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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyday Life: Birthing Pains

In the morning, it's there when I awake, there like a preschooler's legs and arms spread out under the cover of thick blankets somehow finding the skin of his mother anywhere she moves about in a king-sized bed.

There's an invitation. An invitation chasing me around in my dreams turned wake to take my ordinary and from it allow the extraordinary to be born.

But like most births, nothing is born without labor pain, without surrender, without an aching to bring forth fullness and life.

I play "what if" in my mind. I pray "let me lose my life to find life" in my heart. I spill cries of my heart for courage to walk in faith rather than fear.

He finds me in the morning, pursues me relentlessly, much the way my four year old persistently runs around the house until he finds me with not only his eyes but his hands, too.

There's an invitation to take His hand, walk with Him into the unknown, to go deeper than my feet could ever wander, where my faith will be made stronger in the presence of our Savior.

And I am scared.

I fight fear with faith, and I take heart because greater is He who is in me than he who is in the world.

I take heart because He told me this year to abide and to walk in the courage of faith.

I take heart because there is grace, and many days that grace comes in His pursing of my heart through the blessings He's sent to pursue my attention all day long.

They come bounding into the room where I'm lost in a mess of dinner and prayer, and the little one says, "Mom, play the song!"

I know exactly what the small one is talking about, and I oblige him.

"Mom, sing it."

I sing.

"Mom, louder! Sing it!"

I sing louder: "I know who goes before me."

The small one, he persists: "Louder!"

"I know who stands behind."

"Mom, I can't hear you. Sing it louder!"

"The God of angel armies is always by my side."

"Keep singing, mom!"

"The one who reigns forever, He is a friend of mine. The God of angel armies is always by my side."

"Yay! Mom, that's good! Keep signing!"

"Whom shall I fear?"

and He persists.

"Whom shall I fear?"

The song ends, but the answer lingers thick in the air, following me, pursing me, like little legs chasing me around my bed at the dawn of morning

like little legs chasing me throughout the day

like little voices insisting I sing.

Loud.

Louder.

Loudest.

In the evening, it's there when I lift my voice, when I turn my eyes onto the Extender of the invitation rather than the invitation itself, and I snuggle in knowing

that when we are pregnant with hope,

when we are extended with faith,

when we are full and round and filled with the understanding of the very nature, the very sovereingty of the Invitation Extender

the invitation doesn't seem quite as daunting

and

courage is born out of birthing pains.

Bigger Picture Moments: When God Won't Help Us Find Our Toys

"I know why some people don't like God, mommy," my six year old says as we discuss life over Legos.

"Really? Why?" I ask, baffled at the change in a conversation that began about lunch.

"Because sometimes when they ask him for things, he doesn't give them to you ... I ask God for help finding my stuff sometimes and he never helps me find it. I think that's why some people don't like God."

Oh. 

What do you say to that? I mean, the kid's right. That is why some people don't like God. Or why they don't think he's real. Or why they think He's mean so never even bother with a mean God.

I ask my oldest son, who is searching my face for clues on where this conversation is going, "Have you ever heard of a genie in a bottle?"

"Yup ..." He says. "Well, sorta. Tell me again?"

"In stories and movies sometimes people find a bottle; they rub it and then a genie comes out and says 'master, I'll grant you three wishes,', I explain. "Sometimes I think we treat God like a genie in a bottle. We ask for something thinking we are the master and then get angry when God doesn't give us what we want."

He nods slowly, zooming Lego motorcycles around his legs. 

"Sometimes I get angry and frustrated when I don't get what I'm asking for," I tell him.

"Like when the baby died," he says.

I pause, totally vulnerable. 

"Yes, like when our baby died."

We linger in our thoughts, bathe in a moment of silence. 

"Do you think God is like a genie in the bottle and we are the masters?" I ask.

"No!" He exclaims. Then he sighs. "God is the master ... God's way is always perfect."

I'm blown away. 

My six year old is discussing theological questions with me and them applying his church memory verse appropriately in discussion and life application. 

I agree with him. 

"God's way is always perfect. We don't always understand it, but it is perfect."

I have so much I want to say

to him

to myself. 

to God

So much I want to know -- like, God, what do you want from me right now and where should we go from here and how should we get there?

