On Dreams, Contentment, and Spaghetti

“LORD, you have assigned me my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance,” (Psalm 16: 5-6).

Did you know I went to college with Matthew West? We were founding members of the School of Music songwriters’ guild. Me, the hot-shot senior president, bound for Nashville after graduation to launch my fame and fortune. Young Matt—a freshman with miles to go. Naturally, his crowd looked up to my crowd. I was just that super fabulous.

Fast-forward 15 years and Matthew is on tour with Casting Crowns. My last tour was to the local apple orchard, chaperoning a preschool field trip.

What happened to those old dreams? I was going to be a rock star. The world was supposed to notice me.

Now I’m just a mom.

Just a mom. Do you hate that phrase as much as I do? As if it’s not enough to devote tireless hours, minutes, sweat-and-tears seconds day in and day out to training, shepherding, and loving beyond comprehension the next generation of faith-filled human beings.

Once upon a time, I thought success was measured in record deals and radio hits. But then life swept along a quieter current, and youthful aspirations abandoned ship. Sometimes I felt them drowning. But slowly, God reshaped my dreams and anchored my heart with an amazing thing called contentment.

Now contentment sees success quite differently.

It's in my child’s proud smile when she reads a book all by herself.

It's the Snoopy stickers planted on my purse by a free-wheeling toddler.

It's my family photo hanging crooked on the living room wall. Those faces are my success.

If you’ve ever had a dream, if you’ve pegged yourself an underachiever, if you view family life as a consolation prize—remember this. Raising children is significant. Maintaining a happy marriage is no small feat. Discerning the voice of God, trusting him with your portion and your cup, waiting on him to tell you how and when to lift up your gifts for all the world to see—that kind of lifestyle is better than glamorous. It’s glorious.

I still love music. I still sing and write songs. But I no longer wrestle with what could have been.

Why? Because one day, when I get to heaven and stand in awe of my Redeemer, I don’t think he will ask me how many CDs I sold. I doubt he will ask about my bank statements, or my job title, or how many times I made the cover of my alumni magazine.

Instead, these are the questions I’m preparing to answer: Did I love well? Forgive much? Did I share Jesus with other people? And did I entrust him with the size and scope of my dreams?

The truth is, I believe God did choose me for greatness—just not the songwriting kind. I’m a great mom. I’m a great wife. I’m a great work in progress, because my God is great, and I am his.

Maybe the Lord has grand plans for me yet. But I think my family life is already grand. Today I get the privilege of kissing my husband before he leaves for work, then gluing chocolate-chip smiley faces onto toast with peanut butter. I get to carpool to preschool and read The Hungry Caterpillar before nap. I get to wipe purple crayon marks off dining room chairs and scoop spaghetti into supper bowls. I get to ask, "How was your day?" and know that tomorrow, God willing, we get to do it all again.

Ordinary? Maybe.

Beautiful? Yes.

A thousand award-winning music videos couldn’t be better than that—no offense to my talented buddy Matt.


If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on! You might also like Family First and Taste of Candy Land.

Wednesday Special: At the End of Every Winter

Welcome to a special Wednesday edition of Time Out! I'm honored to share a guest post today on Let Why Lead—home of my fellow mom blogger Erica, and one of my favorite stops for encouragement and creative ideas. Please join us!

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Oh, how I love to see sidewalk chalk on my driveway again. Our corner of the world is basking in an unseasonably warm stretch, and last week I revisited the jubilation of neighbor kids running through the yard, jackets thrown, chasing after bubbles with eager hands and carefree smiles.

Freedom! We can breathe again.

Wisconsin would be paradise if not for a little hiccup called winter. For six months of the year, our playgrounds stand deserted while cabin-feverish children scatter toys across the house and beg for hot cocoa. Sure, hearty moms like me bundle up to build snowmen and pull sleds, but come February I’m so ready for a patch of green grass.

Click here to swing over to Let Why Lead for the rest of the story!

When You Don't Feel Like Doing Your Job

I realized something big last week. I often expect my husband to be me.

Me, as in, a substitute mom of sorts—a stand-in to handle the parts of my job that I just don’t feel like doing. Because he doesn’t have enough responsibilities stacked on his Husband / Father / Provider / Handyman / Garbage-Taker-Outer plate, right?

You can imagine how well this goes over.

