Joy #1

 The sun comes up every morning over the mountain ridge outside my living room windows. It slowly creeps across the floor, the angles changing slightly, minute by minute. As it unrolls its golden way along the planks; dog hair, bread crumbs, paper scraps, and dust mites are revealed in sharp relief. 

These windows face the back of my house, so they aren't top priority on those absent-minded window-washing episodes while I'm on the phone with a friend and need something to do with my hands that doesn't require my brain to pay attention to any other than the talking and the living together that's going on in my ears. So these windows... they're a little rough. You can see that I occasionally get to them, maybe at the tail end of the phone call-- there are some hazy swipes and swirls through the grime that prove they aren't totally neglected. 

But all over the double panes there are small hand prints. Full on, five-fingered, un-blemished; the perfect hand prints every Sunday School craft teacher dreams of. They are beautiful. The Thursday morning sun catches the edges and lights them on fire and my heart dances in the blaze for a moment, before I turn back to my humdrum, every day life.

Sincere, if a little dramatic.

For a full decade, the year 2010 has stood out as The Worst Ever, but 2020 has topped that. And then some. Besides all the national and international crap going on, there's plenty of personal grief and struggle-- ghosted friendships, broken relationships, illness, financial struggles, strife, and loss. But the most critical and devastating loss of all has been watching the widening crack in the foundations of an institution that I have loved: the American Evangelical Church.

I've watched, heartbroken, in disbelief, as men and women that I would have considered brothers and sisters have sold their souls for political power under the guise of "protecting the unborn" and "maintaining the rule of law" and "defending the traditional family". Y'all, you begged God for a King and you got a King Saul. You forgot that the way of the Gospel is the low way, the way of humility, weakness, and sacrifice. You wanted a shortcut to Salvation and an easy way to establish the Kingdom of God, but you forgot that only God himself can change minds and soften hearts and you can't vote in a strong man to establish a judicial version of the Kingdom. Y'all, if you want to grab the jawbone of an ox and start slaying Philistines, you better read the whole story and make sure that Samson is really who you want leading that fight. Remember, Samson was a symbol of the depths of Isreal's fallen state. That story isn't telling us to go out and find us a Samson. And you better make damn sure that you're getting Samson and not just a Philistine king who wants a patsy to take care of his political rivals for him.

'Cause, y'all? With love... you've become a patsy. Maybe it started out right. I'm willing to concede that at some point your hearts were in the right place, your intentions were good, but dear God in heaven, look where we've come! Y'all got drunk with power and then you ran amuck and now you're just the shills of a unscrupulous huckster who knows all the right words, sweet nothings, to whisper in your ears to bring you running to his side: "Protect the unborn" he says, and you close your eyes to the weeping children severed from their families. "Defend the rule of law" he says, and you turn your backs to the abuse of your disenfranchised  brothers. Like a gas-lit abused spouse, you're heatbreakingly easy to trigger and control, tagging along, docile, behind the very power that is wreaking your undoing.

Y'all, read the history of the church; every damn time we try to do it our way, every time we try to use political power, force, and militancy to "do God's work" it goes terribly, terribly badly. From the Crusades to the Spanish Inquisition to Colonial-Missionary-ism (or whatever you want to call that)-- whenever the Church has sought to spread the Gospel without humility, sacrifice, suffering, and personal loss, we have failed; utterly and miserably. Christians with political power are a terrifyingly dangerous thing for God's creation. 

And this is why I have to write this... History tells us that God won't stand for it. There's a day of reckoning coming. Y'all, humble Jesus is still in the business of turning over the tables of the rich who take up the space in His temple meant for the foreigners and the social outcasts. He's still in the business of whipping out the greedy men taking advantage of the poor, the widow, and the orphan. At some point, y'all started assuming that the point of that story was that it's ok to pick up a whip now and then, but I tell you what, I'm pretty sure it was way more about warning US not to pollute the House of the Lord. We've got the story backwards in our heads and hearts. At this point, we're the Pharisees. We're the backsliding Isrealites. We're the Phillistines. We're Babylon.

So this is me, shaking the dust of Babylon, the American Church, off my feet. "Come out of her, my People" (Revelation 18:4, Jeremiah 51:6, 45), -- I'm hearing that in my soul. I love the church and I love her people, but for now, I'm going to stand over here, out of the line of fire. 

Paradox

 Every parent is likely familiar with the subtle desire to recreate your children in your own image, but with all the bits you don't like about yourself corrected. We all do this, right? And of course, as autonomous entities, individual souls made in the image of God, they resist this with a mighty will and eventually forge their own paths forward. The ultimate test of the relationship we so carefully molded in their early years: can those loving ties survive the stretching? Will we all enter our new roles of adult peers with all the cords still intact, strongly connecting us to one another, albeit at a mutually respectful distance from one another? That is the question. The final marker of parenting success or failure. It's a little scary.