I am much like my six year old looking for my toys and demanding God help me find them. 

He sighs again, this time contentedly, at the same time I exhale deeply.

I've asked the questions; I have bared my heart to Him who sees me. 

So I breathe and take my son's lead, sit with him in contented stillness for a few lingering moments -- wild thoughts abandoned--

and offer the words

these questions

this heart

to Him again even now in these moments where it feels like I'm asking Him to help me find what I'm looking for and He doesn't seem to be helping me find it at all. 

My oldest continues the Lego race around my feet. 

And I think maybe

He's not showing me where I put my toys because He's been showing me something much bigger;

Maybe ... He's been revealing His very heart for me instead. 

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.

Everyday Life: Changed

He stood tall for using a cane. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bigger Picture Moments: Lightening Flashes

There's a storm brewing off in the distance and long before I can hear the thunder, lightening sets thick approaching clouds aglow.

The day has been warm and muggy; air hanging heavy in late spring is a sure-fire sign of approaching storms.

And how the day has unfolded, so goes my heart.

Today was deep joy and bright sun and spring warmth, air thick and heated, and I knew tonight would be one of those stormy nights in my heart and head.

We celebrated my niece's first birthday today with balloons and family and cupcakes with thick frosting, and it was good. My youngest played his heart out and snuggled me as he inhaled cupcakes and breaths of air. My oldest fawned over my niece. My niece smiled and snuggled against my chest, tired and deflated by the end of the party.

In those moments of holding her close and heaving to pick up my youngest and watching my oldest wear his heart of love on his sleeve, I remembered the first baby we lost ... one I'd hoped would share a birthday or birth week with my niece.

And in those memories, the second and third little lives we lost came to mind, too.

I silently shushed tears during the party and instead soaked in what was right there before us, celebrated  the lives of the children with which we've been blessed, gave thanks for the lives of the people we call family and friends.

But tonight as I watched the storm clouds thicken and build and blow in, I couldn't help but blow out the deep exhales of frustration and tears I'd held back earlier in the sunned part of the day.

On a whim, I captured the pink of the clouds lit aglow by the lightening.

Twice.

That never happens.

And I thought about the news we'd received a few weeks ago from the genetic testing; it showed a probable cause for the miscarriages, a genetic one from my own DNA.

An inversion on chromosome 13 likely explains why we lost those three precious babies; but we haven't pursued much more insight through the genetic counseling offered because honestly we're just not anywhere near the point of doing much more than healing.

But I've looked long at these two boys we have with wonder since we got the test results.

And I've wondered and awed at their lives, how they made it here into the land of the living when we'd barely uttered a prayer or laid a plan for growing our family,

how they might be these tiny miracles clothed in skin walking around my house day in and out and we just never really realized or understood the magnitude of such miracles.

I wonder if they are much like having captured lightening flashes twice in one storm

unlikely



perhaps impossible



but very much planned

to light up this space in time

and leave a long memory

just not exactly planned

by us.

Motherhood: On Those Nights I Felt Trapped

Tonight he fell asleep by himself.

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

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

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

and I like who we're all becoming

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

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

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

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

"Will you be back in a little bit?"

Absolutely, I promised.

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

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

I whispered my love to him.

"I love you, too, mom."

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

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

Bigger Picture Moment: Like Me

I barely recognize his face uninterrupted these days.

He's letting his hair grow God knows how long, and his thick dark brown bangs sweep over his forehead and brush his eyelashes and cover his eyebrows.

Also, he's five, and he's intent on making decisions, and who am I to tell him his hair will never look like the curly mop Anniken sports no matter how long it grows?

So I don't.

I do instead what my heart says mothers should do, ignoring what my head insists:

I brush his bangs to the side of his face, I kiss slight the soft skin beneath and I ask him to tell me again about what he's thinking as we venture off to Mommy Night at school.

To my surprise, he wants to snap pictures of us together, and to my surprise, he won't sing the Mom song this year because it's too silly; he says he just wants to snuggle me instead.

He is so himself and so like me altogether that sometimes I cannot see where I start and he begins and how we ever merged from two in one to two in two.

Because it still seems we are very much one in the same.

Link at Jade's today!

