by. So, with a sincere desire to maintain our long-standing friendship, I write this from my heart.

I was recently excited to be presented with one of your Oreo 100-calorie packs. My mouth watered, and I smiled as I reached for the small package that carried your name. Oreo, old friend, you are wonderful. You’ve created a product just for me. Now I can enjoy your ooey goodness without blowing my diet.

In anticipation of your velvety, melt-in-my-mouth filling, I tore into the package. The chocolate scent wafted through my senses, and I reached into the bag. My fingers grasped the tiny cookie, and my taste buds prepared for your creamy goodness. I pulled out the cookie and . . .

Wait. This can’t be right. Surely I’ve ended up with a dud.

I reached into the bag again and again, only to find they were all duds. Each and every tiny cookie was no more than a dark, dry cracker. No gooey filling. No creamy goodness.

Mr. Oreo, that is just plain wrong. False advertisement at its worst, in my opinion.

Oh, yeah, sure. Closer examination of the package showed your product’s complete name – in miniscule print. Oreo Cookie Crisps.

Crisps?

Puh-leeeeease.

Nobody buys your cookies for the crispy part. If it’s only a crisp, it’s not an Oreo. If there’s no creamy filling, it doesn’t deserve to carry the esteemed Oreo name.

Honestly, Mr. Oreo, you are better than that. Such a dirty trick is beneath you.

So there you have it. Now you know how you’ve teased and tortured me and thousands of other dieters. Now you know how you have deeply wounded your most faithful customers.

I have faith in you, Mr. Oreo. I know that you will make every effort to rectify this wrong. I will accept a formal letter of apology, along with a year’s supply of Oreo Double Stuff. All the calories removed, of course.

May God bless you, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely,

Renae Brumbaugh

“If your brother sins, rebuke him; and if he repents, forgive him,” Luke 17:3.

Now, this will be a difficult transition for me. After all, you know what stay-at-home moms do. We lie in bed and eat bon-bons all day. We watch soap operas and read mindless fiction. Then, we talk on the phone to other stay-at-home moms, so we can discuss our soap operas and our mindless fiction.

Ahem.

Actually, when I think of all the jobs I have done during the last dozen or so years, including short-order cook, nurse, chauffeur, maid, seamstress, counselor, referee, gopher, and teacher, I’m looking forward to a less strenuous job description. Or at least a shorter one.

Plus, with this job, I’ll actually get paid. Real money, with pictures of real U.S. presidents. Amazing.

This week, as I sat in a teacher inservice, I was reminded of some of the keys of good teaching. One of the first things we were told to do, when planning a lesson, was, “Keep the end in mind.”

In other words, what do I want my students to accomplish at the end of the lesson? What are the goals for the end of the period, the semester, and the year? Once I’ve determined the goal, I need to make sure everything in my lesson plans leads toward that end. Teachers who keep the end in mind usually end up seeing a higher rate of student success.

I should really end this story right here and now. After all, I don’t know who will read this, and I honestly don’t want my principal or the superintendant or the school board president to know that, as I sat in teacher inservice this week, my mind wandered. So if any of those people are reading this, please disregard the remainder of this article. The end. Thank you very much.

But for the rest of you, I have to admit. My mind wandered. While I was supposed to be paying attention and hanging on every word and taking notes, I got stuck thinking about keeping the end in mind. And I wondered, what do I want my ending to look like?

At the end of my life, what do I want to have accomplished?

At this point, I’m not sure my goal of being a multi-billionaire is really feasible. At least, not unless teachers get a gi-normous pay-raise. Even then, when word gets out that my mind wandered during teacher inservice, my chances for that kind of raise are pretty much shot.

My goal of being a Pulitzer-prize-winning novelist is still a possibility. Not a probability, but still. A girl can hope.

But those are just secondary goals. Sure, being filthy rich would be nice. Being recognized for my outstanding contributions to the literary world would be pretty awesome. But those aren’t my primary goals.

When I get to the end of my life, I want my children to know they were loved more than life itself. I want my family to know that they were more important to me than anything. I want the people around me to know that I cared. I want people to look at me and say, “There is a woman who loved God and loved people.”

