For those kinds of days {the hards ones especially}

It was that kind of morning -- hard.

Probably, you know the kind — the one where everyone wakes up grumpy and out of sorts. 

The smallest child grabs things from her brothers’ hands, sending them both into fits of irritation and her into fits of giggles. The oldest boy-child wakes confused and a little irate while the oldest girl is largely annoyed. My youngest boy is on day three of illness, and yesterday my balance went way out of whack. As my husband tries to go through with his preconceived plans for the morning, I boil over in the midst of frustration and physical struggle and throw two toys onto the living room floor while refereeing a dispute between the youngest three and then cry. And then the three youngest children, all baffled, surround me and hug me while trying to make sense of it all. 

So that kind of morning. 

During the day, it’s no wonder that I find myself struggling against the way of panic and anxiety about everything within our four walls and, well, heck, about terrorism and orphans and all the tragedy that goes on around the outside of our four walls. The whole gamut. Because in my head, at least, when it rains it pours.

As I tuck the two littles in for a nap, I pray with them, and I pray aloud a very heartfelt, honest prayer, one that’s a plea for help and one that’s a certain cry of surrender. 

Because every now and then, more frequently this past year, I find myself keenly aware that what I’m trying to carry is too heavy to shoulder. 

I am reminded of this in increasing frequency. 

Most lately, I’m reminded of it when I’m outside walking with my oldest boy-child as he memorizes a verse he wants to learn. 

“Do not worry about anything; instead pray about everything. Tell God what you need and thank Him for what He has already done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which is far more wonderful than the human mind can understand.” Philippians 4:6-7

Today I’m at the end of my rope. Today I take seriously this invitation to tell God what I need and thank Him for what He’s already done. 

I muster all my tiny faith, and I pray bold prayers and ask for miracles, small and big and in between because with God nothing is impossible or too little or too big. It all matters to Him because everything is within his matters. 

And then I come downstairs to make some medicine out of lemons and garlic and ginger -- when I hear something. 

A voice. 

A man's voice.

And his voice is saying, "we learn how to pray in our family. We know that God hears and cares. We ask Him for wisdom and help from above and thank Him for answered prayers."

For a moment, I think maybe I'm going crazy. 

Maybe I’m losing my mind. Maybe God is literally talking to me -- and then I remember the book a friend bought us in honor of our forever family celebration, and I'm certain one of the kids has sneaked this beautiful narrated, talk-aloud book into this room during nap time.

I head toward the stairs to get the book from my youngest son, because I’m certain he has it and that’s why it’s talking, but there it is, sitting closed on the front bench in the foyer. 

Normally it only talks when it's open. 

But there it is -- closed.

I open it to the first page thinking it was the words from there that maybe could have been triggered and stuck.

But nope. Not page one or two or three but page four.

Specifically page four.

And at the bottom of the page, this verse-- "Your father knows what you need before you ask Him." Matthew 6:8

God's literal voice. 

I'm taken aback, but I'm not shocked. 

God shows up in our mess, and our mess is often so often He shows. 

It’s like a companion verse to the honest prayers I just prayed.  And following is the loud and startling reminder that God already knows. 

He already knows. 

I have prayed for what He already knows, and He has acknowledge my prayer. 

And so what follows the sharing of what’s on our hearts, according to Paul in his letter to the Philippians?

Thanksgiving. 

My heart, in the midst of chaos that is my own and chaos that I cannot claim, lands there figuratively just a few days before we land on there on the calendar. 

And I’m reminded anew that we can always be in a state of thanksgiving because God ever exists in a state of giving us something for which we can give thanks. 

He is a God who already knows. 

A God who cares. 

A God who keeps giving so we too can keep giving thanks. 

Because His love for us never changes. 

Even on the hard days. 

Especially on the hard days. 

A Little Broken, a Lot Beautiful

It's a very generous gift, and one we are glad to welcome into our growing home; a friend packed up a most lovely set of dishes and sent them to our home.

My oldest daughter and I are unpacking the beautiful white plates with lovely bursts of yellow flowers printed on them, and we are thankful for many reasons, the top being they are beautiful and they are many.

At one point she exclaims, "Hey! We could eat lunch without having to wash the breakfast dishes now!"

It's the little-big things, you know.

We come to a utensil holder that's cracked down the backside, and my daughter sighs a sad "Oooohhh. It's broken. I hope we didn't break it by accident ... Can we still use it?"

I examine the crack, and I shrug my shoulders, unsure of if we've caused the damage, but certain that after inspection it's still useful.

"It looks like it still functions just fine," I say. "Plus, it's just lovely."

My daughter smiles and happily places the utensils in the new holder. And it's true. The utensils perch in there nicely, and the holder is a beautiful addition to our counter space despite the crack.

My generous friend returns my thank-you message a few moment after we've placed the utensil holder on the counter. In her message she says she's glad we can use them, and that she's sorry there's a crack in the utensil holder; she just didn't have the heart to throw it away.

I look around at my life before I respond, and I can't help but to think that this utensil holder is more than a utensil holder right now; it's more like a reminder.

I reply, "It's ok. It's kind of symbolic of our life right now -- a little broken but a lot beautiful."

