If I Always Cry When I Hug You

You, my children, are miracles in every sense of the word. 

You are the living, breathing reminders to me of a God who doesn't just creates but a God who breathes the breath of love into the very lungs of His creations. 

You are the artful masterpieces of complexity interwoven with the simplicity of pure joy. 

And you, each of you, have a story, one that is unfolding and being penned each and every day that you get out of bed, plant your feet into the ground and meet the sunrise with your faces. 

I marvel over the ways our lives have intersected. 

Two solid and strong boys born of my very body. 

And two beautiful and loyal girls born of our hearts. 

All grown out of God's love.

Sometimes when I'm hugging your growing-ever taller bodies and touching the softness of your face and your hair, I can't help but see you for who you really are:

you are faith wrapped up in skin. 

You are the fingerprints of a God who radiates love.

So if I always cry when I hug you,

I hope you'll remember that sometimes tears are sometimes just liquid gratitude that stain our sleeves and shirts with the the smallest pieces of our hearts. 

Motherhood: I'm Not Cut Out for This

It's days like today when it snows in early November, I look out the window and think to myself

I'm not so sure I'm cut out for this.

Afternoons like this very one when my youngest takes a spill off a stool in the kitchen and summersaults himself stunned onto his back. I scoop him up and carry him to the chair where he cries about an ouchie on his leg, and I'm simultaneously rocking him and talking myself down off the ledge that wants me to jump headfirst into catscan

when I think I'm not cut out for this.

Days like yesterday when my oldest defiantly stomps out the door and promptly steps on a nail that goes through his shoe, piercing his skin. 

I'm hugging his shoulders and helping him limp to the couch thoughts running crazy in my head of last vaccination and tetanus and he's already propped his foot up and asking what's for dinner when I wonder to myself

about how I'm not quite convinced I'm cut out for this. 

When I'm whispering words of encouragement to trembling hearts

while my own is just as shaky

and I'm holding down the fort as day meets dusk

and praying hard and hallowed prayers of Thy will be done 

but please, too, protect my own soft heart

when I realize that life and living requires a toughness I just don't have,

and I'm certainly sure I'm not cut out for this.

None of it.

I'm cradling a ceramic mug and watching pieces of my heart run through fresh snow as I try to sip strength from the Words written across thin pages and the cup in my hands.

"Yet you, Lord, are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand."

I breathe softly and fully out and accept the reminder

that every bit of refining fire makes the clay stronger

and that I'm right when I say I'm not cut out for this

because rather instead I've been carefully molded

and strengthened flame by flame.

Motherhood: When You Want to Run Screaming From the Mission

Call it the perfect storm.

I went away on a retreat last Wednesday and then headed out for a conference early the following morning; I didn't return until mid morning Monday because of an unexpected delay, so my family was out of its groove for a good six days.

Nonetheless, I was SO excited to come home. I missed my boys, and even just thinking about their sweet little voices while I was gone made me teary. I missed John, too, and I wished he were with me often.

And then I arrived back, and all chaos inside these four walls I call home ensued. The boys, in rare form after a weekend of special everything with their dad and grandparents, were out of routine and out of sorts.

And they have been driving me out-of-my-mind insane.

Which is ironic, because I spent this weekend deeply pondering motherhood and how it is an unexpected joy in which I never could have guessed I'd find so much purpose and fulfillment and meaning. Before I met John I was pretty set on becoming a journalist who covered foreign affairs and wrote eye-opening feature stories about the faces behind those front-page news headlines. One of my college professors told me that if I stuck with journalism, I could be a Pulitzer Prize winner. And so that was a dream that called to my heart and was the epitome of fulfillment to a young heart that pulsed justice and understanding.

This past weekend during the conference in beautiful Chattanooga, I was reminded of a conference I attended three years ago. Back then I had given up on my dream of foreign reporting and pulitzer prizes and traded them for writing a best selling book and becoming a big blogger with a big following.  But something happened at that conference that radically changed my definition of fulfillment and success; during a Q&A session at the conference three years ago, Sally Clarkson said something that resonated deeply: "The greatest books I have ever written are {the names of her children}."

