Living is really messy.
Maybe you don't need to have four kids to tell you that, but this is part of what having four kids has taught me.
And its not just the kind of messy where little fingers leave peanut butter and jelly prints all the way down the fridge and across the wall and through the woods all the way through the house they go kind of messy or the the kind of messy that produces piles of dirty laundry or dirty dishes or dirty floors or dirty cars.
Living is also the kind of messy that means hurt feelings, disagreements, failure and heartache.
This year, I've tried, like, really tried to organize the physical messiness out of life with chore charts, organization and schedules.
Somewhere in this attempt at organization, I had also implemented tight regulations and protective boundaries to minimize further chaos.
Let me honestly tell you that this whole organizing the mess started as a survival thing because of the need for high structure in bringing home our two adopted daughters and the shear crazed schedule that went along with that; four kids at three different school environments with various therapy and educational needs and no bussing help and me being the tether holding it all together meant we did honestly needed more structure and organization in our life in order for life to work.
But somewhere in all of that organization and keeping the structure standing, I got a little lost and I stopped just short of bubble wrapping and securing with duct tape all of the kids.
Sometimes the line between organization and controlling the chaos is so thin we find it impossible to walk without tripping face first into control freak.
As my efforts at organization morphed into attempts at controlling the chaos, I found that my joy flat out fizzled beneath the weight of it all. As did the joy of the other people in our house. It was a miserable month.
I was fortunate enough to have a friend speak hard but truthful words into my life, reminding me that we cannot take the potential for messy out of life without also taking out a lot of the potential for joy. Really living includes experiencing a full gamut of emotions and learning to navigate all of them, even the unpleasant ones.
More simply, really living is the kind of messy I am finding I cannot organize the mess out of ... At least not without great cost. There is great cost in trying to control the chaos that is life, and try as I may, I've been finding that I just cannot bubble wrap feelings, emotions or experiences without ending up just completely deflated.
Feelings are going to be hurt, and this can't be avoided without avoiding relationships or staying shallow in them because the risk of being hurt is a function of being in relationships comprised of different people sharing different thoughts, ideas and feelings.
Being known and loved because you're awesome is awesome.
Being known and loved because you are you in all of your awesome imperfectness is called unconditional love.
Mistakes are going to be made, and this is part of learning, growing and just being plain and simple human.
Ideas are going to fail, and this is part of the process of succeeding because in order to create we must innovate and try new things, of which many won't quite work.
While I haven't given up my chore charts and I'm stopping just short of implementing spreadsheets because oh, dear God, is nothing sacred to me anymore, I'm finding myself learning to recognize more and more what kinds of boundaries and organization are good and life giving and life sustaining and joy bringing
and which ones are just flat out life sucking.
Having four children has taught me a great deal about the difference of living in the fullness of joy and just barely surviving.
It's taught me organization has its place.
And it's taught me that, yes, living is really messy.
But more than all of that it's taught me that really living is worth the mess.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Friday, July 1, 2016
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Advent: When Something's Gotta Give
When he quietly sneaks down the stairs at quarter 'til nine in the still of evening and crawls into my lap while I'm working away the dark hours and says right before he drifts off to sleep in my arms, "Mommy, I miss you," I know that something's gotta give.
When I ask my oldest son how his day is going, and he asks me if I'm done working for the day so I can really listen, my stomach jumps into my throat and sits there choking me up, and I pray that something's gonna give.
When the conversation turns from what we can do to make the load lighter {jobs and businesses and work} to who put the final straw on the camel's aching back, I find myself staring at the man with whom I yoked wondering what the difference is anyway, since we're both under the same weight and what's ultimately gonna give isn't going to be what we want to give if we just wait for something to break.
A few weeks back, a wise woman told me that sheep were never meant to bear loads.
They weren't made for it.
And neither were we.
I understand this now like I wouldn't have before.
And so we cry out --
we wait for the Shepherd to hear our cries
because something's gotta give.
****
Busy days turn into heavy weeks, and we pass into the season of Advent as easily as the days sneak into nights and back into days again. I am the spinning hand on the clock, and I go until one day when I come home from church and retire to my bedroom because I'm suddenly not feeling well, the third in my family to be out for the count in less than 24 hours.
I sleep the morning into afternoon and wake only to pull my weary body from bed and join the family on the couch for a few brief hours.
I have plans. There are things to do, action items screaming for my attention during the three days I'm down and out myself and the span during which my boys are all suffering, too. There are staff meetings and business meetings and preparations to make before our host child arrives in just mere days and business to manage and posts to tend to and people to feed and bodies to bathe and clothes to launder and food to prepare.
But it all halts on a Sunday, the second Sunday of Advent, where we talk in church that morning about the surprising way Love came down to meet us here on Earth in a nowhere town, inside a nowhere stable, through a bunch of nobody people after 400 years of everyone thinking, you know, something's gotta give.
My husband picks up the food ropes and the rest of what isn't urgent all sits dormant while the urgent keeps on spinning with the rest of the world … without me.
The boys and I exist in spaces between the bed and the couch for two whole days.
On the third day, I find myself trapped beneath a four year old's body nearly every hour of day, and I start giving some serious thought to what it means to break and what it means to give.
At first it doesn't seem like catching the flu is anything akin to catching a break but when you're at the point where you feel like you can't bend with the pressure anymore, it suddenly and surprisingly. It's the break you knew you needed but never expected.
The give isn't what we wanted or planned, but when I look and I really see, I see that the give wasn't the ability to bend a little more without snapping, the give was a gift unexpected of slowing down enough to remember that the sun rises and sets each day without our help, without my help.
And isn't that the break I've been begging for and the give I've been praying to see?
He gives me a break, He slows me steady into the season of Advent, the season of preparing my heart for what's been given
again, in the most surprising of ways.
When the conversation turns from what we can do to make the load lighter {jobs and businesses and work} to who put the final straw on the camel's aching back, I find myself staring at the man with whom I yoked wondering what the difference is anyway, since we're both under the same weight and what's ultimately gonna give isn't going to be what we want to give if we just wait for something to break.
A few weeks back, a wise woman told me that sheep were never meant to bear loads.
They weren't made for it.
And neither were we.
I understand this now like I wouldn't have before.
And so we cry out --
we wait for the Shepherd to hear our cries
because something's gotta give.
****
Busy days turn into heavy weeks, and we pass into the season of Advent as easily as the days sneak into nights and back into days again. I am the spinning hand on the clock, and I go until one day when I come home from church and retire to my bedroom because I'm suddenly not feeling well, the third in my family to be out for the count in less than 24 hours.
I sleep the morning into afternoon and wake only to pull my weary body from bed and join the family on the couch for a few brief hours.
I have plans. There are things to do, action items screaming for my attention during the three days I'm down and out myself and the span during which my boys are all suffering, too. There are staff meetings and business meetings and preparations to make before our host child arrives in just mere days and business to manage and posts to tend to and people to feed and bodies to bathe and clothes to launder and food to prepare.
But it all halts on a Sunday, the second Sunday of Advent, where we talk in church that morning about the surprising way Love came down to meet us here on Earth in a nowhere town, inside a nowhere stable, through a bunch of nobody people after 400 years of everyone thinking, you know, something's gotta give.
My husband picks up the food ropes and the rest of what isn't urgent all sits dormant while the urgent keeps on spinning with the rest of the world … without me.
The boys and I exist in spaces between the bed and the couch for two whole days.