On the other hand, it can be exhilarating. Every day I'm surprised and delighted by what my children are becoming. And I'm trying more and more to lean into that delight, rather than focus so intensely on the bits of my own sin nature that I want to erase in them. One truly delightful surprise that's emerging as they grow-- something I only notice when I stop trying to make them better than I am at art, sports, music, personal devotions, math, etc--is their affinity for writing. Oh my. While I was busy trying to make them smarter, kinder, stronger, and less addicted to screen time and sugar, they were busy becoming Writers, behind my back. 

And so this morning, in the sideways light of an early fall Sunday morning, I'm sitting side by side with my youngest as we both play with words-- creating new worlds and telling new stories. How funny, and how humbling, that while I was preoccupied with preventing him from becoming something less than I want him to be, God was busy making him something more than I even thought of. Something a bit akin to the best in me...

On surrender.

If I could travel back in time, there's a thing I desperately wish I could tell my twenty-two year old self: newly entered into motherhood, overwhelmed with the immense stretch of required selflessness and sacrifice that unexpectedly opened up before me with the birth of my daughter. I was vastly unprepared for the unraveling of the Self I thought I had known for so long, or for this awkward, almost violent remaking of myself into Mother. It felt as though I'd fallen, unawares, into one of those whirlpools that draw swimmers into deep underground caves and then, if the swimmer has the smarts to simply surrender to the current, spits them out again onto the sunny shores of sparkling blue waters, in delightful hidden coves.

I wish I could go back and have a long talk with that slightly bemused, but adapting-nicely young mother on the beach of that secluded cove. I wish I could impress upon her that those whirlpool currents repeat themselves again and again throughout life. I wish I could have prepared her for the repeated un-makings that lay ahead of her in the journey of being made more like Him.

I wish I could impress upon her the necessity not to get too comfortable here, convince her that the period of time spent in that space of continuous mothering was, mathematically speaking, such a tiny fraction of her life-- the time of being large and in charge, while feeling so inadequate and drained was really just a moment of her life. I would try to warn her that this drastic stripping away of illusory shreds of self-determination and independence was only the beginning...

Would that have changed things? I don't know. If I had realized then that life is really a series of these whirlpool roller coasters from one level of self-loss to another, from one unmaking and rebirth to the next, would I have been better prepared?

He who seeks to save his life shall lose it. He who loses his life, gains the world.

I doubt it would make a difference then. I know it now, and I still fight the current every time. I still arrive on the new beach fighting to swim back to the one I've left, the one I'd grown accustomed to. I lie there, utterly undone, exhausted, wrecked; for far too long, considering how often now I've experienced this remaking process as God's grace to me. Why can I still not trust that the change is, as he promised, from Glory to Glory?

I'm never ready for change-- no matter how sought after, how intensely pursued. I always find myself doubting in the moment of achievement, struggling against the pull. My labors were a physical manifestation of this. Days and then weeks past my due date, I'm still vastly pregnant. Irritated with the delay, exhilarated by every twinge that might signify the start of labor, and yet so doubtful, so afraid. Finally reaching that terrifying middle where one MUST go forward, through, because the backwards way of escape is no longer an option. There's nothing else to do but push the baby out. Die to the past, be reborn. Forgetting what is behind, striving forward to what lies ahead. 

I can only hope that eventually I will learn to surrender to those terrifying currents and anticipate the next stage of growth with something a little more gracious and dignified than my current frantic thrashings and protestations. Hopefully, as I age, I will learn to trust the loving currents, and wait confidently, expectantly for the landing on the next shore.

This is my prayer.

the secrets of simple things

standing still for a few moments by the window, I force myself to notice the world outside. And my heart is warmed-- a touch of healing.

There's been rain this week, and we finally raked an entire tree's worth of leaves from the yard to the curb, so now the birds are in Paradise-- our barren muddy yard their cornucopia of insect delight.

There are still one or two scarlet leaves in the towering maple, slowly floating to the ground, here and there, on a breath of wind in the early morning sunlight.

Birds flitting. Leaves falling.

I shift my weight from foot to foot, resisting the urge to get moving, be doing, and undoing, the pressures of work, family, life. The floorboards creak, protesting. In their voice, I hear the hundred year old bulwark of this house reminding me that there is nothing new under the sun. No new threat to my peace and security-- this is all part of the human condition: condemned, redeemed, renewed.

and the birds dance across my window

An old man strides down the sidewalk, intentional, but unhurried. He has that upright, lanky movement men sometimes use, every leg joint contributing to increased forward energy-- like a marionette, freed from his strings to pursue an independent purpose. Men's purposes are forever the same: love, security, fame, and sometimes evil. But only sometimes.

and the leaves are spinning lazily down

a downy woodpecker hangs head first from the dead limb in the dogwood. There must be a buffet of insect life in that old rotten branch I meant to cut off, but never seem to get around to. The bugs eat the dead dogwood. The woodpecker eats the bugs. Death to life, and death to life again. Ut semper.

and the whole flock riots joyously from limb to grass

You might not know what you think you know about me

(April is Autism Awareness month, so this post is specifically about the experience of neuro-challenged parenting, but I want to high five all the moms out there dealing with the so-called "Silent", or "Invisible" disabilities. Just because you can't see a difference, doesn't mean there aren't massive challenges in a parenting relationship.)

