When the Queen of Sheba Comes to Visit

Play dates. Book club. Birthday parties. Dinner guests. All of these events flip me high into hostess mode—and it isn’t pretty.

“Can you please pick up your socks?!?” I bark at the little people in my maniac cleaning path. “Young lady, how many times have I told you, your sleeve is not a napkin. Now we have to change your shirt! Why is my spatula caked with purple Play-Doh? Aaack! Who crushed Chex Mix into the carpet? I just vacuumed!”

By the time the doorbell rings, I’ve de-cluttered six piles of crayon drawings and newspaper coupons, scrubbed three sinks and four countertops, baked a dozen blueberry muffins, loaded and unloaded the dishwasher twice, and scolded my family at least twenty times. All of this adds up to a frazzled momma smiling broadly on the welcome mat as though ushering guests into my home were no big fat hairy deal.

I wish.

Hospitality is not one of my natural gifts. I try, but I lack finesse. My home is not stylishly decorated, some portion of my menu is usually burnt, and most attempts at adult conversation are interrupted by a child either asking for juice or falling off a chair.

Does this make me a bad hostess? I used to think so. Until I dug into the Old Testament story about the queen of Sheba—how she’d heard that Israel’s King Solomon was exceptionally wise, so she trekked to his palace to see for herself. Let’s take a minute to read the story together—with my commentary in [brackets].

“When the queen of Sheba heard about the fame of Solomon and his relation to the name of the LORD, she came to test him with hard questions. [Also translated ‘riddles.’] Arriving at Jerusalem with a very great caravan—with camels carrying spices, large quantities of gold, and precious stones [this lady was no beggar]—she came to Solomon and talked with him about all that she had on her mind. [What? No children butting in asking for cookies? Solomon must’ve had nannies.] Solomon answered all her questions; nothing was too hard for the king to explain to her. When the queen of Sheba saw all the wisdom of Solomon and the palace he had built, the food on his table, the seating of his officials, the attending servants in their robes, his cupbearers, and the burnt offerings he made at the temple of the LORD [burnt on purpose, unlike my appetizers], she was overwhelmed. [Overwhelmed by what? Solomon’s wisdom or his fancy lifestyle? Presumably both. Yet, she was a queen, so surely she’d seen opulence before. Something must have been different about this king. Read on.]

“She said to the king, ‘The report I heard in my own country about your achievements and your wisdom is true. But I did not believe these things until I came and saw with my own eyes. [Note: She saw, and she believed.] Indeed, not even half was told me; in wisdom and wealth you have far exceeded the report I heard. How happy your men must be! How happy your officials, who continually stand before you and hear your wisdom! Praise be to the LORD your God, who has delighted in you and placed you on the throne of Israel. [Ding, ding, ding! She recognized that Solomon’s blessings came from the Lord.] Because of the LORD’s eternal love for Israel, he has made you king, to maintain justice and righteousness,’” (1 Kings 10:1–9).

Maybe she was skeptical at first. Maybe she was seeking hope. Whatever piqued the queen’s curiosity enough to embark on the journey to Solomon’s house, when she got there, she found what she was looking for. The luxury, the bounty, the sagacious discussions—it all pointed to one source: God. She left satisfied. She left changed.

She left praising God.

That is the point of hospitality.

I can make myself crazy trying to get all the details right—a clean house, tasty snacks, polite and smudge-free children. But if it’s not done for the purpose of sharing God’s light with other people, then I’ve missed the point. I’ve missed the opportunity.

There is one part of this story that stabs me. It’s when the queen of Sheba says, after immersed in Solomon’s household a while, “How happy your men must be! How happy your officials, who continually stand before you and hear your wisdom!”

Could my friends say that about me? How happy your children must be! How happy your husband, who continually stands before you and hears you nagging to take the garbage out before the guests arrive!

In my quest to host the perfect party, I’m afraid I too easily neglect my happy officials. I harp on them because I’m stressed. I see them as obstacles to my chore list rather than the reason for the celebration. And it occurred to me—with a twinge of shame—that if I want people to see and believe that the Lord is good, simply by the way they’re treated in my home, then I ought to begin with my own family.

I’m going to work on this. No more barking. No more imagining Ethan Allen bookshelves where the coloring-book cabinet resides. This is my home, in all its parenthood glory. God lives here. His wisdom reigns. I can demonstrate these facts by loving my family first and foremost, laughing when the muffins burn, and opening my doors wide for heartfelt fellowship and genuine conversation—interrupted though it may be by happy little officials begging for lemonade.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like Sandy Grass, The Trouble With To-Do, Sticky, Smelly, Dirty, and Love Is Not Easily Angered.

And now for some Liebster awards!

Many thanks to my California blogger friend Erica at Let Why Lead for honoring Time Out with a Liebster award in March. The Liebster means "beloved" or "favorite" in German (how fitting, since Kopitzke is as German a name as they come). The award is meant to acknowledge and promote the work of new bloggers (less than 200 followers). And now I am delighted to pay it forward to two fellow blogs for starters. Three more Liebster winners are still to come in a future post.