On the third day, I find myself trapped beneath a four year old's body nearly every hour of day, and I start giving some serious thought to what it means to break and what it means to give.
At first it doesn't seem like catching the flu is anything akin to catching a break but when you're at the point where you feel like you can't bend with the pressure anymore, it suddenly and surprisingly. It's the break you knew you needed but never expected.
The give isn't what we wanted or planned, but when I look and I really see, I see that the give wasn't the ability to bend a little more without snapping, the give was a gift unexpected of slowing down enough to remember that the sun rises and sets each day without our help, without my help.
And isn't that the break I've been begging for and the give I've been praying to see?
He gives me a break, He slows me steady into the season of Advent, the season of preparing my heart for what's been given
again, in the most surprising of ways.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Five-Minute Friday: Stay
Some days I want to lay it all down
gently
and quietly walk away.
Return to the open spaces we once swam freely
among the sea of so many hours in the day
I had the luxury of wishing away
the last few in the afternoon.
Those days long passed
those long hours
used to scream at me
to do something significant
as I washed walls and windows and sticky fingers --
to be someone more than
the stay-at-home mom, long-order cook
and housewife extraordinaire.
And now as the hour hand races from number to number
and I scramble to make it from
place to place
activity to activity
little body, to preschool body to strong arms
these short days whisper
to slow down
return to
that extraordinary ordinary
I'd so desperately wanted to escape.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Everyday Life: I Lived It
Sometimes I wonder if God lets seasons linger just a bit longer than we expected not just so we can soak these fleeting moments of Indian Summer into our skins, tattoo them onto our hearts and burn them into our memories but, more, so that we really revel in, give thanks for the days we're given just before the leaves begin falling from the trees in masses, just before the summer sun sets and gives way to autumn light.
I wonder, sometimes,
if He gives us these unexpectedly warm and brilliantly sunny days in the midst of fall so we pause --
if He writes the warning across burning red leaves on fire from faded summer green, in the warm sunlight that yet stretches across blue October skies so we can really enter into them, like we're living fully, as if to say, come on -- you don't want to miss this.
I wonder if He wishes us to wrap fingers around the moments that were so generously gifted into open palms so that we could say, I don't just remember it well; I lived it.
And I lived it well.
{This is a repost from last October.}
I wonder, sometimes,
if He gives us these unexpectedly warm and brilliantly sunny days in the midst of fall so we pause --
if He writes the warning across burning red leaves on fire from faded summer green, in the warm sunlight that yet stretches across blue October skies so we can really enter into them, like we're living fully, as if to say, come on -- you don't want to miss this.
I wonder if He wishes us to wrap fingers around the moments that were so generously gifted into open palms so that we could say, I don't just remember it well; I lived it.
And I lived it well.
{This is a repost from last October.}
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Everyday Life: Brake
He messages me in the middle of the day.
It's not unusual, but it's more than the characteristic "I love you" or "good morning."
I read heaviness, words hanging like soggy sheets on the line.
It resonates.
These past few weeks have been damp with fine mist, thick and heavy, hanging in the short, hurried conversations, in the rush of meals around the dining room table, in the quick sinking of bodies into the bed at night -- a fog we've been trying to feel our way through.
A fog so thick it's forcing us to slow from the rapid speed we've been driving because highbeam headlights are useless.
And blinding.
That afternoon before he leaves work I call him; we are supposed to go separate ways tonight -- me to an appointment, him to a meeting, the boys with a babysitter.
Instead, though, I ask, could we just brake?
Could we flip off the bright beams and pull over to the side of the road?
Come together and look at each other instead of straining our eyes to see out the windshield a few more miles beyond where we are?
He drops the road map, and we halt to a stop.
We fling open the doors for some air,
whisper prayers for clarity into the darkness, breathe in
together.
in the heavy fog.
in the stillness.
and realize we can see the ground on which we're standing.
And for now
it's more than enough Light to see the next step.
{This piece was written live at our Creative Soul Writing Circle. More on this tomorrow! In the meantime, join a virtual Writing Circle.}
It's not unusual, but it's more than the characteristic "I love you" or "good morning."
I read heaviness, words hanging like soggy sheets on the line.
I feel like we've gotten beat up in some ways. Maybe it's just that we are walking in fog and need a lamp to guide each step.
It resonates.
These past few weeks have been damp with fine mist, thick and heavy, hanging in the short, hurried conversations, in the rush of meals around the dining room table, in the quick sinking of bodies into the bed at night -- a fog we've been trying to feel our way through.
A fog so thick it's forcing us to slow from the rapid speed we've been driving because highbeam headlights are useless.
And blinding.
That afternoon before he leaves work I call him; we are supposed to go separate ways tonight -- me to an appointment, him to a meeting, the boys with a babysitter.
Instead, though, I ask, could we just brake?
Could we flip off the bright beams and pull over to the side of the road?
Come together and look at each other instead of straining our eyes to see out the windshield a few more miles beyond where we are?
He drops the road map, and we halt to a stop.
We fling open the doors for some air,
whisper prayers for clarity into the darkness, breathe in
Your Word is a lamp for my feet and light to my path. Psalm 119:105We sit in the soft glow.
together.
in the heavy fog.
in the stillness.
and realize we can see the ground on which we're standing.
And for now
it's more than enough Light to see the next step.
{This piece was written live at our Creative Soul Writing Circle. More on this tomorrow! In the meantime, join a virtual Writing Circle.}
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Thinking, That's All: On Busyness and Superficiality
"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
In the busyness, the chaotic clutter of an over scheduled life, I felt this pang of loneliness in my heart that never really left.
Until about six months ago, I was so inundated with plans and to-do lists, that I couldn't even find time to have coffee with friends without scheduling it two weeks in advance.
I didn't think it was a problem at first; I was busy with really, really good stuff.
The stuff that suburban house-wife dreams are made of -- volunteering, Bible studies, attachment parenting group meetings, preschool meetings, meetings at our small business, MOPs meetings, babywearing meetings, church, blogging meetings.
Really, really good stuff.
Really, really good stuff that when laid out on a calendar seemed daunting and completely overwhelming.
And isolating.
And, erm, kind of empty.
And all of the sudden, I'm the guy with the trash bag bursting open in the middle of the garage and raising my hands in complete anxiety toward the heavens while sporting a robe and slippers and wondering if this is as good as it gets: {Watch this if that visual doesn't make sense}
The Emerging Journey: An Invitation... from VANTAGEPOINT3 on Vimeo.
Isn't there more to living than this -- this busy, overcommitted, over scheduled, relationships-on-the-backburner kind of life?
That's the question I was asking myself about a year ago when my mentor extended an invitation to apply for Vantage Point3, the Emerging Journey at our church.
She was vague about this nine-month-long, homework-included VP3 class, but I was intrigued, nonetheless.
Without ever knowing what I was getting myself into, I submitted an application.
And about three weeks into the class, questions about who God is and who I am and what God really wanted me to do with my life began to rock my world, much the way an earthquake shakes up a house -- knocking out old foundation blocks, jiggling and revealing faulty connections, ripping apart loose beams.
But God, the gracious carpenter, rebuilder that He is, moved in and began repairing the foundations, relying the bricks and reinforcing the beams.
In that rebuilding, I began to understand that busyness did not mean important.
Busyness didn't mean successful.
And busyness didn't mean productive.
Busyness was the bricks I'd haphazardly tried to shove to fill holes of loneliness and need for success into my own cracking foundation.
And while I was shoving replacement parts, regardless of whether they were built to do such a job, into places that needed reinforcement, it felt study.