It all started around midnight on Friday when our five-year-old bolted awake, scampered into our room, tapped me on the shoulder, and informed me she had to throw up. And she did—through the wee hours of the morning until sunrise, just about the time her little sister called from the crib demanding milk and Teddy Grahams.

Of course I camped on the family room floor beside my beloved sick one through every heave and sniffle. Moms are on alert for these moments, no questions asked. I kept watch just inches from her rosebud face, studying her eyelashes fluttering in the nightlight glow.

But when the storm quelled and daylight peeked through the windows, fatigue took over. I felt like someone dripped Tabasco sauce in my eyes and stuffed my brain with Jell-O. How was I going to face an entire day of doctoring and toddler-chasing alone? Surely my husband ought to help. We’re co-parents, after all. Isn’t this in the job description? Stay home from work to cover for your wife who was up all night with a vomiting child. It’s in the addendum somewhere, I think.

Yet my knight in pajama armor hit the shower and put on his office shoes. “Are you going to work?” I asked.

“Yes.” Dumb question?

I let my thoughts escape past my tongue. “I don’t know how I’m going to manage today.”

Can you believe he didn’t say anything in reply? He just kissed us all goodbye and drove away. The nerve!

I stewed. I felt sorry for myself. I played the wrong tapes in my head. How could he leave me here? Why do I have to be the one to function on fumes? I’ll bet he’s sipping coffee and chatting with co-workers while I scrub barf pails and run after a naked two-year-old.

And then I caught a hand-slap from the Holy Spirit. After a few minutes of pouting, I realized I was wrong. My husband goes to work so I can stay home. Monday through Friday until dinnertime, his job is at the office and mine is here. That’s our equal parenting deal. Sure, we’re flexible depending on the circumstances. But as a general rule, I shouldn’t pass the buck when my job gets tough. It’s still my job.

Let’s look at this from my husband’s side of the bargain. He doesn’t ask me to fill his seat in the conference room at high-stress meetings. He doesn’t even ask me to mow the lawn, which could technically be considered a shared household duty. We each need to take responsibility for the roles we agreed upon.

On Friday, that meant praying for a dose of supernatural energy to get through the day—and calling my husband to apologize. After all, the poor guy was just as tired as I was. Mom isn’t the only one on call at midnight. Daddy came to the rescue, too.

The root of this issue runs deeper than a tummy bug. I dug down and admitted that when I signed on to be a mom, I envisioned the fun stuff. The snuggling-with-baby, stroller walks through the park kind of joy-filled mommy theory that, in real life, comprises only a part of the job. Stomach flu isn’t an unfortunate blip in parenting. Stomach flu is parenting.

Maybe motherhood looks different than you dreamed. There are sick days, hard days, strong wills, special needs. Sometimes the challenges are all we can see. But the job is still worth doing. God did not make a mistake when he planted your child in your arms. He knew what he was asking of you. And he knows what you’re capable of. So rather than cherry-picking which parts of motherhood I want to face, I ought to seek His face—praying for the wisdom to do all parts well, with love, patience, courage, and perseverance.

“Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope,” (Romans 5:3–4, ESV).

Yes, Friday was a long day. At the end of it, during bedtime prayers with our daughter, I received my paycheck for the week. “Dear Lord,” my husband prayed, “Thank you that Mom could be home with the girls today. And thank you for giving her the strength to get through the day.”

Awww, he noticed. I am blessed—barf pails and all.

If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like Love Is Not Easily Angered, Achoo! Bless You, Family First, and Taste of Candy Land.

Good Moms Keep Their Promises

“The godly walk with integrity; blessed are their children who follow them,” (Proverbs 20:7, NLT).

I spent fifteen dollars on a snow cone last weekend. Crazy, right?

Of course this wasn’t just any snow cone. This was a super-sized, rainbow flavored tantalizing treat scooped into a commemorative Tinkerbell mug. Yep, hubby and I took the girls to see the Disney on Ice spectacular on Saturday, and one glance around the arena told us we weren’t the only parents forking over ridiculous cash for souvenirs.

Why? What kind of mother buys a fifteen-dollar snow cone?

A good one, I think.

Not because good mothers pay a fortune for shaved ice balls. Seriously, what was in that thing to make it worth fifteen bills? Pixie dust?

Good mothers do, however, keep their promises. You see, before we settled into our seats, I promised my daughter a snow cone. How was I supposed to know they’d charge me a healthy kidney for it? There were no signs, no “get your overpriced snow cones here!” announcements to warn us. By the time the concession peddler approached our row and I flagged him down, it was already too late. I promised. Therefore, I paid.