Ashley at Southern Mama & Wife invites us to explore motherhood, marriage, and homemaking in her little country kitchen. (I'm posting to her "Mothering Mondays" link-up today!) I love Ashley’s genuine heart for her family, for writing to an audience of One, and for making people a higher priority than technology. Check out her recent posts on cutting back computer time in order to become a more intentional mom and wife.

Monica encourages all women to Be Completely You through her thoughtful perspectives on relationships, faith, and the journey we’re on to discover meaning in both. Monica and I met at the She Speaks conference last summer, and I've been a fan ever since.

Now these ladies are invited to pass the Liebster on to five more new bloggers!

What Is Cleavage—And Other Questions Kids Will Ask

My five-year-old daughter is fascinated with cooking shows. Cupcake Wars, Iron Chef, Chopped, Paula Deen—if it involves food, she’s a fan. So the other day, while exploring risotto on Everyday Italian with lovely chef hostess Giada De Laurentiis, our inquisitive preschooler popped this question.

“Dad, what is that line?”

“What do you mean, sweetheart? What line?” My unassuming husband walked straight into the trap.

“You know, that line,” she said, “on the lady’s chest.”

Ohhhh! Heaven help us. Our daughter was clearly referring to the busty Food Network star’s cleavage, which, if you ask me, begs more attention than her recipes.

“Well, that’s. . . part of her boobies,” my husband replied straight on. God bless him. He flipped the channel to Nick, Jr.

Don’t you love a curious child? Today my daughter is asking about cleavage; tomorrow I imagine she’ll want to know how babies are made. I’m not ready for that one yet.

There are deeper questions, of course—about faith and heaven and death—that we have to face through our children’s eyes. As parents we have a tremendous opportunity to shape their reality with our answers.

Why can’t I see God?

Are angels in my room right now?

When will I go to heaven?

Why did your friend’s husband die?

Do all people die, Momma?

Sometimes these questions make my eyes sting. I want to scoop my daughter up and squeeze her, protect her, preserve her innocence, inhale her childlike faith. And I realize I cannot do this alone. I need to stay ever close to Jesus in order to guide my children to where he stands.

“But in your hearts set apart Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect,” (1 Peter 3:15).

Perhaps before I attempt to tackle my daughter’s questions, I need to answer a few of my own.

Have I placed the Lord in charge of my heart today?

Am I studying his Word and filling my internal reference desk with truth?

Am I praying for wisdom to teach and encourage my girls?

Am I respecting my child’s inquiry, not brushing it off or laughing at it?

Am I speaking gently?

And why in the world are we allowing our five-year-old to watch Everyday Italian?

“No more Giada,” I said, shooting my husband a raised-eyebrow scolding. From now on, if this family wants risotto, I’ll cook it myself—in a turtleneck, thankyouverymuch.


If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on. You might also like Daddy Can Fix It, Time for a Change, and No Eat Play-Doh.

It Hurts Because I Love You

“Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you,” (1 Peter 5:7).

I dreaded this appointment for weeks. On the surface it was a routine wellness visit—height, weight, heartbeat, pick a sticker from the bucket. My girls have been through the doctor drill before. But this was a special rite of passage—the five-year checkup.

Which meant kindergarten immunizations.

Uh-huh. You get me.

Shots are never fun. It’s hard enough to spring them on my babes when they’re tiny and oblivious, but dragging a 5-year-old to the doctor’s office for pre-K vaccines felt like walking the plank. She knew what was coming. And I was a conspirator in her misery.

Whether you’re an advocate for shots or not, any mom can relate. There are all sorts of necessary pains we must inflict on our children for the sake of their health—stitches, blood draws, throat cultures, rectal thermometers—ewww, I’m squeamish just thinking about it—yet it’s difficult to explain to young senses that this is for your own good.

The discomfort will help you, protect you, and equip you.

It hurts now so you can be spared more hurt later.

All they can feel is the ouch.

Aren’t we just like our children? We kick and scream when life stings. We don’t understand. We try to wriggle free. We see God not as our Healer, but as the guy jabbing the needle.

What if, instead, we ascribed to him a different role? The role of the parent.

The One who holds our hands steady through the prick. The One who sings softly in our ear when we whimper. The One who promises a Happy Meal when the trial is over.

The One who feels our pain, cries our tears, and loves us enough to let us hurt.

My daughter was a trooper. She lay still, clutched my fingers, and took the hit like a big girl. Of course afterward she milked those shots for all they were worth.

“Mommy, can I have a Tootsie Roll because I was so good at the doctor?”

Sweetheart, you can have two. And pass your Mom one while you’re at it. We were brave today. I’m proud of both of us.


If this post encouraged you, please pass it on. You might also like Life Is a Highway, When Trials Come, and Whatever the New Year Brings.

God Doesn't Ration Candy Bars

I went way overboard on the Easter candy this year.