Until it didn't.
VP3 helped me sort through these thoughts and take the time I desperately needed to reflect on what exactly I'd been doing.
And what God had been up to while I was busy doing whatever I'd deemed important.
During our leader training this week, I reflected on the journey I'd taken with VP3 and I began hearing the words of Richard Foster with ears that hear:
Often, busyness breeds intelligence, skill and utilizes giftedness.
But it steals the time needed to become deep people --
the time required to pay attention in the stillness to what God is up to in our own lives and in the world around us and in our neighbor's lives.
the time it takes to reflect on who God is and who we've been created to be.
the time necessary for building relationships and vesting our giftedness into people who are also part of our journey.
I know for me, I spent so much time building my resumes and building my skills and building my own small kingdom, that I totally missed the part with which God's always been most concerned about building: my character, the depth of my person, the foundations of my soul.
If superficiality is the curse of our age, busyness most certainly is the spell that casts the curse.
Each day I fight being bound up in its empty spell, but it's a battle I've deemed worthy of waging.
{If this strikes a chord in your heart, maybe VP3 might find a home in your heart, your church. If you're interested, I'd be happy to connect you with the coordinators of the program.}
****
Today as I begin my third year of Vantage Point 3, year one, with a new group of journeyers, I still find these truths I wrote more than a year ago to be applicable and persistent. Would you pray for our this new group and this new year as we walk together on our journey of discovering who God is, who we are and what God is already up to in our lives? Blessings on your Wednesday, friends.
In the busyness, the chaotic clutter of an over scheduled life, I felt this pang of loneliness in my heart that never really left.
Until about six months ago, I was so inundated with plans and to-do lists, that I couldn't even find time to have coffee with friends without scheduling it two weeks in advance.
I didn't think it was a problem at first; I was busy with really, really good stuff.
The stuff that suburban house-wife dreams are made of -- volunteering, Bible studies, attachment parenting group meetings, preschool meetings, meetings at our small business, MOPs meetings, babywearing meetings, church, blogging meetings.
Really, really good stuff.
Really, really good stuff that when laid out on a calendar seemed daunting and completely overwhelming.
And isolating.
And, erm, kind of empty.
And all of the sudden, I'm the guy with the trash bag bursting open in the middle of the garage and raising my hands in complete anxiety toward the heavens while sporting a robe and slippers and wondering if this is as good as it gets: {Watch this if that visual doesn't make sense}
The Emerging Journey: An Invitation... from VANTAGEPOINT3 on Vimeo.
Isn't there more to living than this -- this busy, overcommitted, over scheduled, relationships-on-the-backburner kind of life?
That's the question I was asking myself about a year ago when my mentor extended an invitation to apply for Vantage Point3, the Emerging Journey at our church.
She was vague about this nine-month-long, homework-included VP3 class, but I was intrigued, nonetheless.
Without ever knowing what I was getting myself into, I submitted an application.
And about three weeks into the class, questions about who God is and who I am and what God really wanted me to do with my life began to rock my world, much the way an earthquake shakes up a house -- knocking out old foundation blocks, jiggling and revealing faulty connections, ripping apart loose beams.
But God, the gracious carpenter, rebuilder that He is, moved in and began repairing the foundations, relying the bricks and reinforcing the beams.
In that rebuilding, I began to understand that busyness did not mean important.
Busyness didn't mean successful.
And busyness didn't mean productive.
Busyness was the bricks I'd haphazardly tried to shove to fill holes of loneliness and need for success into my own cracking foundation.
And while I was shoving replacement parts, regardless of whether they were built to do such a job, into places that needed reinforcement, it felt study.
Until it didn't.
VP3 helped me sort through these thoughts and take the time I desperately needed to reflect on what exactly I'd been doing.
And what God had been up to while I was busy doing whatever I'd deemed important.
During our leader training this week, I reflected on the journey I'd taken with VP3 and I began hearing the words of Richard Foster with ears that hear:
"Superficiality is the curse of our age. The desperate need today is not for more intelligent people, more gifted people but for deep people."
Often, busyness breeds intelligence, skill and utilizes giftedness.
But it steals the time needed to become deep people --
the time required to pay attention in the stillness to what God is up to in our own lives and in the world around us and in our neighbor's lives.
the time it takes to reflect on who God is and who we've been created to be.
the time necessary for building relationships and vesting our giftedness into people who are also part of our journey.
I know for me, I spent so much time building my resumes and building my skills and building my own small kingdom, that I totally missed the part with which God's always been most concerned about building: my character, the depth of my person, the foundations of my soul.
If superficiality is the curse of our age, busyness most certainly is the spell that casts the curse.
Each day I fight being bound up in its empty spell, but it's a battle I've deemed worthy of waging.
{If this strikes a chord in your heart, maybe VP3 might find a home in your heart, your church. If you're interested, I'd be happy to connect you with the coordinators of the program.}
****
Today as I begin my third year of Vantage Point 3, year one, with a new group of journeyers, I still find these truths I wrote more than a year ago to be applicable and persistent. Would you pray for our this new group and this new year as we walk together on our journey of discovering who God is, who we are and what God is already up to in our lives? Blessings on your Wednesday, friends.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Marriage: On a Monday, On Oneness
On a Monday, our feet don't stop moving in opposite directions until we're about to bid the day farewell and welcome in the night.
He was up and out the door before my eyes even opened this morning and our paths spread out over miles and miles of unshared terrain.
It's quite unlike the day we shared seven years ago, gripping each other's hands, eyes locked, voicing vows of love and respect, honesty and loyalty and, most importantly, oneness for all of our days together on Earth; even the clean, crisp air of today is a drastic difference from that day's thick humidity.
Today whirlwinds by, and to the untrained eye we seem anything but one as we quickly exchange a hello via phone bidding each other a happy anniversary, one brief email with a written sentiment and then a small face-to-face and kiss before work beckons me to return just as he arrives home, his capable hands taking the reigns of the household.
I tease him and smile, "What? No time for flowers today?" before walking out the door for work.
In a miracle of sorts, I arrive home in time for a late dinner that he's struggled to prepare amid boy-wrangling and unexpected-necessary errands and poop-splosion clean up.
We all find a space at the table and fall into a stillness of body as we recount our days.
Our oldest talks about school and then his little brother explains the basic tenants of good applesauce {"it yummy and it mushy"} as we listen and smile.
After the littles are talked out, he gives voice to his day's adventures and I can't help but laugh at the raucous of his grill catching fire at the same time our oldest reported that our youngest was mooning the neighbors with a poop-covered butt in the backyard.
As he recounts the craziness, he ends with the scene I unknowingly walked in on just a little bit ago.
"Then we sat down at the table and I exhaled and we thanked God for our food and our day ... and for mommy. And we asked Him that mommy would please come home, um, soon."
And with that prayer shared, he unknowingly unwraps for me the best anniversary present ever.
Because those heart cries are ones I pray everyday, too -- that we would just come back together at the end of days long and alive and filled to the brim with goodness and hardness and everything in between after being stretched so out of shape
and enter back into that oneness we knew in the most physical sense the day we promised it
but now know with our hearts seven years beyond.
Happy anniversary, John. I tried not to sing out of key for you. :-)
He was up and out the door before my eyes even opened this morning and our paths spread out over miles and miles of unshared terrain.
It's quite unlike the day we shared seven years ago, gripping each other's hands, eyes locked, voicing vows of love and respect, honesty and loyalty and, most importantly, oneness for all of our days together on Earth; even the clean, crisp air of today is a drastic difference from that day's thick humidity.