Before you judge the anxious, hovering mother... before you roll your eyes at her circling, helicoptering: ask yourself if you know how long it's been since she watched her child fall apart-- bursting at the seams because someone inaccurately described the flight patterns of various raptors, or made a certain noise frequency at the wrong time. It may have been yesterday. It may have been five years ago. Some things take a very long time to forget.

She may never forget her five year old throwing himself over the side of the Costco cart, nearly hanging himself by the seat belt in the process, because he dropped the empty sample cup that had somehow, in an instant and without warning, become the ultimate talisman of security and safety; its sudden loss signaling the end of all comfort. She may never forget her child's sudden dash from safety into far, far away-- whether it was physical, mental, or emotional. 

You become somewhat gun-shy after years of one completely unpredictable crisis after another. You tend to hover; circling, ever-vigilant. The warning signs are minute: the sharp intake of breath, the stare, the increased frequency and intensity of the knuckles drumming against the door frame, and there's a brief moment where the crisis may be averted. If you get it right, say the right words, follow the correct protocol, you may prevent the head-banging, the wailing, the running... or maybe not, after all. Sometimes there is no right way.

Before you call her permissive, a push-over, lenient-- judging her conciliatory, comforting response to a child seemingly out of control; ask yourself if you know for sure what that child is experiencing. Has a malfunction in your autonomic nervous system ever left you gasping in a wash of adrenaline-fueled terror because one of your shoes was tied tighter than the other? Have you ever been betrayed by your own brain chemistry, in an instant when an otherwise typically human variation in schedule, flavor, texture, or expectation triggers rebellion in the ranks of neurons and that variation suddenly looms, colossus-like, threatening all that is good and right in your world? Have you ever found yourself attempting to quell the three-ring circus of a creative brain stimulated by too many options and thoughts, never quite able to settle long enough on any one topic to express yourself fully?

Probably not. Probably your neuro-typical brain has never betrayed you to the nightmares of sensory processing disorders, autism, ADD/ADHD. Unless you are part of the 2%, you take your cognitive function more or less for granted. Unless someone you love is among the 1-in-10, you may have never considered the blessing of single-minded focus and smooth mental transitions.

So what can you do? 

Assume the best, or nothing at all. Smile. Be aware. Be willing to listen, ask intelligent questions, educate yourself, reach out. But most of all, remember; things may not be what they seem. Be kind. Be patient.

(these are all my words, they are not all my stories)

Lessons on Faith from Michelangelo's Pieta

One of the highlights of our trip to Rome last week never made it to photodocumentation on my Facebook feed. There are some experiences too deep to capture with electronic means and I find myself turning back to the ancient art of the thousand words...

On our third day, we toured St Peter's Basilica. I hadn't done a lot of research for that trip so I was caught off guard by the sudden appearance before my eyes of Michelangelo's Pieta. I recognized it instantly in spite of my ignorance. There was quite a crowd in front of it, but I pushed my way to the rail and stood, utterly captivated, entranced for several minutes. The next day we came back, and again the magic of that serene, pure white monument to the deep peace of complete faith, even in the face of tragedy, captured me entirely.



I'm sure you all have, as I had, seen this work of art in magazine and newspaper photographs, in travel blogs, on documentaries over the years. But let me assure you that none of those can capture the emotion of seeing it up close and in person. Michelangelo has broken with previous tradition and represents Mary as a young mother with her adult son, crucified, lifeless (for the moment) in her arms. But her gaze is not full of anguish-- she is not grieving, merely solemn. She does not clutch her son's body in despair, but rather her hand is outstretched, open, ready to receive. The expression on her face is one of peace, surrender, trust.

Our guide pointed out that experts have surmised that Michelangelo intended to portray not necessarily the middle-aged Mary, actually holding her dead son; but rather the young mother gazing at her infant son, yet perceiving what must come-- the vision of a second sight personified in marble.

When he said that I felt an instant connection with that concept. Aren't we all like Mary in those moments when our children are young, safe, loved, protected in our arms? Who has not looked down at their sleeping infant, in a moment suddenly burdened with the realization that in that precious bundle is contained a whole life, a future that needs must contain much sorrow, struggle, and grief?

May we respond to that realization with the humble faith of Mary of the Pieta-- hiding all these things in our hearts, in faith that the God we follow shapes their future. May we hold our children with outstretched, expectant hands; trusting His will for their lives.

Hello there...

I read an article, years ago, about how women frequently have their self-identity wrapped up in some way with their homes. So a messy, cluttered home makes a woman feel herself to be anxious and disorganized, etc.This resonated with me and part of why I love this house so much is that I do feel that it in so many ways represents Me.

Would you like to come and see my house? Would you like to visit it and hear her story?

She is old now and a little scruffy as to shrubbery and shutters,

The cracked stucco covered with vinyl-- less glamorous, but more practical.

Don't we all turn to the practical as we age?

Her yard is lush and welcoming, but there are the scars of many happy hours of

Kickball, soccer, tag, and garden-of-statues.

She has always welcomed children.

Come on in.

