Bigger Picture Moment: Don't feed the bears {spaghetti}

After a too-late, pre-bedtime discussion about business finances that left my mind spinning and an entire night of wrestling a nursing, teething toddler, nothing about Wednesday morning seemed appealing except for maybe the prospect of crawling back under the covers to sleep away the general unwell and unrested feeling.

No such luck.

E squirmed out of bed at 6:25 a.m., and I reluctantly followed him, resolving in my mind to start the day in prayer and in the Word.

And that helped until the unwell and unrested feeling began creeping its way back into my tired body and even more tired mind.

Simply, when I've not slept well for a few nights, my mind becomes mush. And then my body follows close behind.

I can't seem to handle excessive noise escaping from the drum set and cymbals or constant questions tumbling from 3-year-old lips or over-tired whining escaping the mouth of my toddler and oh-my-gosh-can-mommy-just-have-FIVE-Minutes-of-SIlencePLEASE!?

We escaped from the grocery story relatively unscathed {read: I prayed and begged God for a huge burst of energy simply to get me through the shopping endeavor so we didn't have to eat pickles for lunch and dinner}.

But by the time we were returning home, I found myself barreling into an enormous afternoon crash and burn alongside my melting-down toddler.

I know, thanks to truthful words from friends, that having a hard day or having a bad day as a stay-at-home mom doesn't mean I DON'T love my life or kids; I know that it doesn't mean I have some kind of fatal character flaw, so I took refuge such a realization that this day, too, would pass. Sleep would come later tonight {hopefully} and tomorrow would be a new {less-hormonal, less-exhausted} day.

And those simple truths gave me hope for tomorrow, yes, but in that meantime, I knew I needed to get through the day without totally entering into epic mommy fail after mommy fail of yelling at the boys and becoming frustrated and battling gigantic battle after gigantic battle of tested patience.

In a rush to get lunch on the table so E could take a much-needed nap and I could take a much-needed break, I did something a Type A personality who is feeling unrested, hormonal and unwell should never do:



I fed the bears spaghetti for lunch.

Feed them apples or grapes or turkey slices, but for the love of your SANITY, woman, make a mental note NOT to feed them bright-orange-red coated noodles while in such a state of sleep-deprived disarray.

Because that is just asking for trouble.

Everyone has bad days, yes, and maybe there's not much that can be done to avoid some.

But perhaps steering clear of the things I know will send me over the edge -- red-sauce-coated toddlers who fling said red sauce onto every square inch of the dining room -- on those bad days should be a high priority, just two steps below praying for Divine intervention and taking a chat break with a lovely friend and one above bathing myself in caffeinated tea.

{Also, yes, I would have a rotten day after posting about how swimmingly our weeks have been going since engaging in our Sabbath Experiment, which goes to show that while taking a day of rest can really enhance life, it's not a cure-all for everything. :) }



Every Thursday, we share the harvest of intentionally living by capturing a glimpse of the bigger picture through a simple moment{s}.

Grab a button {code over on the right-hand side}, link at Sarah's and then go forth and encourage others on this journey in intentional living.

Live. Capture. Share. Encourage.

Bigger Picture Moments: Soft with Hope

Amid the hectic days, it's easy to lose sight of those simple moments that lead us toward seeing the bigger picture.

Every Thursday we come together to share a small moment from our week that begs to be remembered, captured instead of simply forgotten. We hope you'll consider your week and share your moment with us, too. Feel free to link below, grab the button for your blog and then share the love by visiting others who are journeying toward living intentionally.

I feel it.

On the warmth drenching my sun-starved cheeks.

And I hear it.

In the way the birds sweetly sing back and forth in an increasingly steadfast song.

Oh, and I sense it.

In the long shadows produced by the extra light of lengthening days.

In the energy wound up, wrapped around the muscles of small legs that long to run beyond the walls of our home.

In my very soul, a feeling of newness thick in the early damp March air.



Though I don't yet see the obvious signs yet -- the gradations of green among grass blades or tiny flowers birthing through the clumps of damp farm field-- like wet soil, I am soft with the hope of new life.

Spring is coming.

And not just outside.

But in my heart, in my head, too.

"As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will never cease." Genesis 8:22

**This post is also linked with Thought-Provoking Thursdays at Some Girl's Website. Visit Michelle if you'd like to read more encouraging pieces.**

Bigger Picture Moments: Line of vision

Amid the hectic days, it's easy to lose sight of those simple moments that lead us toward seeing the bigger picture.