Today whirlwinds by, and to the untrained eye we seem anything but one as we quickly exchange a hello via phone bidding each other a happy anniversary, one brief email with a written sentiment and then a small face-to-face and kiss before work beckons me to return just as he arrives home, his capable hands taking the reigns of the household.
I tease him and smile, "What? No time for flowers today?" before walking out the door for work.
In a miracle of sorts, I arrive home in time for a late dinner that he's struggled to prepare amid boy-wrangling and unexpected-necessary errands and poop-splosion clean up.
We all find a space at the table and fall into a stillness of body as we recount our days.
Our oldest talks about school and then his little brother explains the basic tenants of good applesauce {"it yummy and it mushy"} as we listen and smile.
After the littles are talked out, he gives voice to his day's adventures and I can't help but laugh at the raucous of his grill catching fire at the same time our oldest reported that our youngest was mooning the neighbors with a poop-covered butt in the backyard.
As he recounts the craziness, he ends with the scene I unknowingly walked in on just a little bit ago.
"Then we sat down at the table and I exhaled and we thanked God for our food and our day ... and for mommy. And we asked Him that mommy would please come home, um, soon."
And with that prayer shared, he unknowingly unwraps for me the best anniversary present ever.
Because those heart cries are ones I pray everyday, too -- that we would just come back together at the end of days long and alive and filled to the brim with goodness and hardness and everything in between after being stretched so out of shape
and enter back into that oneness we knew in the most physical sense the day we promised it
but now know with our hearts seven years beyond.
Happy anniversary, John. I tried not to sing out of key for you. :-)
 |
| Join us at Alita's! |
Monday, August 20, 2012
Everyday Life: On Vacation
"As the sun on summer days gladdens us with beams more warm and bright than at other times...so is it with the mercy of God; it hath its golden hours; its days of overflow, when the Lord magnifieth his grace." - Charles Spurgeon
One glorious week spent beneath August sun on the sands of a tiny lake in Michigan, and I find myself full.
Full from a feast of gladness.
Every now and then we have to get brave
and brake
in order to break up this steady daily rhythms of the rushrushswoosh of time.
Every now and then
{despite the pull to just keep swimming through the currents}
life needs to be interrupted by
waves gently sweeping over sandy beach
toes immersed in clear water
laughter erupting from little lips
crickets singing in the crisp air of dusk
whispers uttered beneath stars, amid burning embers.
And then
like the golden summer light of August, of summer making way to fall
mercy begins to drip thick
like honey from a hive
as the heart hears
and the eyes see
and the lips confess
all of the small and beautiful blessings
we breeze over in the day to day
but realize in full
when we brake
and break
from the spin cycle of the everyday.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Thinking, that's All: We're not in Chicago anymore
Beneath afternoon sun and clouds, only the shadows of tree leaves and branches danced besides our own, shading tiny stretches of sidewalk beneath our feet, as we walked with purpose and precision in search of lunch.
Though shops and restaurants, boutiques and businesses lined the brick-paved walkway, almost all had signs propped in windows quietly sharing a secret that those of us from the always vibrating and lively Chicagoland didn't know:
Closed Sundays.
"I guess we're not in Chicago anymore," I'd said aloud and shrugged my shoulders, half amused, half irritated.
As we walked the beautiful yet deserted streets of downtown Kalamazoo finding only a smattering of open doors, only a few other bodies moving along the streets, I felt our pace noticeably slow.
We drifted away from the task at hand and lunch as planned as we slipped into conversation and an rogue open doorway for a tea and coffee before we headed back to the cabin to make a meal of garden veggies and turkey slices that found their way into the vacation cooler we'd packed just two days before.
And somewhere amid closed doors and that one that opened, a wave of relaxation swept over me; as the sleepy city rested and breathed, I found myself doing the same.
When we returned to the cabin, nestled against the still blue waters of a little lake tucked into rolling hills just about 20 miles beyond the little-big city, I quenched my hunger for food, but the one for that feeling of deep rest lingered long in my chest.
And it left me really ready to let go of the shoulds and needs and musts for this week of scheduled family vacation -- this upcoming week where I'd told myself I'd press the brakes and take a break from all of our normal life affairs {how lucky are we that we have good friends who babysit our garden and our house and our business?!}, including writing -- my very first intentional writing sabbatical.
No deadlines. No schedules. No memes. No edits. No publishing. No work. No feedback.
Just my pen and lots of open, empty journal pages while my family and I enjoy time together and the beautiful spread of this lovely lay of far-from-home land.
Because, no, we're not in Chicago anymore.
And, you know, that was the point all along.
While I'm on my hiatus from blogging, I have the privilege of introducing you to my little sister!
Jill's going to be here all week telling stories -- like how she was a rock-star during the home-birth delivery of her daughter and maybe also about how our mother gave us mullet hair cuts when we were younger along with an apology letter she penned her sweet baby E regarding the former hair debacle and genetics.
She'll probably also try to tell you about the time I was pulling her in a wagon and went around a corner too fast and tipped the wagon thus breaking her finger. And she'll probably tell you I was being a little snot when I did that, and probably, you'll believe her because she's the charming, younger sister ... and if you do, we can still be friends. Because I don't blame you; she *is* charming.
She'll be hosting Bigger Picture Moments HERE this THURSDAY, too, so be sure to come and share life Thursday this week as she hosts her first link up!
Though shops and restaurants, boutiques and businesses lined the brick-paved walkway, almost all had signs propped in windows quietly sharing a secret that those of us from the always vibrating and lively Chicagoland didn't know:
Closed Sundays.
"I guess we're not in Chicago anymore," I'd said aloud and shrugged my shoulders, half amused, half irritated.
As we walked the beautiful yet deserted streets of downtown Kalamazoo finding only a smattering of open doors, only a few other bodies moving along the streets, I felt our pace noticeably slow.
We drifted away from the task at hand and lunch as planned as we slipped into conversation and an rogue open doorway for a tea and coffee before we headed back to the cabin to make a meal of garden veggies and turkey slices that found their way into the vacation cooler we'd packed just two days before.
And somewhere amid closed doors and that one that opened, a wave of relaxation swept over me; as the sleepy city rested and breathed, I found myself doing the same.
When we returned to the cabin, nestled against the still blue waters of a little lake tucked into rolling hills just about 20 miles beyond the little-big city, I quenched my hunger for food, but the one for that feeling of deep rest lingered long in my chest.
And it left me really ready to let go of the shoulds and needs and musts for this week of scheduled family vacation -- this upcoming week where I'd told myself I'd press the brakes and take a break from all of our normal life affairs {how lucky are we that we have good friends who babysit our garden and our house and our business?!}, including writing -- my very first intentional writing sabbatical.
No deadlines. No schedules. No memes. No edits. No publishing. No work. No feedback.
Just my pen and lots of open, empty journal pages while my family and I enjoy time together and the beautiful spread of this lovely lay of far-from-home land.
Because, no, we're not in Chicago anymore.
And, you know, that was the point all along.
*****
While I'm on my hiatus from blogging, I have the privilege of introducing you to my little sister!
Jill's going to be here all week telling stories -- like how she was a rock-star during the home-birth delivery of her daughter and maybe also about how our mother gave us mullet hair cuts when we were younger along with an apology letter she penned her sweet baby E regarding the former hair debacle and genetics.