As the weeks go by, every time I lay eyes on that utensil holder, I remember that the broken doesn't take away from the beautiful by any means. And that little crack of brokenness doesn't make it any less valuable to me.

And I hear God whispering the same goes for me.

Bigger Picture Moments: Why We Need to Know Who We Are

He came roaring out of my body and into my arms, a mighty lion-baby that knew what he wanted and how to make sure his first-time mama didn't just jump but jumped high enough and long enough and wide enough, too, to quite his loud roars..

That hasn't faded from him during his almost seven years of life.

He just roars now in a way that makes my head ache and my heart wonder why we can't just all get along.

He wants answers at any cost, and I want peace at almost the same intensity.

He demands reasonable explanations, and I scurry to find them, which doesn't come easy for a feeling  and sensing soul and doesn't come fast enough for a thinker.

I've spent many of our long days together since he's become increasingly logical and capable of understanding more information than I could possibly keep straight in my head feeling absolutely deflated by this strong-willed, justice-oriented, reason-seeking thinker.

I've cried in my husband's arms over this boy of mine more times than I can count, trying to understand why why why he bristols at my direction and seemingly obliviously stomps all over my heart some days.

I've wondered aloud, asking God if we'd done something in parenting wrong. Why did we have such discord in our relationship?

****

At 31, I'm still learning about who I am without the thick skin I wore for so long, a source of protection for a heart that had been deeply wounded.

As I've allowed Him to peel layer by layer off of me, I've increasingly become aware that while I enjoy thinking about things that deeply matter, more I walk through life feeling everything.

While a friend and I were traveling together two weeks ago, she pointed out that my oldest son and I come at life very differently -- so differently that it's almost like we're speaking entirely different languages, often missing what each other are saying.

She encouraged me to take the Myers Briggs Personality Test, and we found that I am very much the epitome of a The Caregiver --people-loving and sympathetic, down-to-earth and practical, enthusiastic and energetic, stability-craving and thorough.

I knew some of this about myself, but after reading the profile for my type, I'd fully recognized how I come at life -- caring very much about harmony and other's feelings and often valuing both more than valuing having all the answers to everything.

Knowing this about myself helped me have a light bulb moment while talking with my friend about parenting my oldest son -- because essentially it helped me realize that my oldest is the exact opposite  in how he comes at the world -- he values answers, the logical and sensical, before feelings or hearts.

And it all clicked at how we've both been speaking English but not the same language.

The simple recognition of understanding how he takes in the world and makes sense of it and goes after life helped me to alter my communication efforts with him to provide more structure, more reason and less feelings and more black and white facts than vague gray ones -- like feelings.

Our difference, when unknown, have been a source of frustration, when actually they could be a source of strength.

I need people like my oldest son -- desperately in fact! While I like structure and I am typically semi-organized, I need people like him who ask the really hard, thought-out questions to keep me from following every idea that floats across my highly-idea-trafficked brain {One of my strengths in the StrengthsFinders is Maximizing -- meaning nothing is good until it's AWESOME. You can see how I could get really bogged down if I followed every idea and tried to make it awesome.} I need people like him to remind me that not every feeling needs to rule and that not everyone feels as deeply as I do.

And he needs people like me to teach him and then remind him that feelings are God-given and need to have room in his life to express and be expressed.

****

This whole thing about knowing who we are and taking the time to recognize who others are extends beyond motherhood, though. I believe it has deep ramifications for the Church, too, if we are to be the Body of Christ.

Awesomely, my oldest son is a lot like my good friend who pointed out these differences in the first place, the same friend who has often said she needs me in her life to remind her that mercy is as important as truth-telling and justice.

Not because she needs to transform who she is to be more like me but, rather, so we can recognize the value of working together.

Can we each grow in our areas that aren't as developed? Yes! But, more, recognizing each other's strengths and who they were made to be and then working together better helps us function as a real, living Body.

During our conversation, we both recalled how other people have tried to "fix" us, down playing our strengths and defining them as weaknesses when instead the more beneficial thing would be to come along side each other and help refine our strengths so that the really are strengths not only to us individually but also as a Body, a community.

I mused aloud about how frustrating it must be for my oldest son to often feel like he's trying to be shaped into a leg {unintentionally by me at times} when he really needs to be celebrated for being an arm.

Of course, I'm not advocating that we leave the leg alone to do just what the leg wants. It's part of the Body, after all, and it needs to learn to function as part of the Body. Does the leg need to be exercised and made stronger? Yes! Of course! It needs training to be able to go the distance, to be what it was made to be for itself and for the Body. But it doesn't need plastic surgery to become a different part altogether. There's a line, and that line is broadening in my mind.

We need to recognize who we are so we can be who we were made to be

and not just for our own benefit but for that of each other, too.

**I highly recommend taking both the Myers Briggs Test and the StregnthsFinders test to help you discern where you strengths lie and how they can be honed.

Everyday Life: Low Battery Warning

Lately, in my mothering, I've been feeling like a laptop whose battery has been pretty well zapped.

It's like no amount of charging keeps me going; I'm completely drained ten minutes after I'm unplugged from whatever source I was finding power to keep on mothering these beautifully challenging souls.

Maybe it's a phase {oh, please tell me it's a phase}, but lately, one of my boys has two switches: emo and high octane emo.