Saturday night, I filled my daughters' baskets with various goodies I’d purchased and hid in my closet. My husband watched as I nestled crayon boxes, hair clips, bubble canisters and treats into the shredded green paper grass. Then he let out a weird cackling sound—sort of a hybrid between a gasp, a laugh, and a snort.

“What?” I asked and took a step back to admire my handiwork. Yikes. Even I was appalled at the sheer volume of sugar sitting in those baskets. Twix, Kit Kats, M&Ms, Peeps, and half-pound solid chocolate crosses—because we are a spiritual family, after all. Talk about a junk food party waiting for a tummy to dance in.

The next day, when my girls discovered they’d hit the chocolate jackpot, I relished their hugs and giggles. I let them nosh on a few treats in the spirit of celebration. But then, like any reasonable mom, I gathered all the candy into a bag and banished it to the cupboard. Starting today, my little Twix hounds are allowed only one piece of candy after lunch—if they eat enough grapes to satisfy my healthy standards.

Cruel mother! To give a gift and then to take it back! To limit it, ration it, demand my children to earn it!

Aren’t you glad God does not do that to us?

“For God so loved the world, he gave his one and only son so that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life,” (John 3:16).

God loves us. So he gave us a sweet gift—his Son. That’s the reason we filled those Easter baskets in the first place. Jesus’ death and resurrection means I have eternal life. And nothing can take it away from me.

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord,” (Romans 8:38–39).

God’s love is so much better than chocolate. We can’t possibly consume too much of it. I predict that by next week, my daughters will have forgotten about their Easter candy. But they will still know my love. And they will still know that Jesus lived, died, and rose for them, long after I’ve wiped their sticky faces clean.

So for today, in the words of my two-year-old, I leave you with this beautiful truth, which I hope you will rejoice in all year round. “Jesus alive, Momma! Jesus alive!”


If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on. You might also like Holiday Hangover and The Big Do-Over.

And Then We Bought a Mom-Mobile

We welcomed a new addition to our family last week.

It’s a minivan.

Yes, we caved. The Kopitzke clan is now cruising down the highway in that quintessential symbol of middle-age American parenthood. And we love it.

I’ve never bucked the initiation rites that come with having children. After our first daughter was born, I got the wash-and-wear haircut. My dry-clean-only wardrobe gave way to yoga pants. I abandoned trendy coffee shops for the mall play area, where friends and I parked our strollers to chat about breastfeeding and diaper rash. It comes with the territory.

But a minivan? That crosses a line.

Buying a minivan is like admitting once and for all that my carefree days are gone. That I’ve become one of those grown-ups passionately concerned about hauling groceries and multiple car seats. Cup holders matter to me. I’m a mom now. I’m old.

And there we have it—the ugly truth. I am afraid of growing older.

I don’t like those wrinkles in the mirror.

I want more time—to soak up my children, to court my husband, to chase dreams.

I can’t stand the thought of becoming uncool. Or worse, irrelevant.

Thankfully, that is not how God sees aging. To him, it’s beautiful. “Gray hair is a crown of splendor; it is attained by a righteous life,” (Proverbs 16:31).

Chances are we all know someone who fits this description. I surely do. They’re my mentors—godly women who invest their experience in the next generation. These ladies aren’t just still in the game; they’re teaching the rest of us how to play. I love them. I want to be like them. I crave their intensity of faith, their insight, and their joy. If those are the qualities that blossom with age, then I have much to look forward to.

Think about it. Years are a gift from God. Not everybody gets to grow old.

So a minivan might peg me as 30-to-40-something. It might stereotype my route to swimming lessons, ballet class, or the school science fair. And it rightly suggests you’ll find Goldfish crackers crumbled in the seats and a pack of wet wipes in my glove compartment.

But do you know what else it says? Behind this wheel sits a little bit of hard-earned wisdom. Our family vehicle holds more than just passengers and kiddie cargo. It’s loaded with love. Lots and lots of love.

I am fiercely proud of that.

After we signed the papers and strapped in the kids, hubby and I slapped each other a high-five and drove off the lot. A sweet voice piped up from the bucket seat behind us. “Mom, why did we leave our car there?”

“Well, sweetheart, we traded that old car for this newer one,” I told our five-year-old, our sensitive child, our change-resister. “Isn’t that great? This minivan is ours now!”

God bless her precious heart, she burst into tears. “I liked our old car! I want to keep it!”

Ah, I get it, Lord. Younger is not better. You love me like that rusty car. Even when my hinges squeak and I’m leaking oil, you will still think I’m special. Leave it to a five-year-old to teach her old mom a basic truth. I held her hand all the way home. 

Make way for the Kopitzke road boat, folks. This middle-age momma is wheeling toward the future unashamed—and a little closer to God with every new wrinkle.


If this post encouraged you, please feel free to pass it on. You might also like Spilled Milk, Sandy Grass, Birthday Musings from a Sappy Mom, and On Dreams, Contentment and Spaghetti.