We live in a world where promises are diluted, disrespected, and cheap. Commitments are optional. Covenants are casually broken. Yet God calls his people to live a life of integrity. One of the simplest ways I do that is by keeping my word. God keeps his promises to us. So I will keep my promises to my children—even when it’s hard.

Even when it hurts.

Even when it costs more than I bargained for.

A souvenir mug may not guarantee my daughter will remember our special family outing ten years from now. But she will remember this—her mother is a habitual promise-keeper. That, to me, is priceless.

Good moms keep their promises.

Good moms probably also have rules against things like straw-slurping the bottom of a Tinkerbell mug in public. If that’s the case, then I have my faults. My girls lapped up every last drop of that snow cone. I made sure of it.


If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on. You might also like The Case of the Purple Car.

Special Note: Many thanks to Erica at Let Why Lead for honoring Time Out with a Liebster Award last week! I'll be paying it forward in a future post. Stay tuned!

Birthday Musings From a Sappy Mom

I’ve discovered a crazy thing about kids. They just keep growing up.

Last week, we celebrated my firstborn’s fifth birthday. Next week, baby sister turns two. It’s birthday season in the Kopitzke castle, and Queen Mommy is waxing nostalgic.

To me, birthdays aren’t just childhood milestones. They’re a chance to shout, “Yay, God!” for creating each daughter unique, beautiful, and according to his perfect plan. More than that, I celebrate my girls’ birthdays as a type of anniversary for me—(1) the day I entered motherhood, clueless, bidding a shocking farewell to my old friends Sleep and Dangly Earrings; and (2) the day my heart busted at the seams to welcome baby #2 with first-round love and, frankly, still a few remnants of cluelessness.

Five years may not be much in the course of a lifetime. But in this span I’ve seen a seven-pound wrinkled bundle transform into a lanky, ponytailed preschooler who articulates words like “agenda” and “magnificent” and hands me a hall pass from her play school kit when I need to use the bathroom. Five years is a lifetime for her. Five years flew by without permission. Five years stood painfully still.

Soon, five years will be just a memory.

And that’s what kills me. My girls—who they are today, those precious faces, those sweet giggly voices and petite sticky palms clutching my fingers—are not who they will be tomorrow. They’re always growing, always changing. Always slipping away.

When I reminisce over photos of my girls at younger ages, I think, I’ll never get that little person back. She is someone different now. Someone even more delightful, more beloved with each passing season, yes. But a private space in my heart stings when I realize all of her earlier days are just snapshots en route to graduation.

It’s tempting to wish I could suspend time, to ensure my daughters will always love me unconditionally like they do today, always sing to Jesus with innocent faith, and always hold the promise of an unblemished future as they do right now, this moment.

But then I cruise through Proverbs and remember—that’s not the point of parenting.

“Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it,” (Proverbs 22:6).

I know this verse. It’s another of those familiar go-to lines in my arsenal of encouragement. Yet when was the last time I really unpacked it?

• Train a child. My Bible notes say another word for “train” here is “start.” Start a child in the way he should go. Eighteen years in my house are just a launch pad. The ultimate purpose of parenting is to equip, teach, love—then let the children go. Is anybody else weepy just thinking about that?

• When he is old. Only God knows how many days we have on Earth, but chances are my babies won’t just grow out of their kindergarten shoes—they’ll grow old. Which means they’ll build their own families and establish their own legacies, founded largely on the start that my husband and I gave them. That is a huge responsibility for a parent. But it’s also a tremendous privilege.

• He will not turn from it. The truth is, my children aren’t the only people growing up. So am I. I’m not the same person I was five years ago, either. But isn’t that the beauty of the Christian life? There is a way we should go, which suggests forward movement, drawing nearer to God. I want that for my kids as much as I want it for myself.

So today, I embrace the sandbox stage and look forward to tomorrow, for the chance to see more of who God designed my girls to become. I can already tell there are some benefits to parenting older children. Dangly Earrings are back in my life. Sleep and I are still estranged. But that is a devotion for another time.

Happy birthday, my darling girls. Happy anniversary to me. And thank you, Lord of All, for the great gift of being a mom.


If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on. You might also like Sandy Grass, Taste of Candy Land, Don't Lie to Me, and Honey, Sweetheart, Sugar Pie.