Um, so do boys enter the pre-teen years now starting at age almost 6? {Related: I buy organic dairy and meat, free of hormones, so I thought I was taking care of this whole early on-set puberty thing ...}

Also, if boys are this emo, then really having two sons is not a consolation for not having a daughter who is emotionally charged, so the next person who tells me that, well, they're in for an earful. Because, friends, I can personally attest to a boy being quite moody over the Light Saber he's sporting or, consequently, not sporting. It's nothing short of a full-fledge trauma here.

Maybe it's summer {oh, please DON'T tell me it's summer!} that's brought my formerly helpful 5.75 year old into a fit of emotionally driven turmoil over a certain pair of shorts not being clean?

{Yes, please tell me again about that daughter thing?}

Or, perhaps, it's a developmental leap nearing? Maybe his quickly approaching summer birthday is sending us him into fits of heavy emotion?

Whatever it is, it was wearing thin on my patience before my husband left for Paris last weekend.

So you can imagine what kind of ice everyone is skating on now, right?

If you said "NO ICE because it's SUMMER and your husband is in Paris" ... well, now you're tracking with me.

My friends, there's no ice left here. NO PROVERBIAL ICE!

We're hanging on here ONLY because God graciously gave me the best in laws and mother a girl who currently has no battery life could ask for and multiple friends who have extended hands of care and offers of dinner and play and rescue and cinnamon rolls. Reread that part before you send reinforcements or try to "save" my children from their crazy mother. We have been cared for! I repeat. We have been cared for above and beyond, and it's enough to get us all through safely to ....

the home stretch now, yes. We are close. We are closing in on John's re-entry to the real world where the Effiel Tower is 4,140 miles away {what? like you don't measure how far away your husband is when he's gone?} and the only things that are really towering above anyone in this house are two little boys will be giggling while standing over the mother who is lying on the floor, waving her white flag of surrender to the phase or the summer or the developmental leap or whatever it was that reared its ugly head these past few weeks.

And probably the only thing that sweet hubby of mine will hear from my lips that are smooshed against the wood floor are pleas for

a glass of wine without any accompanying whine

and begging that those piano lessons we're going to be forking out money for will at least lead to us having a *good* emo band practicing in our garage in the near future here.

Everyday Life: Changed

He stood tall for using a cane. 

Especially when the military band pounded out the first few notes of The National Anthem beneath hazy spring sun. 

I watched him hike up his shoulders a little taller and salute the flag billowing in the warm May breeze, three of his friends all displaying badges of honor across their chests and sporting military hats over grayed hair. 

It was the first time shivers ran up and down my spine, the first time I realized what it meant to live beneath the shadow of the American flag, one I'd spent so much time being embarrassed by as I walked European streets or rocked out at punk concerts. 

After the ceremony ended, I walked my reporter-in-training self over to those men, pen in hand and asked them to share with me their stories. It was the longest, best interview of my reporting career, maybe my life so far.

We stood there together as they divulged their memories and experiences and hearts with a 21-year-old punk who raged against the man without ever really pondering that my freedom to rage was granted by the men and women who gave their lives to their country, my country.

I was probably around your age when I left the states for my tour, one of the veterans had said. I lost a lot of friends ... a lot of my friends died so young for this country ... it changed me.

I walked away from that interview changed, too,  gratitude injected into an ignorant heart. And since I've found myself with tears in my eyes when I see the flag waving and dancing in the air, hear the notes of the anthem or see the uniform-clad bodies of our service people; freedom comes with a hefty price tag, one I'd only remotely experienced through story that day.

After that, I'd always made it a point to call my grandfather, who served in World War II, on both Memorial Day and Veteran's Day, because I wanted him to know on both days I recognized his service and the service of the men and women he served beside who never came home to their families; I wanted him to know I was grateful. He always said thank you but brushed it off as having simply just done what was needed. But I know his time spent serving changed him.

My grandfather during World War II. Photo courtesy of my aunt. 

My grandfather passed away six months ago, leaving the world short of the dwindling few World War II veterans who came home after the war. I watched the flags atop of the mailboxes dance and wave this morning in the breeze and missed him. 

My mind wandered to those men I interviewed all of those years ago, too, curious if they still stand at the ceremony year after year, showing their respect and appreciation for the fallen while demonstrating what it means to stand tall in gratitude to younger watching eyes who have taken our daily lives here in the land of the free for granted. A sense of urgency took over in my heart to share with my own little ones in my house why we slow down today and remember.

There are curious eyes here in my house, wide open and watching. I wanted to take them this morning to see the faces of those who have taught us with their lives what it means to live with gratitude, but they wanted to dig in the dirt with grandma and fish in the lake.

I was frustrated at first, driving alone to the ceremony, thinking about how I wanted them to soak up even the smallest understanding, grow the tiniest bud of appreciation for the freedom they enjoy. 

At the ceremony, though, as I listened and prayed and thanked God for the people who have served, I remembered that freedom affords us choices ... from the freedom of speech and religion and bearing arms ... all the way to the freedom to stay home on Memorial Day and dig in the dirt or fish in the lake when you're 5.5 and 3.5 years old. 

Their days of realization will come. There will be faces who embody the very essence of courage and freedom. What it means to walk in the shadow of the flag, just like the one of the cross, and the freedom each affords will come into the light one day for each of their hearts. 