It’s funny, though. When I look at my primary goal, I’m not sure all of my daily lesson plans are leading up to that point. I’m afraid that too much of my time is spent on things that don’t have anything to do with my desired outcome. Perhaps I need to make some adjustments.

Maybe I need to turn off the television, so my children will know that they are more important to me than HGTV. Maybe I need to take a few deep breaths and answer gently, instead of responding to my family with impatience. Maybe I need to spend more time focusing on the things that matter to other people, instead of being so wrapped up in myself.

Ouch.

It’s not always easy to make adjustments in our lesson plans. After all, many of us have been using the same plans for years, and changing them means . . . work. And who wants to do that?

But if we want to see success, we truly need to define our goals. We need to keep the end in mind, and make sure all of our steps are leading to that point even if it means tossing out all the old plans and starting over. I think, somehow, it will all be worth it in the end.

“Straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus,” Philippians 3:13 – 14.

Me: Foster, would you like to go and visit the fire station today?
Foster: No, thank you.
Me: (Surprised.) Really? I thought you’d love to see the fire station. You’ll get to see the firemen and the trucks up close.
Foster: (Around a mouthful of cereal.) Naaaaa. But thanks.
Me: It’s a special day, today. They are having a party at the fire station. There will be clowns, and a bouncy house. They’ll serve hot dogs and popcorn and snow-cones.
Foster: I’d really rather not.
Me: (Perplexed.) Foster, why in the world don’t you want to go to the fire station?
Foster: Because I heard you and Jay’s mom talking, and I know it’s all a big trick. They’re giving shots there, today.

That is one smart kid. Brilliant.

But in spite of the protests from both of my children, we visited the fire station. We ate hot dogs, popcorn, and snow-cones. We saw a clown. And, yes. We got our immunizations.

Well, I say we. But I mean they. You don’t think I’m gonna let somebody poke me with a needle, do you?

And in spite of all the pleasant distractions, the shots still hurt. But I was impressed with both of my kids. They were braver than I would have been. They didn’t even cry. Much.

Later, Mark and I decided that our kids deserved a treat. I mean, in addition to the bouncy house and the snow-cones. So we took them to Chuck E. Cheese’s. By the time we were finished eating, the kids seemed to have forgotten all about their immunizations and were running around playing every game they could get their hands on, contributing whole-heartedly to the decibel-breaking noise level, and winning tickets left and right.

Personally, I’d have rather had the shots. But this isn’t about me, and the kids loved it. I think they would probably even say the shots were worth it, just so they could go to their favorite eating establishment.

Later, in the car, Foster asked, “Mom, what is an im . . . im . . . iminemation?”

“Well,” I responded, “an immunization is a teensy, tiny bit of a disease. It’s like a bad guy. But when your body sees the bad guy, it makes a bunch of super-duper high-powered fighters, called antibodies. They are the good guys. Then, the good guys run off the bad guys, and they stick around to make sure they never come back. So if that disease ever enters your body again, they’ll be ready.”

“Oh,” he said. “They hurt.”

“I know, Buddy.”

Truth be told, as much as it hurt me to see my children in pain – however brief – I was relieved to know that they are now protected from such nasty diseases as chicken pox, rubella and diphtheria. The immunizations themselves weren’t pleasant. But the results of those immunizations created something far better than would have been possible without them. It created strong, healthy children who will not be affected by any number of nasty diseases.

Sometimes in life, we have to get our shots. They come in the forms of all kinds of nasty situations. A nail on the side of the road may cause a flat tire; a poor economy may lead to a job loss; for no known reason, we could be diagnosed with cancer, or worse.

Yet, if we let God have His way, He’ll make sure the bad guys work like immunizations to our spirits, calling forth the strength that may have been lying dormant within us, a strength that comes only from God. And before we know it, we’ll find that we’re handling our problems with a greater peace and serenity and faith than we ever thought possible.

Yeah, the shots hurt. No question about it. But when God’s in control, He’ll use those things to make us stronger, wiser, better people. And in the end, we’ll often end up saying that yes, the shots were worth the pain.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance,“ James 1:2 – 3.