I was reminded of this because during our travels this past weekend, I thought I'd lost a precious necklace during our travels to Chattanooga, a necklace I'd received at that conference, hand-stamped with the word love and John 13:35: "By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."


As I frantically searched for it this past weekend, I shared the story of how the Spirit, heavy and persistent, buried that image, that thought, that mission of motherhood deep inside my heart.


That thought, that verse, it fit together inside my heart and it challenged me into an understanding that this job of motherhood was, indeed, important and beautiful and meaningful and lovely and pleasing to God. I accepted mothering as my primary career for this season at that conference, gave it to God and I've asked Him often since to bless it abundantly and awesomely.

I've thought of that almost daily as I've mothered my boys, the necklace I often wear around my heart a reminder of my mission -- to write beautiful books of love on the hearts of my boys and have it show through their lives.

That mission -- after the search for that necklace -- was fresh on my mind as we looked in the Bible at what it means to walk in the courage of faith.

I was challenged this weekend to remember that we must walk in the courage of faith in all of our life missions so that we can have life and have it abundantly.

And also so that we can live in the freedom of God's promises to His beloveds instead of as slaves bonded in fear and worry. If our faith is to run deep and true and real, we must be strong, take heart and choose to steady our minds on the Truth of His word instead of the fears and worries of this world.

I was challenged to dig deep into His word and apply it in my life in all situations, to all of my missions -- even the beautiful and sticky and complex mess of motherhood included.

That includes raising my children in a world that is broken and full of hardships and sadness.

That includes not walking in fear but rather faith as we continue to pursue growing our family in whatever way will bring God glory.

And that includes remembering that my children are His children first ... that I am His child before I am anyone else.

I needed this  -- these specific course-corrections for the Bigger Picture Mission and this specific mission. Because a mission played out in fear instead of faith probably would end in crash-and-burn style ... I needed to be reminded of the best practices of writing so that I could best write {according to the Great Editor and Chief} the books of my boys -- books others will read by watching their lives as they grow and become adults who do justly, love mercy and walk humbly with their God {Micah 6:8}.

I needed it for the big picture of my motherhood mission  ...

and for the mission of mothering just this week after the perfect storm of unusual bred enough chaos to send me running and screaming back to Chattanooga, where the missionary was on a refueling from the mission field.

Instead, though, I press on toward the goal, practice bravery, take heart.

And take tonight off of bedtime duty so that I don't actually go legitimately crazy.

{Also, I found my necklace. It wasn't lost; I actually left it at home in my 4:45 a.m. departing time stupor. And I'm glad I did because of what it brought to mind. I guess there's something good about 4:45 a.m.}

Everyday Life: When Empty Needs to Stay Empty

My day begins with blue eyes starting me in the face.

I'm startled from the rest of sleep into the fullness of day, and I'm pretty sure this is what being born must feel like.

One moment, safely nestled in the peaceful bliss of warm and safe and cozy and full and then not long after emerging into a world where there is cold and hunger and need and empty.

I am born every morning into a life full of need.

Mommy, I need you to hold me.
Honey, I need you to fill his book bag.
Mommy, I need you to sign this line.

There's the needs that don't cry out in voice but still sing out just as strong.

Load the dish washer.
Fill their bellies.
Fold the laundry.

And then there's the needs that are rapid-fire shot into my email inbox, dinging at each round emptied.

The website isn't working.
There's a mistake on page four.
We could really use your article a few days early.

I am born into the neediness of everyday.

And here I am needy myself.

After days, weeks, months and years, I'm finally coming to realize that it's impossible to fulfill all of the need when I myself need so much.

I'm hungry (in more ways than one).
I'm not working well.
I'm a hot mess.
I'm empty.

Empty. Every morning I am born into neediness and empty that needs to be filled.

In more than one way.

And in realizing that I can't fill all of the empty, I realize Who can. And how He fills me with what I need right now.

Right now.

In this season.

And right now, in this season, I'm reminded that there's empty that needs to remain just that  -- empty.

Right now the inside of my life is much like my garden -- there is harvest happening. And harvest requires tending. Some things that are empty right now -- the dresser drawers and the dish cabinet and the blog posts -- they have to wait when the fruit is ripe and needs to tending.