And they, too, I pray, will walk away changed. 

Motherhood: On Those Nights I Felt Trapped

Tonight he fell asleep by himself.

I remember days that feel like forever ago and yesterday all at once, when I spent every evening trapped beneath a small demanding body who only found comfort in his mother's arms. I prayed hard and steady those nights that I wouldn't fall asleep with him so I could get up and do something, anything other than rock, snuggle, rock. Rock, snuggle, rock. Sleep. Most nights, I would fall asleep and wake in the middle of the night, cranky that I'd wasted whatever free time I could have enjoyed.

He's five and a half now, and I don't have any idea where all those long nights went; I just know that they've all rolled into short years where his pants just have kept getting shorter and shorter even though they've stayed the same size.

He grows, my first baby, and I grow, and we grow

and I like who we're all becoming

but part of my heart twinges for the baby I once held.

Before I left the room tonight, I laid next to him as he prayed, snuggled beneath his warm arm draped over my stomach, waited for him to cue me for my turn to pray. And when I prayed tonight, I prayed thanksgiving for the blessings ... and silently I pleaded for the time to linger long in these moments where I was still snuggling an ever-growing boy.

When his breathing slowed into sleep breaths, his little brother also fast asleep on my other side, I began to unbind myself from blankets. But he he stirred and asked where I was going.

I said I was going to read my Bible and pray.

"Will you be back in a little bit?"

Absolutely, I promised.

Five minutes later my promised lured me back to that oldest boy of mine, and I thought if he wanted me with him right then that I would be there, so I creeped back into his room ...  and found him fast asleep.

I placed my lips on his forehead for a kiss and he mumbled, "I'm OK, mom; you can go and pray and read your Bible."

I whispered my love to him.

"I love you, too, mom."

And I can't help but to think how the desperate prayers I uttered all those nights I spent pleading that I would get something more done than rock, snuggle, rock, sleep have been answered.

On those nights, I didn't just lay down with my boy and fall asleep. No. On those nights, I laid down foundations of love.

Bigger Picture Moments: On Waving the White Flag

It's one of the battles we said we'd fight to the very end that's left us raising our white flag of peace high into the sky on a cool December night.

That food is more than calories and carbs/fat/protein and taste, that it's meant to connect us to the soil and each other, to nourish, heal, sustain is a philosophy John and I wholeheartedly embrace, especially now in the aftermath of chronic illness and healing.

But here we are in the chill of almost-winter, preparing together to raise the white flag, a peace treaty for our oldest son, regarding the guidelines we've set for the way we do food in our house.

Because when we said it was a battle we'd fight until the end, we didn't really mean it; I, honestly, had forgotten what battle entails -- a forceful overtaking, a strong-hold grip that leaves slain hearts along the way. And that's what's happening with our oldest -- he's taken us to battle. Our troops -- at 3 and 5 years old-- are on the verge of declaring civil war.

We'd more envisioned standing united, going up against the normal Standard American Diet, educating, encouraging and helping our boys, who would then help others, implement change.

What we'd envisioned sounds a whole less like battle and a whole lot more like a mission rooted in love. But we got what I asked for -- we got battle instead. Worse yet, my mom had pointed out, is that it's on the verge of war within our own home.

As John and I plan our offer of peace, we don't abandon our conviction and belief.

Probably, it's just the opposite; we affirm what we've come to learn about nourishing our bodies versus simply eating anything edible is foundational for good health.

But we refocus -- our mission, the delivery of the message, the rallying of the partners in work because our oldest, he is angry, too angry for five years old and that red flag is what we need to reframe.

I'm bewildered, but his anger isn't lost on me or John. In times of passion or frustration at his questions and insertion of his will, we've come at this the wrong way -- information drawn like swords ready to pierce the misinformation instead of with teaching words and heart.

And in those times it's like we picked a battle with the wrong little people -- two strong-willed boys, the oldest being a leader to his core who will battle until the very end.

So now we begin the peace process, cleaning up the land mines of anger unintentionally planted, soothing the open wounds with salve of choice, putting down the swords of information and arming ourselves instead with words of love-coated explanation.

Because this actually isn't a battle I, either of us, are willing to fight until the bitter end favoring conviction over the actual heart.

But it is a mission field on which we'll stand in truth and love and enough faith to know that messages delivered in love don't often fall on deaf ears.

Link up at Melissa's!

  

Bigger Picture Moment: Emphasis

We ask them questions, lots of question, when we're all gathered 'round the dinner table sharing plates from hand to hand and passing stories along words in much the same way.

What did you learn in school?

What did you talk about in church?

What did you do today?

And sometimes, at 3 and 5, they answer only in one-word sentence. But sometimes there's more, a full spread of dinner-table feast, coming from their open hands, open mouths.

It's then that I'm tempted to say we're doing this parenting thing well, that everything looks good. That our little shoots rapidly growing out of the soil of our lives look healthy.

That we've got kids who learn and succeed and communicate. Kids that do and go and see and experience.

And then I dig deep into me, and John digs deep into him, and we dig deep into each other during a heavy homework week for our Vantage Point 3 class, trying to uncover our values -- those very driving forces that influence our decisions, that steer the course of our path, that anchor us in the routines and happenings of our daily life.