She'll probably also try to tell you about the time I was pulling her in a wagon and went around a corner too fast and tipped the wagon thus breaking her finger. And she'll probably tell you I was being a little snot when I did that, and probably, you'll believe her because she's the charming, younger sister ... and if you do, we can still be friends. Because I don't blame you; she *is* charming.
She'll be hosting Bigger Picture Moments HERE this THURSDAY, too, so be sure to come and share life Thursday this week as she hosts her first link up!
Monday, July 30, 2012
Everyday Life: The Weight of Even Good
On a Monday, I read aloud the letter slowly and deliberately for the first time.
We sit around my dining room table as the boys play not-so-quietly in the adjoining living room.
Our hands -- they are so very full, I explain, smiling at the goodness of blessings in arms.
Our employees, who are more like family, friends, they nod as my words unfold and then come together again realizing that this letter I'm speaking isn't one of just gratitude but rather one explaining our decision to seek out new hands to take the ropes of our Curves.
Our hands, I say again, they are too full.
I can feel the heaviness lifting out of my arms when the understanding comes pouring out of their lips and shows in their knowing nods.
Everyone knows what I'm saying is true, and I probably was the last one to realize it anyway. I've been feeling the heaviness we've been carrying since the first of this year brought about an unexpected health journey and the emergence of two growing boys who require more than just extra muscle to haul their lengthening bodies but also extra endurance and strength to shoulder the pangs of getting older.
Then God, being good and being God, well, he's been pulling me toward living out the strengths He's given me, by not just opening doors, but hand-crafting them with only a carpenter's skill out of seemingly enormous and solid and unlikely walls.
I can almost feel the stress in my arms when I think I about trying to carry it all ...
or when I think about trying to strong-arm my will against His out of the simple fear of change.
We don't entertain the thought of carrying the entire good but heavy load -- the club, the boys, our marriage, writing, the ministries, the new callings -- for longer than it takes to pray and seek council and hear
that something has to be given into new hands
because we simply can't carry any of it well, if we keep dropping pieces of everything along the way.
And, so on a Monday, I turn my palms up and unclasp my grip
willing to let another set of hands unload from our arms
some of the weight of blessing we're no longer meant to carry.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Everyday Life: Twice
Twice.
I've stumbled twice now unexpectedly into grapevines during the past week.
Which wouldn't mean anything normally except for that this summer it sort of means everything.
Right before the beginning of the year, I landed in the text of John 15, and I just could not get away from it, both literally and mentally.
That text -- it's such a word picture painted so vividly about how we must abide in the vine if we are to bear good fruit.
And it kept following me -- this call to abide in the true Vine in the garden with the Gardener -- in devotions, in the church pew, in others' blog posts, in conversation.
And then one day this spring as I was working on a book about being fruitful and bearing ripe fruit and being kind to ourselves I heard a loud whisper redirecting.
All this talk about fruit, but how does fruit even grow?
In the garden, abiding in the Vine.
We are to live The Vine Life
And so The Vine Life was born.
The first chapters came easily, but since their completion it's been hard-coming in ways that writing normally isn't for me. There's been this stretching and this twisting and this growing and this journeying in the writing of this book that's left me ... tired. Tired and wondering exactly where to go next.
So tired and so wondering that about two weeks ago I put it aside, tabled it so I could pray, clear my head, refocus.
We took a daytrip last weekend to visit my uncle in Chicago; while the boys watched Star Wars on his big pull-down movie screen, I sneaked off to the back porch to sit beneath sun.
And there in the middle of alive and vibrant Chicago just outside the back door of my uncle's second-story flat there were these vines sprawling out across the wooden deck, thick and deep, luscious green bearing growing grapes.
There. In Chicago -- in the thickness of city hustle and busy and concrete a small garden sprawling across the deck, bearing fruit.
There in the most unlikely of places.
The Vine and the fruit in the city.
I meditated all week long on the Vine and the grapes and the fresh greenness wondering if it was divine inspiration to keep writing ... but I didn't pen another a word, still vying for clarity on the next chapters.
Sunday afternoon we visited the Chicago Botanic Garden to rest and remember His goodness and provision during our Sabbath rest, and we veered casually into the vegetable garden.
Again, I came face to face with more grapevines spread out across the overhead trellises we'd meandered into.
The boys wandered off down the path and John followed after he noticed I was totally transfixed. I stood there lost in more God-whispers beneath the sprawling vines marveling at their beauty, their strength, their vigor and their shear abundance.
And in the stillness of a late Sunday afternoon in the home stretch of June, I stopped wondering.
I abandoned thoughts about perfect order of chapters and which stories to share
and gazed incredulously at the answer He'd given me not just once
but twice:
The Vine.
And so in the broken silence, I write
I abide.
This week, we're sharing our moments at Jade's
I've stumbled twice now unexpectedly into grapevines during the past week.
Which wouldn't mean anything normally except for that this summer it sort of means everything.
Right before the beginning of the year, I landed in the text of John 15, and I just could not get away from it, both literally and mentally.
That text -- it's such a word picture painted so vividly about how we must abide in the vine if we are to bear good fruit.
And it kept following me -- this call to abide in the true Vine in the garden with the Gardener -- in devotions, in the church pew, in others' blog posts, in conversation.
And then one day this spring as I was working on a book about being fruitful and bearing ripe fruit and being kind to ourselves I heard a loud whisper redirecting.
All this talk about fruit, but how does fruit even grow?
In the garden, abiding in the Vine.
We are to live The Vine Life
And so The Vine Life was born.
The first chapters came easily, but since their completion it's been hard-coming in ways that writing normally isn't for me. There's been this stretching and this twisting and this growing and this journeying in the writing of this book that's left me ... tired. Tired and wondering exactly where to go next.
So tired and so wondering that about two weeks ago I put it aside, tabled it so I could pray, clear my head, refocus.
We took a daytrip last weekend to visit my uncle in Chicago; while the boys watched Star Wars on his big pull-down movie screen, I sneaked off to the back porch to sit beneath sun.
And there in the middle of alive and vibrant Chicago just outside the back door of my uncle's second-story flat there were these vines sprawling out across the wooden deck, thick and deep, luscious green bearing growing grapes.
There. In Chicago -- in the thickness of city hustle and busy and concrete a small garden sprawling across the deck, bearing fruit.
There in the most unlikely of places.
The Vine and the fruit in the city.
I meditated all week long on the Vine and the grapes and the fresh greenness wondering if it was divine inspiration to keep writing ... but I didn't pen another a word, still vying for clarity on the next chapters.
Sunday afternoon we visited the Chicago Botanic Garden to rest and remember His goodness and provision during our Sabbath rest, and we veered casually into the vegetable garden.
Again, I came face to face with more grapevines spread out across the overhead trellises we'd meandered into.
The boys wandered off down the path and John followed after he noticed I was totally transfixed. I stood there lost in more God-whispers beneath the sprawling vines marveling at their beauty, their strength, their vigor and their shear abundance.
And in the stillness of a late Sunday afternoon in the home stretch of June, I stopped wondering.
I abandoned thoughts about perfect order of chapters and which stories to share
and gazed incredulously at the answer He'd given me not just once
but twice:
The Vine.
And so in the broken silence, I write
I abide.
This week, we're sharing our moments at Jade's
Friday, June 15, 2012
Five-Minute Friday: Path
I don't know where we're heading {beyond general direction}
and I'm ready to let go of guessing,
of trying to be there before
we've even walked the mile stretched out before our feet.