Right now -- in this season of mothering a preschooler and kindergartener -- there is a high need to be present, to tend to them as they mature and ripen.

Maybe the dishes go from table to dishwasher and bypass the empty cabinet.
Maybe the laundry goes from bodies to washer and dryer and back to bodies instead of inside dresser drawers.
Maybe the article only exists as an empty white screen void of black type.

Maybe in this season of harvest all of those things remain empty amidst the need while the hearts slowly learn what it means to be

full

fuller

fullest.

Motherhood: For the Days We Think We Suck

And that's a wrap on our first six years. 

A few days ago we sang happy birthday to our oldest son and welcomed him into year six. 

This year he graduates from preschooler into child, pilots Kindergarten and begins entering into a life away from home on a daily basis. 

A friend reminded me a few days before G's actual  birthday that we were tying up the last little loose ends of the most foundational years. 

I joked that we had three days left to really make time and build up a few more layers in that foundation. 

We laughed but the conversation drove me into introspection and maybe a little existentialism. 

During the days leading up to his birthday,  I watched the highlight real of six years play movie style in my mind. 

As I reflected, I realized a smattering of our moments of deep connection and his Aha moments stemmed from sadness and grief. 

Others were from times when one of us lost our cool. 

A blessed handful were products of celebration and bliss. 

But a good chunk were all born from those moments that make moms want to pull our hair out by the handful. 

Those moments where I was so deeply frustrated and he was blind with irritation or anger or selfishness have actually been the bricks we've most often used to build the foundation. 

I spent the first three years of his life being scared of screwing up in the heat of those moments. I dreaded losing my temper and patience. A beautiful realization emerged in my daily practice of finding the bugger picture. I realized those moments of inevitable imperfection were actually moments of living out what apology and grace and forgiveness looks like. 

A good number of those terrible moments I'd like to never relive now serve as secure stones in his foundation. Stones on which we'll continue to build. 

Is it a perfect foundation? Not hardly. But from what I can see its sturdy and ready to bear more weight. 

And isn't that what the next phase of building requires? 

As I cry into my homemade granola and lament sending my first baby out of the nest we call home and into the space-sky of kindergarten, I'm holding onto these first six years in my heart and in my mind. 

And I'm praying that every time he needs to add another layer to the life he's building, he'll feel the steadiness of what we've worked so hard to build together.

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.

Motherhood: Paris

I wake up to a small face inches away from my own, big blue eyes searching me, a long whine escaping his mouth, pulling me out of peaceful sleep and into the reality of Thursday morning:

He's not the only one who woke up on the wrong side of bed.

Maybe it's stemming from being jarred out of sleep so early.

Or maybe it's from feeling like I'm walking a never-ending road of healing.

But most likely, it's all about Paris.

John is leaving for Paris soon on a work-related trip ... and I am not.

So, currently, I detest Paris. Or maybe I just detest what Paris is doing to me.

I'm staying home with the boys and likely waking up to mornings like this every morning, which would be sweet if we could forgo the whine {and I'm embarrassed to admit that most of the whining comes from my own lips} but

I'm tired.

I'm still climbing my way out of the post-miscarriage anxiety and depression haze

I'm still trying to heal from this balance issue.

And I'm not ready.

Here's the thing about motherhood in this season of life:

I desperately want to mother, but I suck at doing it alone.

And here's the thing about Paris:

I want to go to Paris, but I am in a season so drenched in mothering that I cannot see past its thickness.

I told myself a few months ago when John first asked if I wanted to come along riding on his coat tails of frequent flyer miles that Paris could wait but the kids couldn't; they wouldn't be 3 and 5 forever.

A few months ago, fresh from the loss of a third baby during pregnancy, I thought that was a travesty. I wanted to soak up every ever-loving minute that these boys were small and mine to keep safely in the nest. Savor every moment, you know.

Today, with Paris looming in the near distance, I think it's a darn good thing 3 and 5 don't last forever, because my patience with 3 and 5 lately has been slim ... and I can only imagine what it will look like when I'm alone with 3 and 5.

We weren't meant to mother alone, and I know this keenly during times John is home and I am feeling well.

But when he's away and I'm still sporting tender wounds, the magnifying glass sharply focuses on my intolerance and my impatience and my limits.