The front door has been replaced. It sits a little sideways in the frame

And the doorknob tends to fall out when guests attempt to leave.

As though she were saying: no, don't leave yet, 

Chat a little while longer, have another coffee.

What is out there that you need so badly? 

Stay and rest.

Stepping across her threshold in the morning or in the evening, in particular, 

Light pours through the windowed walls, the french doors, the transoms.

Dust motes and dog hair dancing in sunbeams.

The light is the first thing that drew me to this house and

I thought, walking across this threshold will always lift my spirits

Here is joy.

"She's built like a tank, this house" the home inspector told us.

There is an old crack in the foundation, you can see it.

But whatever geological catastrophe caused it has been well-weathered.

The floors creak, and there's a definite slope in the upstairs hall,

But she has settled well and rests on solid ground,

Unshakeable

Her walls are silvery gray.

Underneath are layer upon layer of past fads of garish blues and greens,

But here in her old age, she's taken on the restful colors;

Gray, silver, wood, brick, and beige.

She is a calm cocoon of light and gray,

A wise blend.

And out of every window you can see a dogwood tree,

Or a cherry, crab apple, lilac-- abundant blossoms.

I sit on the back deck, high up in the dogwood, and write,

And ponder, and dream, as old things do. 

My thoughts wandering out over the railing, across the mountain,

At peace here.

#wordoftheyear2018

I've finally found my word for 2018 and I"m excited to share about it, but first, a review....

The word for me in 2017 was Steadfast. When the Lord put that word on my heart a year ago, I could never have foreseen what was in store for us, nor how significant that word would be. 2017 was apparently a rough year for a lot of people, if FB statuses in my friend groups are any indication... It was rough for us, too. So much heartache, so much brokenness, so much stress and grief around us at every turn. But the Lord remained Steadfast in His graciousness to us. And He upheld me in my commitment to remain Steadfast in my various areas of responsibility (marriage, parenting, business, self-care, friendships, etc). It was a good word for a year full of difficult, but rewarding growth. And even in the midst of the raging storm around us, our little family was sheltered and kept safe.

Unfortunately, as a flawed human who tends always to over-correct in every direction of growth, I think I have let the difficulty of this year sink in a little too deeply. I think my Steadfastness has begun to harden into stoicism, even tinged with some resentment, as I've persevered under pressure. I was particularly convicted recently by a brief conversation with a family member. She said, in the midst of a conversation, "you don't seem very happy." Not in a scolding way, I read compassion in those words. (Not to worry, M.!) But the Lord was pricking my conscience... That brief comment came as a lightbulb moment at the end of a week or two of subtle hints and pondering-- and then at breakfast yesterday morning at my aunt's house, pulling this coffee cup at random out of the cupboard, the final confirmation: 

Psalm 126:6 He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.

There it is. My word of 2018. Rejoice. I'm meditating on small moments, simple mercies, the everyday beauty-- noticing the Joy in the midst of the brokenness. But I'm also looking forward and rejoicing in the hope of the day that all is healed, becomes new. I have been bearing precious seed, I've been planting and tending and in many cases, watering with tear. I will hold fast to this promise that I will one day see my harvest.

I want to combine what I've learned about Steadfastness this past year with a trusting lightness of Spirit, casting my cares on Him, resting on His promises. His loveliness, and His love, is all around me.

Lord, teach me to find the joy.

Keeping it real. Always.

One of my goals on this blog has always been to show the Real of my life-- even when it gets messy and unpleasant. Same goes for my Facebook page. Y'all have seen my bedhead, my messy kitchen, my unibrow, my totally unorganized homeschool day, and the level of my children's expertise with their housework.

But I'll confess that there are still some emotions, some experiences that I do filter out. Sometimes because the stories aren't mine to share, sometimes because I feel that the emotion contained within a written statement or article was a lapse of faith and does not actually reflect the Real of my life in Christ. Today I want to crack the door on a little of both-- and share an excerpt from a post I didn't published this month last year, and share a little victory that is wrapped up in someone else's story.

First, last spring I wrote the following-- less than a year after we pulled up roots for a second time, in the midst of a sense of defeat in my attempt to re-root here in the new place.

~June 2016~ 

Raising children uses you up.  

Ok. Maybe not everyone. Maybe this is just me. Maybe I am a little lazier than the average. I find that my creativity, self-discipline, motivation and ambition is all directed toward my kids and keeping our house running as smoothly and possible, so that at the end of the day I flop onto the couch in a daze and I spend the evening pretty much just staring at a page or screen. And let me disillusion you, the book is rarely any great work of literature. Basic pop fiction, at best. 

I remember things being different in years past. I remember crafts, writing, music and gardening all being a way to relax and recharge, a refreshing return to adult pursuits after a day of caring for little children. Why is it different now? 
Sometimes I look at my hum-drum life and feel a burden of guilt over the waste of my life's potential. Generations of musical talent. Hours of practice. For what? My own sons can't carry a tune. Why don't I sing with them? I don't know. They aren't interested. It would be another thing I would have to carry them through, motivate them, nag them, use what few sparks of creative energy I have to light THEIR fires. And I feel inadequate to the task. Vastly, unattainably inadequate. 