But. What I do know --
I want to walk it, my fingers thread through yours.
I want to run without getting caught up in the bumps we've just hurdled.
And trust that we'll be able to swiftly move over
fields of flat plains
and foothills
and mountains
alike.
That our lungs will stretch
and our legs will move
and our hearts will keep beating
in time with each other
no matter what's underfoot.
and I'm ready to let go of guessing,
of trying to be there before
we've even walked the mile stretched out before our feet.
But. What I do know --
I want to walk it, my fingers thread through yours.
I want to run without getting caught up in the bumps we've just hurdled.
And trust that we'll be able to swiftly move over
fields of flat plains
and foothills
and mountains
alike.
That our lungs will stretch
and our legs will move
and our hearts will keep beating
in time with each other
no matter what's underfoot.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Everyday Life: Summer Liberation
Today is G's last day of school, which means summer vacation begins this afternoon!
I thought about making a summer must-do list and checking adventures off one by one.
But.
I'm trying to declutter our lives, simplify our schedules and make enough space to burn with passion -- so adding more to-do lists to the fridge would be sort of defeating.
Instead, I've been thinking about all the liberation summer brings.
So here's what you won't catch me doing this summer:
Copious Amounts of Cooking
Yeah, I said it. I'm not going to spend a bunch of time in the kitchen preparing meals. Of course, we're not going to feasting on boxed dinners or processed food either. Rather, we'll be eating plenty of fresh food from the garden, grilling our meats and veggies and rarely turning on the oven.
And if my kids want celery and almond butter for lunch with a side of blueberries? Cherry tomatoes right from the vine? Raisins and nuts? Go for it, littles. Go for it. I'm not doing the food fight this summer. {But I will still be culturing my coconuts and veggies and giving the old Vitamix smoothie-blending workouts; I haven't totally lost my mind.}
Grocery Shopping the Middle Aisles
Speaking of the food fight that I'm not engaging in during meal times -- well, I'm not doing the food fight during snacks either, which pretty much means I'll be bypassing the middle aisles of the grocery store a large percentage of the time.
With so much fresh fruit and veggies, which both boys like one or both, we'll be snacking on easy-to-prepare snacks like strawberries and nuts, pears and peanut butter and carrots and hummus. Because we are NOT spending all summer debating which snacks are sometimes snacks and which ones are always snacks.
Scheduling
Even though we're involved in really good activities and we enjoy so much time that is scheduled and planned, we're not filling the calendar days this summer.
Today, the sun was bright shining and beautiful and it was so nice to say yes to a friend's text message asking if we wanted to meet at the park in our neighborhood. When weeks are totally scheduled, though, it makes those kinds of impromptu fun dates impossible.
I kind of want to see what happens when we wake up and just live the day.
New Projects
My brain twin and I are masterminds of projects. But this summer, as soon as we wrap up the first-ever Little Lake County Green Guide, we're writing down ideas and tabling them until school restarts. Mostly, I've decided to say no to any new projects simply so I'll have some time to work on my long-awaited and already started e-book and its corresponding site.
Sorting Socks
Now that I have my barefoot shoes for working out, I'm tossing all of our socks into a bin and saving them for cold weather; I've spent way too much time lately trying to tame the sock explosion.
And I'm allowing my children to buy and wear the croc shoes I've been adamantly against for several years. {Do I have the only kids in the free world who hate wearing sandals every day? Why do they prefer gym shoes?}
Fight the Daylight
Bedtime is a huge struggle during the summer months because of the lingering light -- this summer, so long as we don't have crabs scurrying around the house or yard, we're not enforcing lights-out bedtime at the normal 7:30-8:00 time period.
And because we aren't scheduling, it's no biggie if we sleep later in the morning and eat breakfast at 10 a.m.
So. What are you NOT doing this summer so as to live the simple life for a few months out of the year? Please share your ideas!
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Just Write: In Bloom
It never happens like this here.
The wet, black soil bursting forth with vibrant greens birthing rainbows of flowers, all springing forth at the same time in the unseasonable warmth of March in the prairie of northern Illinois.
It's a beautiful site, the array of flora spread across the beds.
I wipe beads of sweat from my forehead, sitting fully in the present moment of fighting weeds from the beds I'd naively invited only flowers to spread across.
And isn't that, though, how it is always? Haven't I only invited the blooms into my gardens, the fruit of seedlings planted all while cursing the weeds that sprout up amid the perfection of color and sweet-smelling scents of tulips and lilacs.
Don't I always want my flower beds teeming with everything but weeds all at the same time -- a constant display of flowering beauty without the unsightliness of jagged-edges of green invading my garden party.
I yank at their roots, in my own strength, in my own will, my own strong-armed attempt to clear out the beds.
But can't I enjoy the beautiful even amid the weeds?
He's on my right plucking the weeds, too.
But he leaves the bright yellow of dandelion growing tall, growing high, trying to kiss the sun.
Sweetheart, those are weeds, too. I say. We pull them out, too.
Reluctantly, he wraps his fingers around the stem and gently pulls it from the Earth.
***
That night evening, there's a bright yellow dandelion lightly submerged in the water of a glass jar atop of my plant table in the living room.
To me, it's still not beautiful -- this weed he's deemed worthy of flower status. And I still don't want it overcrowding my flowers.
But when he ran to me, with it captured inside the make-shift vase to show me the weed, his eyes glowing with love stemming from the gift he was about to give, I declared thankfulness in the face of ugly-weed yellow.
Not so much for the actual weed, but for what came from it -- a cultivation of gift-giving spirit in my oldest.
And a realization in my own mind that I can give thanks for the unexpected gifts, the growth that comes from the weeds tucked in the beds among the feast of flowers that have sprung forth in this rich season of my life.
The wet, black soil bursting forth with vibrant greens birthing rainbows of flowers, all springing forth at the same time in the unseasonable warmth of March in the prairie of northern Illinois.
It's a beautiful site, the array of flora spread across the beds.
I wipe beads of sweat from my forehead, sitting fully in the present moment of fighting weeds from the beds I'd naively invited only flowers to spread across.
And isn't that, though, how it is always? Haven't I only invited the blooms into my gardens, the fruit of seedlings planted all while cursing the weeds that sprout up amid the perfection of color and sweet-smelling scents of tulips and lilacs.
Don't I always want my flower beds teeming with everything but weeds all at the same time -- a constant display of flowering beauty without the unsightliness of jagged-edges of green invading my garden party.
I yank at their roots, in my own strength, in my own will, my own strong-armed attempt to clear out the beds.
But can't I enjoy the beautiful even amid the weeds?
He's on my right plucking the weeds, too.
But he leaves the bright yellow of dandelion growing tall, growing high, trying to kiss the sun.
Sweetheart, those are weeds, too. I say. We pull them out, too.
Reluctantly, he wraps his fingers around the stem and gently pulls it from the Earth.
***
That night evening, there's a bright yellow dandelion lightly submerged in the water of a glass jar atop of my plant table in the living room.
To me, it's still not beautiful -- this weed he's deemed worthy of flower status. And I still don't want it overcrowding my flowers.
But when he ran to me, with it captured inside the make-shift vase to show me the weed, his eyes glowing with love stemming from the gift he was about to give, I declared thankfulness in the face of ugly-weed yellow.
Not so much for the actual weed, but for what came from it -- a cultivation of gift-giving spirit in my oldest.