Enjoyment and savoring? Those come harder when I'm simply in survival mode.

My writing off of Paris was a little short sighted. Because here's the thing about Paris and motherhood and this season of life and the intersection of all three I didn't know to put together:

there's only so much tolerance, so much patience and so much enjoyment a mother can experience when she hasn't set her own limits well.

So I'm taking a lesson from Paris, setting aside my grievances and setting my limits; I'm giving myself permission to receive the help I'll need and abide within these margins I've set.

I'm coming to understand that what I need to be a good mother isn't really a trip to Paris.

And what I need to be a good mother isn't simply to survive mothering in Paris' wake.

Rather, what I need is to recognize my own limitations, accept them and gracefully allow the gift of help from those who also know the importance of me staying within the lines right now so that there's enjoyment and savoring in the surviving.

Just Write: The Light Bearers

Bombs explode and with them, lives, too.

I hug the small and tall people in my house a little tighter and wonder how I can send them out day by day into a world where such darkness stretches over the sky and spills out for miles across the horizon,

a storm of hurt and pain and terror brewing in the hearts of the hurting and bubbling over into explosion

after explosion

after explosion

born from the sheer force of pain.

Here's the thing about explosions  --

it's the force that takes us by surprise, leaves us stunned and battered and wounded.

But it's the aftermath of smoke that leaves us in despair, masks the light and sends us to our knees, groping around in the dark for something to hold onto, praying for clearing.

The first time I saw an explosion, eight years old and eyes wide, glued to the screen, my heart unleashed a fury of fear coated in tears.

The tender daughter of a firefighter watching a movie about fire-starters and exploders and the rescuers that rushed to the scenes of burning darkness was too much for my heart to bear, and I sobbed and sobbed, begged by dad to quit the business of extinguishing flames and storming burning buildings.

My father wrapped me in his thick arms and shushed my tears:

"If all the firefighters quit fighting fires because it was dangerous, think of how much more dangerous life would be."

At eight, I cared little for his few words, his waxing of logic to a weeping heart, but at 30 I hold them closer; at 30, I hold them as truth.

As long as there is pain, pockets of it will continue to explode, drench the day with darkness and coat the sky with ash, smoke that threaten to blind our eyes.

And that's when the Light bearers come in, blazing through the smoke and the darkness and setting it bright with hope.

We are the Light bearers carrying on the Light that was first born into the darkness of a black-ink sky stretched out over creation.

We are the Light bearers who don't fear the darkness because we know that the Sun always overcomes.

That's how we mothers, wives, sisters, friends find the courage and strength to send our loved ones back out into a world of explosions day in and day out --

we cling to the Sun, we embed the Light in their thoughts until it soaks deep into their bones, their hearts and then we send them out as light bearers who offer bright glows of Light when the darkness seems overwhelmingly dark.

{And we pray. And oh my ... this is so hard.}

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.

Everyday Life: All Day Long

"It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare.

All day long we are in some degree helping each other to one or other of these destinations. 

It is in light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with awe and circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics.

There are no ordinary people. 

You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations -- these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat ... Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses."

C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

I read this gem of thought by C.S. Lewis early this morning after four days of comforting a snuggly yet extra cranky and angry toddler sick with a stomach bug ... after days of cleaning up more bodily fluids than I care to list, after doing more loads of laundry than I care to count, after being held hostage on the couch or in bed more hours than I care to remember by the poor little sick {extremely crabby} youngest of the family.

By last night, I was feeling more than just done; I was feeling burnt out -- like I didn't have an ounce of patience or compassion or snuggling left in my body. And as he screamed for me to come back to him and snuggle him on the couch, yelling angrily, I simply could not muster up a loving response. Instead I snapped at him to stop screaming at mommy ... which made him burst into tears. 

Thankfully, despite the snowstorm raging outside, John arrived home earlier than normal and relieved me of mothering, giving me a chance to regroup and recharge. 

In a super gift of grace this morning after being refreshed sleep, God gave me time to spend in His word and reflecting on what it means to love others the way Jesus loved us and why it's so important when my oldest dressed himself and went outside to play in the snow at the same time the in-recovery child put himself back to bed.