As it is, I can barely get through THEIR music/math/language/reading. I finish their school day at 2:30 and what do I have left to spend on myself? Exercise? Hobbies? Music? Art? Well, I have to take care of the household chores, communicate somewhat with the outside world (emails, phone calls, appointments, etc), go pick up Sofi, be her mother for a few brief moments. Run errands? Grocery shop? There's always something. And then dinner. And bedtimes. And barely enough sleep to drag myself out of bed again the next day to start it all over again. 

By the time the children are in bed for the night, the thick mental fog shuts down completely over my brain and anything worth doing seems to require a herculean level of effort, mental acuity and creative energy.

After I wrote that, I may have cried a little. I'm pretty sure I did. I didn't have a reason to explain my lethargy and fatigue. I cried again when a new friend here in VA referred to me as her "dear introverted friend" Y'all. I am not an introvert. I was just exhausted. Drained. I started to wonder if it was possible in one's late 30s to suddenly change personalities completely? I felt like maybe I had just used up all but the dregs of my personality-- maybe this is what the dreaded Middle Age was like?

But.

This spring I have felt a return of that old creative energy. I'm no longer vegging on the couch in the evenings (last night J and I went running at 9:30). I'm back in the church choir. I added some "fun stuff" to our history lessons (!!). I started a book club. I painted the hallway and the living room, made some serious headway with all my yard projects, and all that happened in the midst of one of the most stressful (emotionally and physically) seasons of our lives due to some massive upheaval in the lives of some people very dear to us (this is the part that is someone else's story which details I am not at liberty to share). I feel like I've come alive again, the old me is back.

As I look back over that post and remember where I was at that time, I am convinced that while about half of that was just the upheaval of the move, the other half was a further development in my continual saga of hormone dysfunction. If you've never heard of Adrenal Fatigue, google it. Seriously. If you are a mom, or a woman who's life is similarly stressful and demanding, you need to know about this and you need to know how to care for yourself in order to avoid or treat it.

Those of you who follow me on FB know that I found relief in a concoction of herbs and supplements from Plexus Worldwide-- the famous Pink Drink. I will explain in more detail what I'm doing (and the ingredients) in my next post. But suffice it to say for now that I traded that tired, uninspired, "middle-aged" me in for a new, tougher, stronger, healthier, more inspired me; plus I gained a new vision, a new business and a new sense of calling in my life, to boot! I am so thankful that the Lord put this into my life with such perfect timing!

The changing face of Mothercare.

I have always been a vocal advocate of the practice of self-care. Frequently on this blog, in my Facebook feed, and any chance I get in person, I exhort my fellow-moms to set aside time to refresh themselves, so that they can return with full cups to the daily duty of pouring themselves out for their spouses, children and whomever else depends on them for daily needs. I try to model it.  I host Girl's Nights, book clubs, and parties. I swoop down and carry off overly-pregnant girlfriends for dates at the spa. I drop by with care packages for new moms. I block out Friday nights and Sunday afternoons several times a month to go out with J, or spend time window shopping. I learned early in my mothering (thanks to some excellent books and mentors) to grab tightly onto every quick moment to suck in a few deep breaths of relief and freedom whenever opportunity presented itself.

Now I find myself inexorably leaving that fast-paced, relentless, surf-pounding stage of motherhood behind. My youngest is six. He's a rotten sleeper, so I do still have plenty of those nights that leave me a little blurry around the edges the next day, but generally speaking, I'm out of the trenches. So what is this changing face of Mothercare for me now? I no longer have the same need to peel the velcro-fingers off my unshaven legs and dash out the door for a coffee date, real quick, before I suffocate from All The Touching. I actually have the time and luxury to shower, coiff, and make-up before I leave my relatively independent boys in the capable hands of their extremely independent older sister and MOSEY out the door to a coffee date. 

So do I still need self-care? Do I still have an excuse for that coffee date?

I say yes. With a caveat. Coming out of the trenches, I find myself still on the front lines of mothering (not to put too fine a point on a metaphor). I am finding a need to be more deliberate in my choices, more mindful and intentional. I'm out of the sprint and into the marathon. I need to have a little more care to choose my activities and find things that don't just return me to humanity, but actually nurture me as a MENTOR and a MOTHER. I am sensing a need not just for survival, but for growth. I am now at the stage of not just keeping these three future-humans alive and relatively safe without completely losing my sense of self in the process, but actually leading them forward in their faith, knowledge and purpose toward that ever-elusive goal of Mature Adult. It is a sobering task. A burden which requires the daily training of the committed athlete, if I am to carry it well.

In addition, I have a daughter who needs to share some of my moments of leisure. She no longer requires my attention for her basic survival, so I have to reach out deliberately in the quiet moments of my rest and draw her into them with me in order to connect with her on a level deeper than barked commands, or bedtime stories and snuggles. The reality of parenting a young women peels away yet another layer in the self-sacrifice required of a mother. 

I find this difficult. 