And a realization in my own mind that I can give thanks for the unexpected gifts, the growth that comes from the weeds tucked in the beds among the feast of flowers that have sprung forth in this rich season of my life.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Bigger Picture Moments: What I Almost Missed
He carefully plucked a tiny violet flower from the Earth and brought it inside as a love offering for me.
At four, not much is done gently, but this gift, he knew, required delicate care.
Here mom! Look! he says bursting in through the patio door, I brought you this beautiful flower so you can look at it inside the house.
I was in the middle of cooking dinner, my hands in too many pots, trying not to burn and overboil, and I almost missed it.
But then he says,
I'll put it in water, so it can have a drink and stay alive.
And stay alive.
I abandon dinner, turn my back on the too many pots and instead oooohh and ahhh over the flower's loveliness, its faint smell of spring.
It needs water to stay alive, to revive after the picking, I repeat.
I catch glimpses of its brilliant purple through out the next day.
I marvel over its soft, royal petals and I think to myself, I've almost sold my soul, my heart for supposed gifts that are bigger, flashier but far less lovely.
But this gift?
These gifts that keep bringing more gifts?
They came free, picked just for me by a Loving Hand who seems to keep no memory of the times I've really blown it, the times I've almost sold myself in exchange for what seemed to be silver and shiny.
And I almost missed it all, all of it.
But grace flows, and so I didn't.
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 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.
At four, not much is done gently, but this gift, he knew, required delicate care.
Here mom! Look! he says bursting in through the patio door, I brought you this beautiful flower so you can look at it inside the house.
I was in the middle of cooking dinner, my hands in too many pots, trying not to burn and overboil, and I almost missed it.
But then he says,
I'll put it in water, so it can have a drink and stay alive.
And stay alive.
I abandon dinner, turn my back on the too many pots and instead oooohh and ahhh over the flower's loveliness, its faint smell of spring.
It needs water to stay alive, to revive after the picking, I repeat.
I catch glimpses of its brilliant purple through out the next day.
I marvel over its soft, royal petals and I think to myself, I've almost sold my soul, my heart for supposed gifts that are bigger, flashier but far less lovely.
But this gift?
These gifts that keep bringing more gifts?
They came free, picked just for me by a Loving Hand who seems to keep no memory of the times I've really blown it, the times I've almost sold myself in exchange for what seemed to be silver and shiny.
And I almost missed it all, all of it.
But grace flows, and so I didn't.
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 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.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Five-Minute Friday: Grit
She welcomes me to her turquoise waters, the place she prayed to land and live life when she was just a small thing.
An answered prayer, spoken by trusting lips.
Our feet press against grains of sand as five pairs of little boy legs bound out before us across the stretch of beach, all gravitating to where the waves kiss the shore.
We settle into beach chairs for moments at a time to talk, to try and finish conversations began in the sun-set darkness of the night while my little ones slept.
But with little boys awake, sentences are fragments.
I've only known her through words for about a year, her face for day, a night, but I know her heart from the life details she spoke into the night about how beauty has spread out bright and vibrant across the grittiness of where her feet have tread sand and rocks, fragments of shells along the journey.
She runs after my smallest when I sink into a chair, a bee stings throbbing across the bottom of my now smoothed-by-sand feet.
I breathe in the brilliant blues of water in a moment of solitude while waves break apart at the shore, sun beats down onto water and skin, sand presses into skin.
Beauty doesn't always come gentle and easy.
And I see it clearly now.
{Written this morning in a very, very, very fragmented span of five minutes. How can five minutes be so hard to come by with a two year old?}
An answered prayer, spoken by trusting lips.
Our feet press against grains of sand as five pairs of little boy legs bound out before us across the stretch of beach, all gravitating to where the waves kiss the shore.
We settle into beach chairs for moments at a time to talk, to try and finish conversations began in the sun-set darkness of the night while my little ones slept.
But with little boys awake, sentences are fragments.
I've only known her through words for about a year, her face for day, a night, but I know her heart from the life details she spoke into the night about how beauty has spread out bright and vibrant across the grittiness of where her feet have tread sand and rocks, fragments of shells along the journey.
She runs after my smallest when I sink into a chair, a bee stings throbbing across the bottom of my now smoothed-by-sand feet.
I breathe in the brilliant blues of water in a moment of solitude while waves break apart at the shore, sun beats down onto water and skin, sand presses into skin.
Beauty doesn't always come gentle and easy.
And I see it clearly now.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Everyday Life: Sometimes birthdays don't need cake
I thought about baking a cake this afternoon and singing happy birthday to him at dinner just to help keep a part of him alive
He, my dad, would have been 58 today.
But, I thought, that just might confuse the boys more than anything.
The cake, really, would have been only a sugary symbol of a man's life we celebrate almost daily here in our house when we talk about being brave {"like Papa Brian when he was a firefighter, mom"} or being responsible {like Papa Brian, right, mom?} or being a silly goose {like Papa Brian when he was little, E} or making the fotch {I make Papa Brian's face, don't I mom?!}.
Because really, truly
all it takes is one good look at G's smile
or watching G eat a popsicle when it's 45 degrees outside
or a glance in the mirror at my copper-penny hair
or watching E's absolute determination while playing
to realize my dad's spirit, in this house, at least,
remains alive and well.
But, still, we sure do miss you, dad.
{Comments are closed on this post. But, still, thanks for being here.}
He, my dad, would have been 58 today.
But, I thought, that just might confuse the boys more than anything.
The cake, really, would have been only a sugary symbol of a man's life we celebrate almost daily here in our house when we talk about being brave {"like Papa Brian when he was a firefighter, mom"} or being responsible {like Papa Brian, right, mom?} or being a silly goose {like Papa Brian when he was little, E} or making the fotch {I make Papa Brian's face, don't I mom?!}.
Because really, truly
all it takes is one good look at G's smile
or watching G eat a popsicle when it's 45 degrees outside
or a glance in the mirror at my copper-penny hair
or watching E's absolute determination while playing
to realize my dad's spirit, in this house, at least,
remains alive and well.
{Comments are closed on this post. But, still, thanks for being here.}
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Bigger Picture Moment: What We Make It
As we drive away from our unanticipated long weekend at the lake, sniffles emerge from the backseat.
"Awww, G. Are you OK?" I ask.
"Yes," he whimpers. "But I don't want to leave Lake Cora today because it's my favorite place."
And what do you say to that when you yourself are trying to reign in all of the emotions about leaving such a perfect escape for another long nine months after having basked in the beauty of soft sand and clear, cool water and warm August sun for five spectacular days?
"We'll be back next summer, honey," I assure him.
Oh. Next summer. Leaving Lake Cora for the last time every August stings because our final farewell means that summer is coming to a rapid close soon. And while I love fall with its harvest and serene beauty, summer makes me feel most alive. Consequently, every year, I mourn its passing.
"But it's such a long time," he softly cries. "And I love it here."
Agreeing with him, I try to think of something to say that would offer him comfort and reassurance.
"And, mommy {sniff, sniff}, I'm leaving all the fun at Lake Cora, and that makes me really sad."
"No, G.," I say, "that's not true. We'll have lots of fun this fall. And even today. We're stopping for a special mommy and boys' lunch date. We'll make our fun happen if we don't feel like there is any."
Brief silence floods the car momentarily, and I wonder if I really mean what I so passionately just stated. Before I can say anything else, he finally agrees:
"Ok, we'll make our own fun."
I promise aloud that we will while silently vowing to uphold my end of the deal as the trees lining the lake fade into the horizon in my review mirror, holding summer hostage again for another year.
"We'll just make the fun happen," he affirms again.