The truth, the perspective was enough to fill my cup so that I can pour back out again.

Which is a good thing.

Because the oldest just went down with the same thing.

So I remember: "All day long we are in some degree helping each other to one or other of these destinations. "

Link up at Adrienne's today. 

Everyday Life: A Heart Tug of War

In second grade, my teacher told me that writers have names like Hyacynth upon reading a story I wrote when she'd only asked for a sentence.

And a seed was planted.

Growing up I defined myself first and foremost as a writer, and out of that definition I bloomed.

I drank words like greenery gulps rain; I feasted on sentences like the garden does sunshine.

None of that changed when I married or when I birthed my boys.

None of that except my heart.

Motherhood grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me a new name: mommy.

A name given by the two little pieces of my heart that now walk around beating outside of my body. And in that name of mother, I discovered another identity, too -- one seen clearly in the reflection of motherhood: daughter.

Beloved by my Creator and made to be a writer, yes, but a mother, yes, just as much in this season. 

And so goes the tug of war on my heart, centered around who I am.

I am always daughter; I am always beloved.

But right now, I am very mother. And in motherhood, I feel writer slipping away from me.

Because writers, well, writers

should write books.

And submit pieces to magazines.

They should carve out a few hours per day to lay down stories into print.

Keep up their clips and skill and hone their art.

But where are the hours for that in motherhood?

Time? Yes, there is time to sneak a few thoughts onto paper, time to write a mini manifesto about why feeding spaghetti to the small ones on a stressful day never actually ends in waves of calm, time to pour out small gleaned moments into black on white.

And that's it. That's all I'm willing to give it right now.

Because while I have to keep reminding myself that, yes, I will always be a writer and, yes, I will always be mother.

I will never be a mother in this season again.

And the most important story I'm writing right now is the one we live out everyday.

This piece was written live at Saturday's Creative Soul even during our Writing Circles. Want to sign up for a virtual one? Click here!

Everyday Life: The Fight I Will Keep Fighting

Our battle begins early in the morning the first day of school on the shaky ground of school snacks.

At G's school, each child in the class brings snack for the entire class a few times a year.

I love the concept.

In theory.

In practice, it doesn't work for us ... mostly because I know too much and believe what I know so passionately that I can't erase it. At all.

While goldfish crackers and colorful yogurt tubes look innocent, I know these foods beyond the simple breakdowns of calories and macronutrients and ingredient labels. I know what vegetable oils heavy in omega-6s do to the heart muscle and yogurt loaded with processed sugars and dyes can do to the body at the cellular level as well as chemically.

And because I now know all of this {I mean, as well as I can know it without having a degree}, I simply cannot fathom allowing my little ones to eat these foods daily. Now, I'm not totally crazy; we normally follow an 80/20 rule where 80 percent of the time we eat whole foods dense in nutrients while 20 percent of the time we let kids be kids. Or adults be adults, as we would be the case for John and his affinity for cherry-flavored pops.

But every day? Well, I can't stomach it.

So neither will he, even to his dismay.

His deep irritation rises while I'm in the thick of cooking eggs on the stove.

He grunts and groans and huffs and sighs and elaborates a well orchestrated argument. Normally, my ears are all his, but to this particular oration, they may as well be deaf.

There are few things for which I will dig a thick stake into the ground and then sink my heels into the soil just as firmly.

The first is that God is good all of the time. No matter what.

The second is that John and I love each other and them relentlessly and whole heartedly.

The third is that food is more than calories and carbs {and the like} and taste; it's meant to connect us to the soil and each other, to nourish, heal, sustain.

And there's nothing about goldfish and graham crackers or the like that connect or nourish, heal or sustain. There's just not. And those foods have popped up often enough in past daily snack itineraries that even friends who are much less rigid have questioned why we are serving what we are serving in school and other child-centric settings.

Once he's said his peace, he stares at me and stomps one foot on the ground as if to put the exclamation mark on his action-pack deposition; I see the buddings of a lawyer emerge in the satisfied smirk on his face.

But what he doesn't know is that even the world's best orator attorney couldn't sway a jury against a passionately honest mother bear who knows what she knows with every fiber of her being.