Our values --they influence everything: how we spend our money, our time, our resources, our energy, the decisions we make, the relationships in which we engage.

No. Not our ideals, that which we aspire to be our powering forces.

Dig deeper. We loosen up the soil in our hearts and sink shovels in to get to the root of what's actually fueling the movement upward.

Our values.

In that digging and searching and uncovering, it becomes apparent that if we want to live intentional lives of authenticity and growth, transformation and depth, that we actually need to be more concerned with who we are rather than what we do.

Because what we do stems out of who we are. 

What we value fuels our decisions, yes, but our values grow out of who we are at the core, at the root.

This all circles back to the dinner table discussion in which we've been trying to engage.

We haven't been asking the wrong questions around the table each night; we do want to know what they've learned and done and enjoyed each day.

But maybe we've been asking them questions with the wrong emphasis, placing more importance on the doing and less on the being, less on the who they are becoming.

If we're far more concerned with who these little guys are and the kinds of people they grow to be, the passing of stories, the sharing of conversation around the dinner table should be a reflection of our intention -- growing strong roots rather than just good looking shoots.

"Superficiality is the curse of our age. The desperate need today is not for more intelligent people, more gifted people but for deep people." Richard Foster

Share your moment at Melissa's!

Everyday Life: Carry You

It seems like I don't carry you much any more.

At freshly five, you are long and lanky and beyond a comfortable hip seat.

So I settle for snuggling you to sleep. Tonight, I practically have to beg you to let me be the one to see you off to your dreams, but you finally oblige.

And I breathe gratitude at having these minutes.

We lay in the dark, wrapped tight beneath blankets shielding our skin from cool of night-time lake air.

We whisper back and forth, and I tell you the story of five years ago today.

How we waited long and we waited patient for you to come. {"How long, mom?" Nine whole months!}

How I labored hours and then days. {"Did you eat? Did you sleep?" Not really.}

How I pushed you out of my belly. {"How!?" With strong muscles.}

And how all you wanted to do was sleep in my arms and nurse, which was good

because that's exactly all I wanted to do, too -- exhaustion set deep in my body, we both faded in and out of sleep for five glorious hours that first night.

You smile, and I remember the you from five years ago, tiny and snuggled against my chest, legs still shaking from the shear labor of your entrance.

We are still in thought, still in bed, snuggling

and I linger in the very effort, remembering the endurance,

how my muscles worked long

and hard

and well

to grow you,

carry you,

deliver you into arms that spent hours cradling and rocking your small self.

How these muscles fatigued and pushed beyond what I thought I could muster.

How I was so much stronger than I knew.

And how I didn't even have a clue that that would be the easy part.

That carrying you in belly and in arms and bearing down and bringing forth your life was only training for the muscle that would bear the real load.



How I couldn't have known that my heart would need all the training in strength it could build to wrap you up in this weight of heavy love and carry you long beyond what my arms ever could. Linking with The MOB society's Let's Hear it for the Boys.

Just Write: More

I know.

I know that when little ones act up and out that they need more --

More love

More attention

More patience

More time --

More.

More from me.

But I've been driving around this block for weeks on end, and the gas light is on and the kids are still screaming in the background and the radio is blaring and there's so much noise in this proverbial car and in my not-so proverbial head that I just can't isolate anything to turn it off for long enough to realize

that I've got to stop for gas, like, ten miles ago.

Because that last fill up for how long I've been driving

can't last for as long as I've been going.

I need an off ramp

with an Oasis

to refuel so much more often

now that the load is filled with

growing boy bodies

growing hearts

growing lessons

and growing miles to trek.

And sometimes, I guess, we just have to put it in park

and watch the sun rise and set*

remembering we didn't have to push the pedal a little further to the metal

for either to happen.




*Super huge thanks to Corinne for reminding me of this awesome truth. 

Bigger Picture Moments: Words

They are soaking each other with the hose, taking turns spraying jets of water into the air and onto giggling faces.

I hold my tongue.

From scolding.

From warning to be careful.

From reminding them not to make mud pits

or against wasting water.

And I just watch instead, letting their laughter infiltrate the tired, the impatience that's rested heavy on my heart and come flying out of my mouth in murky, heavy phrases.



Mud pits. And sopping wet clothes. And dirty footprints. And whatever else -- they are all easily wiped away, damp towel to the mess, tossed in a washing machine and rinsed clean by water.

But words -- black and staining -- seem to stick, tattoos pressed onto skin and hidden under clothing peaking out in the parroted sentences and phrases from little lips during moments of frustration.

I should know. I dine on words like others feast on chocolate and yet

I forget sometimes.

I forget how powerful that little muscle in my mouth really is when it's carelessly flicking itself around  the mudpit in my own mouth,

my words splattering against the white walls of their hearts.

I forget how He spoke the world into existence

how words create ...

and crush.

How they blemish

but, also, how they cleanse.

I want to speak life, pure and clear.


I find myself praying, pleading

Oh, Lord, wipe me down

rinse me clean.

Not just my hands

my feet,

but my mouth, too.

This piece was written for and inspired by a prompt for our Bigger Picture Blogs Writing Circle group. Writing Circles is a virtual critique space where writers come together to share their work, receive and give constructive feedback and grow. Click here to learn more or sign up for a FREE circle. 