I am an excellent manager. I tend to hold my children a little at arms length and organize them into a (mostly) well-functioning machine. The hoop-and-stick routine that works well with young children who require really only love and correction (and food), falls short of the ever-more-and-more complicated emotional needs of an almost-woman. And I occasionally find myself in selfishness grasping tightly hold of the old way of relating-- mother to child, protecting my Self by occasional escape-- and resisting the woman-to-woman, shared-Self relationship that I'm being drawn into. 

So I find myself sometimes compelled to trade in my movie nights and coffee dates with friends for window shopping with my daughter, and planning special weekends for her and her girlfriends. I still do set aside time for myself, but I feel the need to devote some of that time to study, work, and prepare; not just breathe and enjoy. In this next stage of parenting, I find myself with more free time and less of it to spend without consideration. My increasingly independent children require of me the kind of self-sacrifice that I find most difficult-- not just physical, but relational self-sacrifice. And my self-care is becoming more deliberate, more intentional... perhaps less fun...

But in the long run, I trust, deeper and more rewarding.

#wordoftheyear

I have always loved, but never before participated in the tradition of choosing a Word for the Year as part of a New Year's resolution. It seems a fitting addition to the mental list of goals I make every year-- something to ground, or shape my plans for my year. Something to remind me of what I aspire to, or have learned in the past year and wish to apply to my coming year. So this year, I decided to participate.

After a lovely discussion on Facebook, much consideration and a serendipitous devotional reading last night, I've chosen. My word for 2017 is 

Steadfast.

Lamentations 3:22-24

22 The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
23 they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
24 “The Lord is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore I will hope in him.”

These words come in the midst of a chapter describing great turmoil and trial, the like of which I've never experienced, and the attitude described here is one I covet for myself--turning heavenward in the midst of difficult circumstances and remembering and praising the faithfulness of God.

I choose this word first of all because I want to be reminded of this aspect of the character of God as I walk through my year. He is an inexhaustible fountain of mercy, provision, and loving care. I want to remember daily in 2017 the expression of His steadfastness throughout my life. I want to meditate on my Ebeneezers-- those piles of stones in my life marking out His particular attentions.

I also choose it because it is a character trait that I want to assimilate. Steadfastness. Faithfulness. This is the first concept I pondered that seemed relevant to every part of my life-- personal, mothering, wife-ing (is that a word?), homeschooling, business. 

"A long obedience in the same direction."

stead·fast

ˈstedˌfast/

adjective

1. resolutely or dutifully firm and unwavering.

   
   

   "steadfast loyalty"

My husband beautifully exemplifies this trait. It is something I have noticed and admired in him since we first met in high school. His steady, thoughtful way of approaching life has provided our family with security and peace in the midst of some pretty intense moments over the years and I want to emulate that part of his character. His loyalty, too, is something that has protected our marriage relationship and served him well in his professional life. Those who have counted him among their friends know that he is a rare friend indeed. I want to be like that.

The serendipitous devotional reading was from "Quotidian Mysteries: Laundry, Liturgy and Women's Work" -- a book that I highly recommend any time I get a chance to recommend a book. Another of Kathleen Norris' books, "Acedia and Me" was a life-changing read for me in 2011, after Jamie was born and I was stranded in a new city with a newborn and two other small children, missing my friends and feeling as though I had forgotten who I was outside of Chief Cook and Bottle Washer. I highly recommend that one, too. It was Norris who sent me to that passage in Lamentations and she goes on to speak of the application of steadfastness in our daily tasks:

Laundry, liturgy and women's work all serve to ground us in the world and they need not grind us down. Our daily tasks, whether we perceive them as drudgery or essential, life-supporting work, do not define who we are as women or as human beings, But they have a considerable spiritual import, and their significance for Christian theology, the way they come together in the fabric of faith, is not often appreciated. But it is daily tasks, daily acts of love and worship that serve to remind us that religion is not strictly an intellectual pursuit, and these days it is easy to lose sight of that as, like our society itself, churches are becoming more politicized and polarized. Christian faith is a way of life, not an impregnable fortress made up of ideas; not a philosophy, not a grocery list of beliefs. (emphasis mine)

I want my daily tasks to be acts of love and worship; work, teaching, mothering, wife-ing (I'm just going with it-- it's probably a word), being who I am in Christ-- everything I do...

 ...in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him. Col 3:17

Here's to a New Year in the Faith! 

Courage and Valor

We had a guest speaker of sorts this morning in our Sunday School class. She brought to light, almost as a side note, the story of God's call to Gideon. Gideon is threshing wheat in hiding from the Mideonite oppressors and the angel of the Lord appears to him and says, "The Lord is with you, mighty man of valor!" The incongruity of his situation and emotion with God's greeting to him has stuck with me all day...

My sister posted a confessional about her weekly Sunday night dread of the return to the homeschooling routine of Monday morning on Facebook tonight and I responded with one of my favorite quotes, "Courage, dear heart" It's Aslan's voice, speaking to Lucy in the depths of dread darkness. Those words echo frequently in my heart when things seem dark and confusing...