Five-Minute Friday: Cherished

We arrive home after a busy afternoon

to a sunlight-drenched living room and front hall.

The boys were decorating the front door with hearts

and letters and left a kitchen stool

sitting in the burst of rays filtering through the glass.

Unexpected to my oldest, I walk over to the stool,

sit down and exhale into the our space,

soaking up every bit of warmth through the window.

He looks up at me through the brown hair sweeping over his eyes,

smiles a half smile

and asks what I'm doing.

I say ...

breathing.

He scoots closer on the floor

and I hear him exhale, too,

deep into the lateness of the afternoon.

We breathe together.

And I know another little piece of what the writer meant

when he said that Mary treasured up these things in her heart.

Bigger Picture Moment: Unwrapped and Found

I'm a mess of swirling emotions.

I wade in the lovely waters of hope and life and swim too deep into worry and fear all in the moment.; but I don't have the words to explain the beautiful mess of my heart these days, though I seemingly have some time.

Every night, I settle onto the couch with the boys by about 6:45, which is so unlike our normal life where we go and do and run and play and work from wake until down most days of the week.

The first few weeks of pregnancy, though, have given us a sweet gift in this new slowness ... one I'm coming to embrace.

There's talk time at night now, most of us home now and central to one room most nights.

Time to snuggle together in the hours between dinner and bed.

Time to read and watch movies and giggle and sing together.

More time than I knew existed.

I didn't realize how many hours in the day there actually were until this slowness set in.

And I didn't realize how badly we needed them to be inundated in slowness.

A gift in a gift in season.

A first of many to unwrap, I pray.

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

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Bigger Picture Moments: On Waving the White Flag

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Link up at Melissa's!

  

Bigger Picture Moments: Christmas Monkey

The morning after we'd dressed in costume and taken to the neighborhood streets for a bit of trick or treating, my oldest woke me up with a loud, joyful song I wasn't quite expecting.

"Christmas monkey, Christmas monkey
No one's sung about Christmas monkey.
Christmas monkey's got no song.
It's been that way for way too long."

It was like an assault on my ears, honestly.

I mean, never mind it was 6:10 a.m. and I can barely peel my eyelids open by 6:30 a.m.; he was singing about Christmas monkeys

as though the kid had never heard of a turkey or pilgrims or gratitude

as though the kid totally went from October 31 straight to December 1, completely bypassing Thanksgiving.

Of course, he's five, so I calmly escorted him and his serenade from my bedroom and downstairs while explaining that he could carol in the basement until the rest of the family was awake and ready for the day considering the other two were awake with a stomach bug the night before.

Each day, more and more Christmas monkey anthems began circulating around the house, especially after the older brother taught the younger brother the lyrics.

And how to sing it.

In surround-sound stereo.

And, because the boys are three and five and I get three and five and I even remember five, I've gently explained a few times that we can definitely be excited about Christmas; I mean the birth of our Savior is exciting {read in his mind: presents and family celebration and cookies with a side of baby Jesus thrown in}

but

"Christmas monkey! Christmas monkey!"

perhaps we should enjoy November while we're in November

"Christmas monkey! Christmas monkey!"

I mean November is a special month, too, because it's a time we remember all for which we're thankful.

"Christmas monkey! Christmas monkey!"

And it's a time we get thank God for providing for us and for those who came to our country in search of freedoms.

"Christmas monkey! Christmas monkey!"

And, darn it, kids, doesn't the turkey get a special place in our lives instead of just at the table?!

::Silence::

Two little eyes stared at me in wonder, perplexed as to why I as talking so passionately about turkeys {when I usually reserve such passion about poultry for chickens}.

I quickly excused myself from the room, desperately needing to wrangle and harness some sane, less passionate thoughts about the separation of Thanksgiving and Christmas while recalling the magic of seeing life through the eyes {and joyful song lyrics} of two little boys.

In a moment of inspired genius {ha!}, I brainstormed a way to slow down the proverbial sleigh and linger a bit in the thankfulness of November: each night at dinner, we would share what we're thankful for in audible gratitude.

And that worked well for a few nights until two more of us got sick; dinners ceased for a few days and Christmas monkey reigned.