Linked with Let's Hear it for the Boys with The MOB Society and Bigger Picture Moments over at Sarah's. 

Everyday Life: Taking Notes

He's always been an old soul, my first-born boy.

But there are moments where he seems much older than almost five.

Like when we happen upon a Memorial Day ceremony where veterans carry our flag and share stories of lives that were laid down for country's freedom and my oldest listens intently as I give him the run down of the celebration and solemnly puts his hand over his heart as we recite the Pledge of Allegiance and sing the National Anthem.

Or when he and his younger brother are out in the back yard and the little one ends up haphazardly crying from a minor injury and my oldest boy rushes to his side asking if he's OK and envelopes his tearful brother in a hug.

And just today while he's snuggling his 9-day-old baby cousin -- she lets out a cry, he presses his lips into her forehead, giving her a kiss and says, "It's OK, baby, I'm here, and I'm taking care of you."



It's like he gets it.

So much of it  -- in ways I don't fully comprehend, and in ways that only my heart really can interpret and fumble to translate for my brain.

And I realize sometimes, in these moments of him getting this Bigger Picture way of love, that this little boy is going to one day be a man

who gets it -- so much of it.

And I'm taking notes from him as fast as I can scribble them out and press them into my mind for keeping.

Bigger Picture Moments: Fires

I crack the shell and egg white and yolk drip into the pan, sizzle in the heat.

Sleep hasn't come easy the past three nights, and I am running on broken-rest fumes while my cranky toddler melts into a teething, runny nose mess on the floor near my feet.

Anger stirs into my mind, mingles with frustration, blending into one like the eggs I'm frying. I rush-hurry to serve breakfast, my own exhaustion and weariness warmed by the fires flaming this third morning of solo parenting {reinforcements have since arrived}.

My preschooler makes the unfortunate mistake of airing complaints about his breakfast at the same moment his little brother flings the eggs I served just moments ago onto the floor.

I yell loud and power-punched the little one's full name.

My preschooler shrinks into his chair while the youngest dissolves into more tears.

I power through breakfast at high speed -- cleaning up, getting ready,trying to finish writing.

The flames are still burning, though, and my two year old is having none of it.

He's walking around sobbing and tantruming as I continue to burn in my pit-fire of anger and irritation.

Hurried attempts are made at calming him before I finally grab him by the shoulders and shriek "what?! What is wrong with you?"

I douse the fire of my own temper tantrum with guilty tears.

I gather him up in my arms, heart sopping wet from the drenching and try to find my way through the smoldering ashes.

But I can't see beyond the smoke, so I sit in quiet prayerfulness.

And I rock. I rock him gently, his small body still shaking from crying.

I rock him until his eyelids fall heavy and close, his breathing slows into rhythmic peace.

I rock until chaos fades into calm until the heat cools his body and my own.

 

I pray repentance in the stillness of the room, whispering how I'm sorry to have let the fires spread in the fast movement of my day.

I soak deep into grace-filled words that only ran across the surface of my heart this morning because I was simply going too fast to drink them into my thirsty, drought-ridden, fire-susceptible heart.

“We do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about the hardships we suffered in the province of Asia. We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired even of life. Indeed, in our hearts we felt the sentence of death. But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead." —2 Corinthians 1:8–9

The smoke clears, and I move slowly to restore what was lost in the fire, asking forgiveness from two little boys who watched me burn.

There are gracious hugs, mercy-words given.

I replant seedlings into the soil with slowness, with patience, with gentleness and with love.

And remember that when there is nothing of me left to give, there's always more of Him for us all

in the midst of the burning fire and after the smoke clears as well.

Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week.. 

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Sarah's! Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Bigger Picture Moment / Five for Five: Age

I felt it again last night.

Like I was superman with all my superpowers drained from my body.

The kryptonite -- stretching of skin over lengthening bones and shedding of babyness for childhood.

The super powers I'd had wrapped up in my mother's body only a mere memory amid the screams of an inconsolable 2.5 year old, shrieking in the darkness of my bedroom at 12:15 a.m.

When both boys weaned, there was that sense of power-comfort loss, too. And then again when I could no longer pick up my lanky oldest son and walk rhythmically with him up and down the long hallways after he'd had a bad dream or a badly skinned knee.

And there it was again in the fullness of my inky-black room, only a tiny section illuminated by soft-glowing nightlight.

No milk. No baby carrier in which he could find rest amid the steady bounce of my pace, against the beating of my heart, in the security of being snugged right against my frame. No swaddling blanket large enough to comfort his toddler body.

Just me fumbling in the dark for new the bag of motherhood superpowers I haven't quite yet mastered -- the right words, the right melody of soothing song for his ears, the right touch to his skin, the right calm for his wild, wordless upset.

I stumbled hard into thinking in the sleeplessness of midnight about growing in my own mother skin. About what I have now to offer little boys who are no longer little babies and are growing quickly into little men.

What is there apart from a breast of comfort and arms like entwined branches and the calm of my heart thumping in time with their own now that they've grown out of the supermom powers I'd relied on most.

We finally all drifted to sleep, exhausted and teeming with frustration after riding out the crystorm together of what I can only assume is emerging molars, snuggled in the same bed.