Mothers, wives, sisters... If you are facing this week with a feeling of dread, inadequacy, fear, or heartache; if life beyond the relative comfort of the weekend feels just a little beyond your ability to manage or direct, remember that He bids you be of good courage. If you are hiding in a wine press, frantically trying to thresh out a little wheat before the marauding Mideonites come to devastate and destroy, remember that when He looks at you, because of Christ, He names you a Mighty Woman of Valor.

You are a Mighty Woman of Valor, dear heart.

Also, remember the marauding Mideonites are cute some of the time.

Storytellers

I hosted a party tonight for a friend who's recently started marketing for KEEP Collective-- a jewelry line from Stella and Dot. The mission of the line is to help women tell their stories through symbolic charms and symbols that you can personalize. When I first heard my friend talk about this concept, I didn't really get it. I mean, the brand is basically a grown-up version of the charm bracelet. The pieces are cute, but... Lots of jewelry is cute. But during the course of the party, I got it. And, as I am wont, I found a deeper symbolism in what they're trying to do...

My friend gathered us all together and started the introductions. She told us about her life and her twin daughters, she showed us her necklace and told us the significance of it. Then she had each person tell how they met me (I was the common denominator in a group of women who mostly, but not all, knew each other) and give three words that described me for them and then three words that they felt symbolized themselves, or this particular stage in their lives.

At first it was awkward. I do not like being the center of attention unless I am teaching, or telling a funny story, performing-- in control of the script, so to speak. But as each friend, most of them new, in this new place, in this new part of my life; as each friend shared their experience of meeting me and then affirmed verbally to me, in my hearing, that they saw this thing in me, that they saw this or that part of me, that they knew something about me, I felt a spreading warmth and confidence that I did not realize I had been missing in this new place...  And I gradually began to see another piece of this truth about women needing women that has been a part of God's teaching in my life ever since I can remember.... We need this from each other. We need to tell, not just our own stories, but each other's. We need to deliberately affirm for each other who we are, what we do, what we think and believe, what we are doing and why. We need to remind each other often of who we are, and why. 

Women, in the daily grind of housework, office work, mothering, infertility, loss, moving, never going anywhere, having no place to go, laundry, cooking, yard work; whatever it is that drains you of identity and makes you forget who you are, and why... we need to have someone who will look into our eyes and say, "I see you. I know who you are. Remember this? This is who you are, this is why." So much of what we do goes unnoticed, unseen. A large part of our daily activity is cyclical, unmade as quickly as it is made (cooking, cleaning, laundry). I believe we crave, sometimes unconsciously. a witness that we exist outside of those things: that there is something continuous, something linear in us that is essentially Us. We sisters ought to be that witness to each other.

I ended the night with the deep urge to text all my friends and tell them; I see you. I know you. You are a reader, teacher, artist. You are a musician, teacher, creator of beauty. You are strong, vibrant, loyal. You are warm, caring, welcoming. You are driven, articulate, creative. You are gentle, loving, humble. You are curious, intelligent, caring. I see you. I see each of you. I name you. Thank you for being in my life.

Reflections on a story he told me about game time at Trail Life

written one spring, in a moment of loss and longing

god is the ocean and the boat

my life swells and sinks to the rhythm of his providence
safe in his will, i float above the unpredictable tempests
protected alike from storm dangers and the whispering doldrums
that suck men's souls out of their bodies

I sail along a steady course, every tack and jib secure
my every line written on his hand
my future safe, my harbor sure

and yet

should my boat seem to sink beneath me,
deserting me, helpless, to the fury of the roiling deep,

god is the ocean, too.

should my limbs fail me, should I seem to gasp my last breath and slide at last
beneath the waves of grief, loss, indecision, pain and parting,
surrendering in my struggle
should my lungs slowly fill and my body sink

I would find myself still cradled in his wisdom
I would come to rest on the ocean floor
and there see that I laid at last still in his caring
in the very bosom of his love for me

god is the boat and the ocean

Every day after the schoolwork is done, the Davies boys and the Forshey boys go outside. It's an explosion of pent-up, barely contained energy that is, I admit it, somewhat exhilarating to watch. Exhilarating in spite of the fact that I'm one of the ones trying to barely contain it all day. With cajoling, threats, bribes, distractions, time-outs and a constant stream of chores and re-direction (and sometimes push-ups, jumping-jacks and laps around the house), it takes all my energy and concentration to keep the beach ball of energy pushed, barely submerged, beneath the ocean surface of functional order and propriety.

Then comes that moment. That blessed moment when the last page of Latin copywork is finished, or the last math problem solved, or the last recitation given; and the mother can finally release her grip on the beach ball and let it *pop* to the surface and then, blessedly, OUT THE DOOR.

Sometimes the pounding is on my door, sometimes my boys are pounding on her door:

"Can Judah/Jamie/Brinley/Smith/Henry come out NOW???"

Yes, thank the Lord, yes. They can come out now.