I tried bringing it back into focus this morning; the boys happily and excitedly obliged, citing all for which they were thankful:

"Mommy. Daddy. G. E., all my friends, Chase, my family .... light sabers, syrup, Jesus, ice cream."

I couldn't help but smile at their overflowing, easily voiced gratitude, giggle at their honesty.

Maybe they get it a lot more than I think they do.

"You guys want to know what I'm thankful for?" I asked.

"What?!" G. exclaimed.

"Christmas monkey."

Maybe, sometimes, they get it sometimes more than I do.

****

We're gathering our harvest of blessings and naming them one by one, sharing the gratitude in our hearts every Thursday through the end of November. Won't you join us? Share a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with thanksgiving in your heart. 

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

Capture.
Harvest them!

Share.
This week link up your BPM moment 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.
Try to visit at least the person linked before you and encourage her in this journey we call life.

Bigger Picture Moments: Pushing Away from the Table {I Lost It}

In the early-morning rush of getting the boys out the door, I lost it over cinnamon apple oatmeal.

I lost it amid the heat rising from the hot bowl of breakfast he irritably pushed away from his place setting at the table, amid the heat rising from my own flushed and rushed body, fluttering about in a hurried shuffle to get in the car and begin an over-scheduled day.

From the moment I pressed my feet on the ground beside my bed, I felt a like a whirlwind of movement and thought, and despite trying to order my day by sinking myself into the the Word in the morning, I could not quiet myself enough to stand still let along sink and soak.

When tears of outrage came over the cinnamon apples being mixed IN the oatmeal instead of being served one the side

when the refusal to even try this breakfast came

when the thought of him having to sit through two hours of class in the morning and then the dentist, thus likely ensuing a meltdown before we made it to lunch,

steam began rising from my hot-headed rush

and words began firing out of my heated mouth

and I lost it over cinnamon apple oatmeal.

The heat of irritation, fueled by rush and movement, left my body so quickly through raised voice and regretful words that it left me solid frozen in my steps shortly after I huffed out of the dining room while my oldest cried about how it was "just oatmeal, mom."

It took fire burning strong and hot and fast and furious to bring me into stillness, an icicle of realization grounded in my kitchen that though I've long given care to never ever ever feed the bears spaghetti on days the hard days, the tough days

but have never given really thought to not overfilling my own plate

and making those days more likely.

And, so, today, I scoop onto the plate only what is necessary to sustain life

and tonight, we'll all push away from the table for a longer pause, fasting and resting in what is necessary for life only in the moments spread out before us.

{Oh the humbling experiences that parenting brings; shortly after my flames burned out, I got to eat some humble pie, apologize and reinforce that even when we are piping hot, we still treat each other with love and kindness and respect. I call this lessons from the trenches.}

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 HERE! Please be sure to link to your post, not your blog. Your post must link back here or have our button in your post or the link will be deleted.

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

Bigger Picture Moment: Emphasis

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

What did you learn in school?

What did you talk about in church?

What did you do today?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our values.

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

Because what we do stems out of who we are. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Share your moment at Melissa's!

Everyday Life: 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.}

Five-Minute Friday: Race

He stands solemnly, stills his growing body, a few paces ahead of me, traces of his breath dancing in the cool October dusk as he deeply exhales a long sigh.

"Oh, mommy," he begins, "All of my favorite leaves are almost gone."

Two straights days of swooping, sweeping strong winds have wrestled the them in all of the bursts of colorful glory from tree branches, sent them rushing down the street and crashing into open stretches of prairie.

"Why does it have to go so fast?" he laments, standing taller, broader shouldered than he was even just a few weeks ago when the green first gave way to deep orange and sunset red. "I wish the leaves would stay a little longer ... they're so pretty like this."

I nod, resisting the urge to inform him that seasons changing are inevitable, that sometimes you blink and you miss the leaves lingering bright and gloriously from the trees at the peak of fall, only catching glimpses of their beauty as they run wildly off into the distance.

We stand together, staring at barren branches, sorry to have not stood here still for longer just a few days prior. I switch my gaze to his face, sleeker and defined more monthly by sharper curves, baby fat having mostly dripped away.

And I linger long in the blazing glory of five

because soon I'll be standing here catching tiny bursts of color racing down the streets.