I slept hard-crazy-dream sleep where I found myself struggling against intruders in my home, unfaced villains who were trying to harm my babies. In my dream, I was conniving and fearless, strong beyond my own knowing and I protected my growing flock with super-natural God-given mother fierceness of heart.

I carried this fierce-love into total consciousness, woken by smiles and babble mixed with toddler-crafted words followed by the happy sounds of a preschooler coming to say hello.

There were wrapped-up words, oh so many words from my preschooler and tackle hugs, so many tackle hugs wrapped around my neck by my toddler.

And with these word spoken, hugs given, tantrums thrown, ideas shared, tears shed, the emerging super powers of a mother who ages with her children, the sheer weight and depth of that strong-ocean-current-fierce love manifests itself in listening well, in embraces fully returned and in pausing to pay the captors of this soul-love my fullest attention even when I feel like I'm fumbling around in the dark.

Every Thursday we come together to share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week, and this week we are teeming with Momalom's Five for Five to find the Bigger Picture wrapped up in AGE. Don't forget to link at both Jade's and Momalom's to support each other and find new friends!

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Jade's!Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Bigger Picture Moments:In a galaxy far away and right here

He spins around me in circles, talking and talking and talking.

And my head honestly feels dizzy-drunk from all the constant chatter.

We talk Star Wars for about 45 minutes before I'm pretty sure my brain cannot decode and translate one more word into the language I fluently speak.

I press on in the conversation for as long as I can, looking at the different images of jedis and siths, yodas and light sabers.

It's a lot of work to keep up with him while he's lost in this world of imaginations

Mostly because he doesn't just want a listening ear; he wants my feedback.

Who should I be today, mom?

Oh, mom! Who should I be from this cover?

Why him? He doesn't have a cool light saber. 


Confession: I don't really know anything about Star Wars that my boys haven't told me.

Related Confession: I don't really like Star Wars.

I only care because these boys of mine care -- because my oldest at 4.5 years old doesn't just like Star Wars; he eats, breathes and dreams it. He lives it out myriad times every day. Star Wars to him is as real and as important as he is to me.

So I try to listen patiently, intently to him when he talks about what's happening in the imaginary galaxies so very far away.

And I pray that ten years from now he'll remember how much I care so he'll continue sharing with me about what's happening within the very real galaxy in which he lives.

Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week.. 

Live.
Reflect on the blessings that were apparent to you this week.

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
Link up your gleaned moment this week at Sarah's! Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

Encourage.
Visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Beyond Resolutions: Patience {#OneWord365}

About this time last year, I chose to focus for an entire year on being rather than doing.

Building character rather than building my resume.

Becoming more of the me God intended me to be rather than more of the me I intended me to be.

Had I known last year what being results in, I might have been too nervous to choose such a powerful word to commit to focusing on.

Because the word being is actually a more subdued version of the word grow.

And, boy, has it been a year of growth -- spiritual, emotional and mental growth.

While my body actually shrank -- which last year I wasn't sure I would be able to make and keep such a resolution -- the other parts of me have been stretched and opened and grown through thanksgiving, through grief and through choosing joy.

It's been a ride ... a ride I'm glad to have taken but am now ready to exit.

I readily admit that I'm ready to usher in a new year with its freshness and possibility and newness.

And in that newness stretched out like the deep dawning of a new day, I'm embracing a new word for 2012:

Patient -- embracing a wait, contentedness, willing to choose joy despite circumstances, tolerant

"God doesn't come and go. God lasts.
He's Creator of all you can see or imagine.
He doesn't get tired out, doesn't pause to catch his breath.
And he knows everything, inside and out.
He energizes those who get tired, gives fresh strength to dropouts.
For even young people tire and drop out, young folk in their prime stumble and fall.
But those who wait upon God get fresh strength. 
They spread their wings and soar like eagles,
They run and don't get tired, they walk and don't lag behind." Isaiah 40: 28-31

So I will wait upon God. 

I will be patient with myself -- with the healing of my scars, with the limits of being human, with what is out of my control, with the time structures in which I live, with the expectations I set for myself.

And I will pray for patience to run deep and wide enough to spill over my heart and flow from my tongue.

Patience enough to allow for the space it takes for passion to burn.

And burn well.

A group of writers have come together to take a step beyond standing in stalled resolutions instead vowing to pick one word that will help guide them through the year. I'm joining formally this year after having had such a wonderful experience of focusing on one word during 2011. #OneWord365

2011: Be

Five-Minute Friday: Grow

For anything to ever
have the chance to grow,
first the hard soil of the Earth
must be split open,
hoe penetrating into the solid ground,
tiller ripping apart the dirt,
completely overturning
and mixing
and sifting.
Only then is the seed
dropped in
and covered
and watered
and sunned.

And my heart,
in a shared moment
of empathy with the soil,
knows well the upheaval
before any tiny green bud
pops through,
a promise that
the overhaul of the land
was worth the tumult
of restoration in the fertile
soil in my chest.

Pinnacle Moment: Forgiveness

His two-year-old footprints shimmer in the sunlight dancing on the wooden floor as we both sit in a tangled heap crying, his small body draped over a rather pregnant stretch of baby beneath my skin.