I crouch down, and I give my closing statement, feet firmly planted in the soil I know to be truth, concluding that he will be choosing healthy snacks from our pantry, fridge or counter daily and bringing them to school for his snack every day,

and I round out my closing statement with the one truth I know best

-- the one that fuels my fire beyond any knowledge or research or biology or chemistry --

"because I love you."

With that the jury is sold.

And I can even see in the cross-examining attorney's eyes that he, too, has been won.

UPDATE: If you're reading this in the archives, you'll definitely want to read the update to this post because the cross-examining attorney ended up only being sold momentarily! We learned a really important lesson from this that I'd hate for anyone to have to go through. 

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. 

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: In the shadows of pirate swords

They've raided my silverware drawer again for pirate swords, and I find irritation creeping into my voice as I  bellow down the hallway for someone to bring the butter knives back so I could PUL-ease swipe peanut butter across the hollow body of a celery stalk.

But, mom, the oldest protests, the foam swords are broken and these are the only swords we have left to defend the pirate ship!

Everything is pirate swords. Or light sabers. Or riffles.

And there are not enough foam swords on the shelves in all of the greater Chicagoland Target stores to keep my boys in the business of being brave.

So sticks from the backyard are carried like guns and butter knives are confiscated from the silverware drawer first thing in the morning after I unload the dishwasher.

It all drives me sort of crazy -- this constant need and desire for battle that's seemingly engrained in their biological make up, their genetic codes.

I lose sight of who they are when I get all wild, demanding butter knives be returned to my lunch-making hands.

When I deep groan internally after the oldest has been carrying on about the complexities of fighting an imaginative Darth Vader.

When I instruct them to stop light sabering the old My Little Ponies my mother dug out of the basement instead of treating them how I did -- combing and braiding their hair before frolicking about in the grass and building relationships with each other.

When John was away it was harder to sleep because I felt like I couldn't really turn off. {And it wasn't just because the dog, who now needs therapy, took his growling to the next level each time a car passed our house at night.}

But, rather, it was because I was thrust into a role that doesn't come as naturally to me as it does to John; he is the natural protector of our family.

Sure, if someone were to burst into our home I would get all mama bear and go into a blind, flesh-ripping rage of protecting my children ... but the desire to battle doesn't come as naturally as it does for my boys.

One night while John was gone, I prayed for God to watch over us as we rested. Not a full second after we'd said amen, my oldest son turned his eyes to me and told me I didn't have to even think about that.

Because not only would God protect us, but he would, too.

It's my job, he'd said.

I glimpsed the kind of man my four and half year old will one day become as he boldly proclaimed his intentions.

Thankfulness coated heavy the irritation that often emerges thick in my mind during the play battling, all the imaginative scenes of good versus evil unfolding in my living room and all the stolen butter knives morphed into pirate swords.

Because these moments are ones of play, yes, but they are also of building the desire to protect, to ensure good defeats evil.

And I surely know, I am reminded every time I read the headlines that the world needs more good pirates defending the ship.

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

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Harvest them!

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Link up your gleaned moment this week at Alita'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.

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

Everyday Life: Hurts So Good

He fell asleep again today in my arms.

I couldn't help but marvel at his small-bigness.

His elongated legs, but his yet-chubby cheeks.

His almost-too-big-for-his-new-shoes feet, but his still-soft, still pudgy baby belly.



After he woke up and crabbed about having woken to a world where chocolate {gluten free!} cake cannot be consumed at all hours, he was off and running, wrestling and jumping with his brother.

His brother, who when we headed upstairs to get ready for bed, read/recited-from-memory two books complete with perfect inflections and voice punctuation.

I couldn't help but marvel, again, the small-bigness of my four and a half year old, too.

Who are these growing-over-night boys?

And how did I get so fortunate to watch them sprout up so lovely and strong and solid?

As he read and his younger brother tried to read along outloud, too, I think John and I smiled so hard our faces hurt the kind of good that happens when you take a small- big bite out of a life that's better than what you could have ever imagined.

Motherhood: I {will} remember

These boys of mine running through the tall grass of our backyard, picking me Mother's Day flowers and bringing them as love offerings to my hands, they began like you.


Tiny heart beats flickering fast like galloping horses. 