Everyday Life: Lumps and Bumps and Steering Wheels

After we read,

after lights out,

after we pray,

after we are tucked beneath warm covers, my oldest drives into wide-awake nightmares instead of drifting into his normal peaceful slumber.

He begins to sob, asking through tears, "Mom, do kids get cancer? Or do just older people?"

And just like with most unexpected veers into darkness, I find myself swallowing my own fear at this sudden jerk of the car toward the edge of the cliff and try to calmly recover the direction of the conversation, steer it back onto the safety of the well-paved road.

I answer as simply, honestly as I can -- yes, sometimes little kids do get cancer, but that it doesn't happen very often.

He continues to weep next to me as I gently explain and whisper-pray for the right words to become my words to become his words of comfort and understanding.

His small body shakes next to mine, and I pull him close as it becomes clearer that he's not just asking hypothetically.

"Is the lump in my throat that won't go away cancer, mommy?"

I don't know how he's taken this leap from simply just telling me earlier about this lump to equating it with cancer, but I'm all too-familiar with how such leaps are made; I bridge the gap between these mountains all too often, linking symptoms and fear with disease and what ifs.

Though I gently whisper that I don't think the lump in his throat is cancer, he still can't rest, so I ask him what made him think about it and he reminds me that we've been praying for my Grandpa Filippi to be healed from cancer.

"Do people die from cancer?"

My heart flips again and sags heavy, holding his question

I steady the wheel, regain traction on solid grand and pray peace over him from the One Who knows our bodies and our hearts and thoughts; the One Who loves and protects. And the one who heals when we need to be healed.

His cries soften and fade into rhythmic breaths as he drifts to sleep.

But now I am wide awake

mopping up the soppy mess in my own heart

sad and dripping with the reality that

at just five, he would even be internalizing such heaviness


and

that at just five, there are even such heavy things to ponder.

Frustrated, I wonder aloud via Facebook at why none of the parenting books address how to explain things like cancer and such to soft and permeable five-year-old hearts.

I swerve my car toward the edge and into darkness, but she catches my hand at the wheel and she does, too,

and they calmly steer me back toward solid ground

reminding me

just as I reminded him

that we know Who really does the driving around here.

It's just that sometimes it takes those who have been on the road a little longer to remind you

to let go.

Everyday Life: So We Eat Cake

He's looking out the floor-length glass windows at tracks as a commuter train sleekly brakes to a halt and then swooshes off toward the city, as if to say that a quick exchange of passengers was merely just a blip in its day.

And I guess that's why we are here, eating lunch together just the two of us, though I don't completely know it until the moment the train jets into the distance, E's small hands pressed against the glass, his blue eyes still glued to the end car that's almost out of sight -- I don't want to be that train.

That's been my whole week, flying off from one destination to the next, slowing only enough to stop for quick pick ups and drop offs and pauses, kisses exchanged deftly before the engine again revs and roars.

But not today.

Not today especially.

He'll be newly three just before bedtime, and I want to linger in two for just a little while longer.

We wander back to our table in the quiet cafe, and soon we are talking about our lunch as we indulge.

There are meetings and there is work looming in the near hours, and I want to throw my phone with its clock and schedule across the room to shatter into a thousand pieces but instead just tuck it away into the depths of my shoulder bag telling myself that truly this schedule won't last long. And truly, we will find ourselves back in the beautiful grooves of tracks that run long, slow freight cars.

I sing happy birthday a few times to his delighted ears and he tells me about light sabers and birthdays in broken sentences while I just eat him up.

I can't resist capturing him still in a few photos, and he looks at me and commands through giggles "no more peetures, mom!"

I sense that it's time to pack up our lunch date and head to the next destination.

But he says "birfday cake on E's birfday?"

There are a dozen reasons not to.

And then there's him.

So we meander up to the counter, pick the perfect slice of lemon and almond polenta cake and return to our seats.

A fork in his hand, he takes a big bite and then scoops one for me.

"You too, mom?"



There are dozens of reasons not to {including not having had anything with more than a hint of sugar here and there for months}.

And then there's him.

So we eat cake

together

train stalled out on the tracks, amid the horns honking, people waiting, giving pause to our runs as the world rushes by around us

and we are better for it.

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.