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!

  

Everyday Life: Bulldozer

He's a small but mighty bulldozer, pressing himself forward, crushing whatever is on the path to his self-proclaimed prize.

And I'm the foreman tailing behind screaming for him to stop! look! be careful! 

It's so loud, those rumbling and pressing desires, he doesn't even hear me.

Almost three years old, and his body is now capable of playing out most of the scenes that have been spinning around in his busy and boisterous mind these past few years. 

Whereas his older brother gave life to scenarios through vocals first, talking it through, he is the hand reaching, the legs running, the arms climbing and the body moving first. 

Most days, he is curiosity in the flesh perched atop tall branches dangling over an open pond of fish, and I'm the firefighter trying to save the cat from drowning. 

But everyone knows that cats don't come out of trees for shrieking idiots, jumping up and down.

That's what I feel like lately. 

I talk myself down while scrambling up the tree, reminding myself

to breathe deep

to pray hard

to love well

and trust fully

that one day 

this passion

this vigor

this desire

won't be driving him over ledges or out of tree branches

or me crazy

but, rather, 

it will be driving him 

down the road 

spread out before him 

by a gracious Paver

and all this practice will have made

him ready to take the wheel.

Linking with Let's Hear it for The Boys over at M.O.B. Society. 

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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Raising Boys: All Wrong

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

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

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

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

But what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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