Trust me when I say that I've loved them fiercely since the moment I felt the first twinges of pregnancy resound inside my body.

And probably even before there was ever one moment of exhaustion or tenderness felt, I loved them.

The heart knew them first, before the body even could. 

It's the same for you. 

Though my arms have no memory of you

and my mind doesn't know the color of your eyes or hair (like I've memorized your brothers' faces and can see with even my eyes shut)

my mothers heart remembers you.

It remembers you this week, the due date forecasted for your arrival

And it will remember you tomorrow as we celebrate motherhood and the gift of children.

And that -- remembering that you were and still are 

will be enough water enough to quench my thirst for you until the day

my eyes can memorize the softness of your cheeks 

and my arms can know the curves of your body while pressed against my own

both of us restored.

Five-Minute Friday: Identity

They began to grate on my nerves each time I saw them, seemingly Scarlet Letters of sorts.

What was meant to be a resource for the lonely and seeking mother, turned into flashy, glaring badges defining me and thus defining you by parenting styles we've chosen or not chosen to embrace.

And so the Attachement Parenting, Breastfeeding and Babywearing buttons had to come down from the sidebar of my home here online during my recent redesign by the fabulous Alita Jewel.

Not because I don't passionately believe in the benefits of breastfeeding and babywearing and the basic tenants of AP such as loving and respecting each person in the family no matter how tiny

but because I don't see you as a breastfeeding mom or a formula feeding mom

a babywearing mom versus a stroller-pushing mom

an AP or a Babywise mom.

I see you

I see me as

whole people

who are loved beyond our modest understanding.

We are more.

More than our parenting choices.

More than our jobs.

More than our self-professed roles.

We are valued

and chosen

and wildly loved

and complexly created

by a Master Artist.

I wasn't planning to explain the facelift here but timing seems serendipitous as my online home was revamped just a week before the controversial Time magazine cover of a mother nursing her toddler son with a cover story title asking Are You Mom Enough? began yet another firestorm. {I'm not linking there, but you can search it if you'd like.}

And I'd like,

if I could, to answer

that for us all

regardless of if we nurse

by bottle or breast

when we are nourishing our loves with love --

that, no,

we are not mom enough.

we are more

because we are beloved beyond belief.

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.
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Thinking, that's all: A blanket

A soft blue glow dimly gives light to the dark recesses of an inky backstage area.

We sit hip to hip, perched in chairs that form an oval, silent except for the wild beating of hearts, the quick whispers of courage breathed out to the first voice making her way toward the center stage.



She's first to bring life to the black print on white as she shares her story.

I find myself holding my breath tight inside my lungs, keeping vigil for her before I realize that she's got it and slowly exhale it into the soft shadows.

I hang on her words, her threads dangling in the air and grab on tight.

She brings her story to a close and a round, full-bodied applause breaks out from the audience and fills seemingly ever inch of empty space in the theater.

And the backstage?

The backstage is drenched.

It is drenched with applause, and it is weeping with awe and love

because she has broken the silence with her voice.

She has taken the first threads, added her own and she has begun weaving them all together through gifting us with her own.

The words we've all written about motherhood -- about how it's changed, shaped, grown, morphed us, made us-- come quickly, deliberately thereafter, single thread after single thread added

hers

and his

and hers

and hers

and hers

and then ours.

We are next.

As part of the only duet in the show, I've long realized that this story I'm about to give voice, this thread I'm about to add to the collection, isn't only mine.



It's hers, too.

But it's not until I step onto center stage that I truly realize it's not just mine and hers either.

There is laughter, deep thundering laughter, as we give comedic voice to the loneliness of mothering in our day in age.

And I know, in the laughter, that our stories, our threads have been grasped, they've been picked up and woven together with others

that these stories don't just belong to the people in center stage, the people giving them voice.

No.

The laughter coupled with tears tells a story of its own: that these stories are all of ours

that motherhood has given us all a song swelling in our chest in some way or another

that these threads were meant to be woven together.

Our lives, our stories weren't meant to simply be separate, dangling threads


but rather a blanket of warmth spread across shivering shoulders.



Sunday night in Chicago, I snuggled deep into the comforts of that blanket in the best of company.