In a moment of twoness that I just couldn't understand, he scampered across the freshly mopped floor for a fourth time in so many minutes.

In a moment of selfishness, irritation he just couldn't understand, I'd forcefully reached out, grabbed him by the arm and all but yanked him from the still-soaking floors while yelling loudly and denouncing his repeated attempts at puddle splashing.

Eyes wide, full of surprise, he looks at me stunned. He's never heard that mommy before, never felt an ungentle touch come from her hands.

But I keep ...

The rest of Forgiveness is being featured over at Jade's Pinnacle Moments today. Come visit? 

Everyday Life: And now

They were being boys, and I was just not having it. 

Because really it wasn't even my idea to get dressed up and go outside to capture some pictures. 

Actually, it was G's; he thought pictures of himself and "maybe one of E" might be a great Christmas present for his Grandma Puppy {which he totally told her about today while we were in the car, so the cat's out of the bag in more places than here on my blog}.

I went with it, even though Saturday morning was stressful with news of water seeping into our Curves. Also, John and I were in the midst of trying to digest and acclimate to having a gluten-free and dairy-free friendly household {long story that shall be shortened and shared soon} after an end-of-the-week trip to my holistic practioner and a slew of test results came back, most likely pointing to a leaky gut. 

So, I thought, maybe we could turn the day around by getting out into the hazy sunshine and gifted 60 degree breezes of an atypical Midwestern November. 

Thing is, though, a day can't really be turned around. 

Only attitudes can. 

And mine, well, it didn't. Rather, I didn't turn it around. 

Instead I found myself irritated with G for monkeying around while I was trying to capture his four year old self posed in perfect set ups. I all but stomped away from him and ventured off to find a more willing model only to find an even more reluctant child.

My reaction to E's uncooperative response to the camera also wouldn't have won me a nomination for mother of the year unless I were up against all dads and could only win by default of being a woman. 

It snowballed from there until I found myself sitting alone in the dimly lit light of an end table lamp Sunday night wondering how I could let myself so carelessly let myself keep falling down the rabbit hole of irritation and cranky when I was so aware that I was, well, falling. 

And now, I'm wishing I could take it all back and do it over again, make the harder choice because, you know, the thing about making the harder choice is that it's always harder in the moment, but actually it's the easier choice to live with in the long haul. 

I note this lesson in my journal. {Again.} 

Write it out in bold purple against cream paper. 

Hope it somehow sponges into my ever-floundering brain off of the pages, an osmosis of sorts. 

And I turn the page, to a new, blank one, ready to pen something new, something more than what I've been today. 

Raising Boys: All Wrong

So I've been going about parenting the fours of boyhood all wrong for the past few months now.

With G's assertion {as of his fourth birthday} of his independence and wanting to do everything by himself, his {right} way {as opposed to my oh-so-terribly wrong way}, I'd been allowing less grace when he'd ignore me so he could instead do things on his own terms and shortened my tolerance for the bad attitude that ensued after we began warring over him doing things on his own {unproductive, time-consuming} terms.

Such arguments with a preschooler, I've come to learn, are futile and normally result in a lose-lose situation:
I'm left out of sorts, even more behind schedule, lacking any kind of progress while an irritated little-big guy stomps reluctantly behind me, half-deflated, half-angry, unwilling following my weary lead.

And so I came to one conclusion: something needed to change.

But what?

After praying about it, remembering that God made boy to grow into men who lead and reading a really eye-opening post at MOB Society about how parents must embrace their boys' wildness if they want them to grow into the men God created them to be, I decided to start with adjusting my own attitude -- mostly because it was easier to change mine than it would have been to change his.

Plus, I didn't want to enforce a change on the outside; I really wanted to help him change his heart toward embracing our guidance without squashing the essence of his person.

I've been asking God to reveal to me how he created men and the boys that grow into them:

*He created them to lead with integrity and love {Ephesians 5:23}.
*To provide  {I Tim. 5:8; Eph.5:26-27; Eph.6:4}
*To be responsible. {I Cor.4:1-2}
*And to submit to His rule over their lives. {Deuteronomy 6}

But boys don't just slide into manhood, understanding how to do these duties anymore than we women learn how to be wives or mothers or journalists for that matter without training or fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants experience.

John and I take seriously our mission to guide our boys, and in that, I think we parents must embrace the very qualities our boys have been given, working with them and their personalities rather than against them.

My attitude before -- the whole train of thought that G has been doing things "on  his own {unproductive, time-consuming} terms" -- was short-sighted, to say the least.

While it may have seemed that he was going nowhere fast while trying to buckle his belt tightly around his waist his own way for the fifth time in so many minutes, he was actually accomplishing so much while experiencing natural consequences: if he buckles it too tightly, his stomach hurts; if he accepted guidance, his pants stayed on without hurting his stomach.

It was a powerful lesson -- for us both -- when I stopped arguing and demanding and instead just let him walk his own path while standing aside and offering guidance when he needed it.

If we want our boys to grow into men who take the reigns, who can flourish as the men they were created to be, we've come to realize in our house that we cannot constantly be quashing their attempts to figure out the problem or complete tasks alone or explore how life works without a guide walking along side them instead of a ruler lording over them: an up close and personal lesson in servant leadership.