I'm sure he's repeated it mostly as self-reassurance, but I imprint his words on my heart, shift my eyes from the review mirror to the front dash, breathe in the open road that stretches out across the hilly terrain before before us and give the gas pedal a slight push as we press into horizon.
Every Thursday, we come together to share the harvest of intentional living by capturing a glimpse of the bigger picture through a simple moment. Found yours? Join us!
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"Awww, G. Are you OK?" I ask.
"Yes," he whimpers. "But I don't want to leave Lake Cora today because it's my favorite place."
And what do you say to that when you yourself are trying to reign in all of the emotions about leaving such a perfect escape for another long nine months after having basked in the beauty of soft sand and clear, cool water and warm August sun for five spectacular days?
"We'll be back next summer, honey," I assure him.
Oh. Next summer. Leaving Lake Cora for the last time every August stings because our final farewell means that summer is coming to a rapid close soon. And while I love fall with its harvest and serene beauty, summer makes me feel most alive. Consequently, every year, I mourn its passing.
"But it's such a long time," he softly cries. "And I love it here."
Agreeing with him, I try to think of something to say that would offer him comfort and reassurance.
"And, mommy {sniff, sniff}, I'm leaving all the fun at Lake Cora, and that makes me really sad."
"No, G.," I say, "that's not true. We'll have lots of fun this fall. And even today. We're stopping for a special mommy and boys' lunch date. We'll make our fun happen if we don't feel like there is any."
Brief silence floods the car momentarily, and I wonder if I really mean what I so passionately just stated. Before I can say anything else, he finally agrees:
"Ok, we'll make our own fun."
I promise aloud that we will while silently vowing to uphold my end of the deal as the trees lining the lake fade into the horizon in my review mirror, holding summer hostage again for another year.
"We'll just make the fun happen," he affirms again.
I'm sure he's repeated it mostly as self-reassurance, but I imprint his words on my heart, shift my eyes from the review mirror to the front dash, breathe in the open road that stretches out across the hilly terrain before before us and give the gas pedal a slight push as we press into horizon.
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Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Thinking, that's All: Beginnings and Ends
Much to my irritation, I unwillingly left yesterday's post unsettled and uncapped because I didn't have a cap with which to seal it.
Today, I do.
Aunt Flo showed up eight days late, unpacked her bags and didn't even appologize for not giving a courtesy call about being MIA for more than a week.
{If none of that makes sense to you, you'll most likely need to press rewind by one day.}
That arrival pretty much puts the brakes on thoughts of having a new arrival in nine or so months.
And I'm OK with it.
Yes, I'm OK that right now is not our new beginning with another new baby.
I most likely wouldn't have been OK with that yesterday morning.
But yesterday when I spilled my heart {and personal bodily affairs} all over my blog, I didn't know what I know now.
A tragedy occured late Monday night/early Tuesday morning, and it marked the end of a beautiful, young friend's time here on Earth.
Tragedy has an outstanding way of shrinking the smaller issues of life that previously seemed huge, untwisting emotions and then retwisting and braiding together new emotions.
What seemed so pressing and paramount -- my desire to simply know if our future was going to be richer by one more blessing at this space in this time -- quickly faded from a giant into a small counryside windmill.
Not that my feelings didn't matter anymore, rather the situation just looked so much more its actual size.
I've spent the day reeeling in my mother's heart, mourning the end of her time here on Earth, weeping for her family and for the loss in our community and church.
And I've spent the day grasping at small {and large} Truths.
Like Jesus' words in John 8: "I tell you the truth. If anyone keeps my word, he will never see death."
And the words of our young friend's friend, sharing how she would certainly be missed but how she also knew there was a party in Heaven now, welcoming our friend to her eternal home where her heart and soul would find itself in the most restful, beautiful, whole peace.
I've been trying to swallow these spoonfuls of perspective.
Yes, it's the end of her life here where we can see her, but it's actually the beginning of Eternity with her Creator.
And what really does that mean? I cannot even begin to imagine the glory or the beauty or the awe.
I wrestle, hard and long, like Jacob with his angel -- sometimes ends seem like only ends even though they are beginnings, too.
And these beginings disguised in only ends are beginnings that I cannot even begin to grasp or entirely see or understand for the life of me.
And sometimes, like now, with both the departure of hope for another new life and the departure of our friend's soul from Earth, sometimes I don't like these end-beginnings or beginning-ends or whatever they are.
I know however I want to word it that nothing erases the grief or sadness {in their very varied levels}.
But it certainly blurs my defintion so very drastically that I'm not sure I can figure out where it all actually does begin or end, and for some reason there's a surreal peace in simply just knowing that I don't have to know or understand or even like it.
Because He does.
He knows the beginning and the end and all of the mishmashed, mixed up, twisted and folded beginning-ends and end-beginnings.
Right now, that's enough for me.
Right now, it's enough that He knows.
Today, I do.
Aunt Flo showed up eight days late, unpacked her bags and didn't even appologize for not giving a courtesy call about being MIA for more than a week.
{If none of that makes sense to you, you'll most likely need to press rewind by one day.}
That arrival pretty much puts the brakes on thoughts of having a new arrival in nine or so months.
And I'm OK with it.
Yes, I'm OK that right now is not our new beginning with another new baby.
I most likely wouldn't have been OK with that yesterday morning.
But yesterday when I spilled my heart {and personal bodily affairs} all over my blog, I didn't know what I know now.
A tragedy occured late Monday night/early Tuesday morning, and it marked the end of a beautiful, young friend's time here on Earth.
Tragedy has an outstanding way of shrinking the smaller issues of life that previously seemed huge, untwisting emotions and then retwisting and braiding together new emotions.
What seemed so pressing and paramount -- my desire to simply know if our future was going to be richer by one more blessing at this space in this time -- quickly faded from a giant into a small counryside windmill.
Not that my feelings didn't matter anymore, rather the situation just looked so much more its actual size.
I've spent the day reeeling in my mother's heart, mourning the end of her time here on Earth, weeping for her family and for the loss in our community and church.
And I've spent the day grasping at small {and large} Truths.
Like Jesus' words in John 8: "I tell you the truth. If anyone keeps my word, he will never see death."
And the words of our young friend's friend, sharing how she would certainly be missed but how she also knew there was a party in Heaven now, welcoming our friend to her eternal home where her heart and soul would find itself in the most restful, beautiful, whole peace.
I've been trying to swallow these spoonfuls of perspective.
Yes, it's the end of her life here where we can see her, but it's actually the beginning of Eternity with her Creator.
And what really does that mean? I cannot even begin to imagine the glory or the beauty or the awe.
I wrestle, hard and long, like Jacob with his angel -- sometimes ends seem like only ends even though they are beginnings, too.
And these beginings disguised in only ends are beginnings that I cannot even begin to grasp or entirely see or understand for the life of me.
And sometimes, like now, with both the departure of hope for another new life and the departure of our friend's soul from Earth, sometimes I don't like these end-beginnings or beginning-ends or whatever they are.
I know however I want to word it that nothing erases the grief or sadness {in their very varied levels}.
But it certainly blurs my defintion so very drastically that I'm not sure I can figure out where it all actually does begin or end, and for some reason there's a surreal peace in simply just knowing that I don't have to know or understand or even like it.
Because He does.
He knows the beginning and the end and all of the mishmashed, mixed up, twisted and folded beginning-ends and end-beginnings.
Right now, that's enough for me.
Right now, it's enough that He knows.
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