The LANGUAGE of BLESSING

Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

Contents

Foreword by George Barna.........................................................xiIntroduction.....................................................................xv1. The Blessing..................................................................32. We Are His Workmanship........................................................233. God Speaks the Language of Blessing...........................................374. The High Cost of Seeing Yourself as Average...................................495. Losing Yourself in the Cycle of False Identity................................616. Me, Myself, and I: The Consequences of Focusing on Self.......................817. A Matter of Character: Why Your Parenting Style Matters.......................978. Know Yourself: Becoming Self-aware............................................1179. Calm within the Storm: Cultivating a Nonanxious Presence......................13910. Learning a New Language: Practical Ways to Affirm Others.....................15111. Not for Parents Only: Every Child Is an Outlier..............................16712. Speaking the Language: An Accent on Gratitude................................179Acknowledgments..................................................................185Recommended Resources............................................................187Endnotes.........................................................................189

Chapter One

As a child, I loved visiting my maternal grandmother on her farm in western Iowa. Grandma's yard was bursting with vibrant flowers from early spring to late fall. She knew just how to cultivate a scene blooming with every color of the rainbow for each season. As a young child, I thought every yard should look that way.

However, the view from the house where I grew up was nothing like Grandma's. Our poor yard was a rather forlorn and neglected affair. My father didn't seem to care about it, other than occasionally dragging out a hose and sprinkler when our sparse grass began to turn brown in the summer's heat.

Two huge silver maple trees, one in our front yard and one in the back, provided a bit of shade. The only other plants were white spirea (bridal wreath) bushes, which grew along the front of our house. Every home on both sides of our block seemed to have those same bushes growing in the front yard. The spirea would bloom in May for a couple of weeks, and the arching cascades of pure white flowers with their golden centers did look beautiful. But then all too soon, the display would be over until the next May.

As if our yard were not plain enough, there was an ugly scar in the front of our lawn. The rut had been worn by the neighborhood kids and my siblings as they took a shortcut from the sidewalk to the walk that led up to our house. I am sure I sometimes took the same shortcut when I was in a hurry.

But by the time I was ten, I saw that ugly rut as an insult to our yard and our home, and I decided to take on a landscaping project. I wanted to do something about that rut and at the same time bring color and beauty to our home. My plan was to plant a closely spaced row of beautiful hybrid tea roses along our front walk. No one would think about cutting through the rosebushes, which have sharp, one-inch-long thorns! As this vision of landscaping glory began to take form in my imagination, I could see this row of roses becoming the envy of the neighborhood.

I had learned from Grandma that I'd have to choose a hardy rose that would thrive in our climate. I did my research by reading a book on roses at our local plant nursery. One picture of a particular rose jumped out at me—the Peace rose. As the Peace rosebuds begin to bloom, they are a bright yellow, but when they are fully opened, the color mutes to a pinkish cream with a radiant yellow center. The rose is so beautiful that the Germans named it Gloria Dei, or "glory to God." In America, it was named the Peace rose, since Field Marshal Alan Brooke had refused the honor of having it named after him following the end of World War II. He said he would prefer Peace, a name that would be remembered far longer than his, and the name stuck. Since my dad served in WWII, I thought he would find that information fascinating.

As it turned out, potted Peace roses were too expensive for my limited budget. Fortunately, the helpful people at Earl May Nursery told me I could get a bare root plant that would be much cheaper. When I explained I did not yet have all the money, they were kind enough to hold five plants for me. They also explained that I would need peat moss, compost, mulch, and rose fertilizer. This was going to be much more expensive than I had hoped.

I dedicated the next month to doing any kind of odd job I could find in our neighborhood, like digging dandelions, mowing and raking yards, hauling trash, and clearing out brush. Once I had earned enough money to purchase one of the items, I would ride my bike the two miles to the nursery and then bring the purchase back to the house, where I'd hide it under our front porch.

Finally, the day came when I was able to buy the rosebushes. The next day would be D-day ... digging day. I rushed home from school that afternoon so I would have time to finish the project before my dad got home from work. I dragged everything I would need out from under the front porch. Using my twelve-inch wooden ruler from school, I began to carefully measure out two feet from the front walk and two feet between the rose plants.

I would be planting the bushes a bit closer than recommended, but I wanted the roses to be an effective deterrent to anyone taking a shortcut through the lawn. All this activity began to draw a small crowd of neighborhood kids, much to my exasperation. I explained what I was doing and why I was doing it. Some of the kids asked if they could help. I not so politely declined their offer and told them that the most helpful thing they could do would be to leave me alone so I could finish before my dad got home.

They shrugged their shoulders, put their hands in their pockets, and shuffled away, glancing back at me with a "Why are you being such a jerk?" look. At that moment I really did not care—I just wanted to get the plants in before Dad arrived.

After over an hour of digging in the hard-packed, heavy clay soil, I had dug all five holes. Each one was eighteen inches deep and three times the width of the roots, so that the holes almost touched one another. I then carefully mixed the dirt, compost, and peat moss in the proper proportions and planted the rosebushes, making sure they were all exactly twenty-four inches from the front walk and exactly twenty-four inches from each other. I remember looking at the roses from every angle and deciding they looked perfectly symmetrical. As I stood there admiring my creation, I heard my dad's car pull up and realized I had not yet put the mulch around the roses. I dropped to my knees and began quickly spreading the mulch so the roses would have that finished look.

As Dad walked up to me, he looked at the roses and then at me and asked, "What in the h- are you doing?" The tone and intensity of his question shocked me and left me struggling for breath. My response bordered on incoherent as I stammered out something about, "The rut ... the roses ... stop the kids from walking here." He stood staring at the roses, silent and frowning. Finally, he said, "They look...