And then OUT they go. With a whoosh and a yell and a holler and shove/wrestle/trip/hustle out the door they go into the neighborhood. A forgiving tolerant neighborhood, thankfully. Perhaps we should issue a warning, or blast a theme song out into the frosty air as a warning Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! The boys are OUT! The boys are LOOSE! A theme song and a slogan. The boys are coming. The kracken is released. The hordes descend upon you. The Buckaroos Ride Again.

Some Whine for Wednesday

Parenting is really hard. And frustrating. And annoying. Or rather, Parenting is hard and kids are annoying and frustrating. Don't get me wrong, it goes without saying that I love my children and wouldn't trade them for the most serene, uncomplicated, boring and love-less life out there. However... Some days, like today, I might trade them to gypsies for a few cast iron pots.

Exhibit A)

So far this morning I have swept the floor four times.
1) The usual after-breakfast sweep-up,
2) Millions of tiny styrofoam balls scattered in a trail from the basement, up the stairs, back down the stairs, into the kitchen, across the living room floor and aaaaall over the rug in the school room where I sent them to watch Wild Kratts while I swept up the million styrofoam balls.
3) Globs of dried mud and, let's be honest, probably also dog poop, stomped out of the cleats of their rain boots WHILE I yelled at them from the yard to take the boots off BEFORE they stomped into the house.
4) Handfuls of dried up playdough fragments, scattered carelessly across the dining room rug, again WHILE I yelled at him to go get the dust pan and not to try and carry the whole mess to the kitchen in one hand.
5) (oh yeah, five times. I've swept the floor five times since breakfast) A trail of hard boiled egg yolk crumbs, flung from the lunch plate as he waltzed it to the kitchen sink, arms waving "gracefully" along the way.

Exhibit B)

Don't wrestle with the dog.

DON"T wrestle with the dog.

Don't WRESTLE with the DOG, she will BITE you if you get her so wound UP.

DON"T WRESTLE WITH THE....

See? I told you. Don't wrestle with anything that has bigger teeth than you do. Excellent life principle.

Exhibit C)

The same child who sprinkled the playdough crumbs all over the dining room rug, dumped the leftover handful into the kitchen trash can without checking to make sure the trash BAG was securely fastened over the edge of the can. It wasn't. All the play dough landed ON TOP of the crumpled-at-the-bottom trash bag.

Exhibit D)

DON"T WRESTLE WITH THE DOG. ONE OF THESE DAYS SHE IS GOING TO BITE YOUR FACE OFF.

Exhibit E)

Me: Where in the world is Jamie??

Me: *wandering all over the house looking for missing child*

Me: *yelling out all the doors and windows for missing child*

Me: *texting neighbors, asking if missing child is at their house*

Me: *sending older brother to find missing child and drag him home*

Missing Found child: I TOLD you I was going over the the twin's house...

Me: *yelling*

Found child, five minutes later: I"m hungry. Can I go over to the twin's house now?

Exhibit F)

DO NOT WHISTLE WHILE I AM YELLING AT YOU AND TUG OF WAR IS THE EXACT SAME THING AS WRESTLING



I'm not even going to wrap this up with anything positive and affirming. We all know there are plenty of days like this in parenting. Probably more than any of us want to admit. The miracle is, by God's grace and with a sense of humor (and a blog) we keep on, regardless. I will probably have to ask my boys' forgiveness several more times before the end of the day and maybe we'll all get a laugh out of it one day.

Randomness

Sometimes the most innocuous things can completely derail our homeschool day. For example, yesterday while teaching Judah his new piano piece ("Honey Bee"), I randomly hummed my way through that old camp song "Bringing Home a Baby Bumblebee". Everything ground to a screeching halt.

"Wait, what? WHY would he think his mother would be proud that he was bringing home a bee?? I don't get it... WHY did he squish it up? Wouldn't it just sting him again? Wait, wha-wha-what kind of bee was it? Was it a HONEY bee, or a BUMBLE bee? Probably it was a bumblebee cause then it would just die after it stung him that first time because bumblebees leave their stingers in your body and then they DIE. But African HONEYbees, they can sting and sting and sting."

Etc.

And earlier in the morning...

"Wait.. wha?? What'sa phone book?? Why would you want your phone number written down in a BOOK?"

On the mornings when the boys don't wake up at  zero dark thirty and stand at the top of the stairs with a constant stream of, "NOW can we come down, Mama, NOW can we?"... On these mornings when they kindly sleep a wee bit longer and I have a minute to read and pray and jot down some thoughts... 

On these mornings I sit at my dining room table and watch the sun rise. The window faces west, so what I see is a line of brilliant sunshine slowly traveling down the line of trees in the nieghbor's yard across the street. They gradually turn a golden green from top to bottom till they are on fire entirely. Some mornings a steamy mist eminates from the cold ground as the warmth of the sun hits it. I had forgotten about that steamy morning mist of cold autumn days, the mysterious shapes and undulations as the sun rises and burns off the night's chill.

As the sun continues to rise and the light travels down the little hill and across the grass, my fingers travel faster across the keys because a moment will come and... ahhh, there it is. The light hits the the white picket fence, a flash of reflection blinds one eye, and I hear the boys rumbling and tumbling out of bed.

Time to start the day.