Every Thursday we come together to share a small moment from our week that begs to be remembered, captured instead of simply forgotten. We hope you'll consider your week and share your moment with us, too. Feel free to link below, and then share the love by visiting others who are journeying toward living intentionally.

****
"Look at me, mom," he half requests, half demands.

Ok, I say, glancing over at my 3.5 year old as he dances in circles around the kitchen explaining the logistics of fire hoses and relates the art of firefighting to me -- ideas that are really, really important to him.

The veggies sizzle in the wok on the stove, and I turn half of my attention back to dinner preparation.

"Mom, you're not looking at me," he says. "I need you to look at me."

"G.," I explain, "I AM looking at you. I'm also looking at the stove so I can stir dinner. We don't want it to burn, do we?"

"I don't care if dinner burns," he laments. "I want you to look at me. With both of your eyes. Turn your head."

****

Increasingly, G. has been demanding our fullest attentions.

"Look at me!"

"Play with me!"

"Sing with me."

"Help me!"

"Mom."

"Moooooom."

"MOOOM."

"MOM!"

"WHAT?!" I finally explode.

I catch the impatience in my voice often.

But not all of the time.

Like yesterday.

I needed an escape to do my homework for Vantage Point 3, the emerging journey class, because he would not engage in any form of quiet time whatsoever.

My sister generously offered to watch the boys.

On my way to the coffee shop, book in one hand, Bible in the other, I determined that G. does not have to have my fullest attention at every moment.

He needs to learn patience.

He needs to return to being happy playing by himself sometimes.

He needs to give me five minutes of peace a few times a day.

I settled into my favorite orange chair and begin reading about Jesus' life.

And how He interacted with those around Him: patiently, deeply, particularizingly, hospitably, prayerfully.

As I dig into the material, I come face to face with C.S. Lewis:

"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 say 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 the 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."

I mull this over in my head, slowly letting the words sink into my mindset, blend like cream in black coffee until the colors are no longer two but a soft brown.

****

I've been trying to get things done all day -- the laundry, the dishes, this post, Curves stuff.

But one kid or another has run smack into my knees and asked for milk or snuggles or play or whatever.

Or an email or phone call has come through that's asked for some of me, a piece of my time.

Though it's gone against every one of my desires, as I really want to continue with my plans, I've been trying to listen and respond to these needs to be heard.

Not just nodding my head and smiling.

Really listening.

Not just glancing over in my son's direction when he asks for me to look at him.

Really seeing.

Because we're all just walking around waiting for someone to really see us, to really hear us.

The posts we publish into the vastness of the blogosphere.

The glances we cast over the top of our book at the coffee shop when an acquaintance walks in.

The status updates we send into our friends' news feeds.

The spoken words of good or fine that have been carefully dressed in a reassuring smile when a friend asks how we've been.

The tweets we blast off into the unknown.

We're not all actually saying aloud "look at me, notice me, play with me. MOOOMMMEEE."

But we're all saying it somehow.

And the question Lewis gave me was loud and clear:

Can I press the mute button on my own words and thoughts long enough to hear and recognize and acknowledge the other lives around me?

Can I let go of the irritation that I feel when my boys interrupt me from building those dynasties that will fade away -- the spotless house, the comment on a blog that's really only chatter, the scarf that doesn't really need to be knit -- to engage with my boys meaningfully, positively.

I don't mean can I be everything to everyone, sacrifice myself into the flames of only tending to others' needs.

But I do mean can I pause my busy life, my busy agenda long enough to really take the time to lovingly interact with my sons, my husband, my friends, push them toward greatness?

Because I can quash the irritation brought on by a burnt meal.

But I can't go back and change the inadvertant way I've impatiently interacted with the very souls that will live well beyond last night's dinner.

Bigger Picture Moments: A sign

I was brain-deep in internal dialogue.

Prayer, I guess, but in the flimsiest of ways.

As John drove over the couple-mile bridge that spans the Pine Island sound waters, I began shooting up some arrow prayers to God.

"Oh, God, you know I hate flying. And now we're supposed to be flying home into rainy, icy weather Sunday. Could you puuuuuleaaase do something about that?"

John's voice breaks into my haphazard prayer.

"We're going to be fine, honey. It's just a plane ride," he says.

I nod my head yes, as to say that I'm well aware of the statistics that say we're safer flying than driving. Because I know he's going to pull out that fact card the more he sees me fidgeting and fretting over the pending flight back to Chicago.

However, I just cannot help myself from engaging into this conversation I always lose.

"How do you know that it's not going to be bumpy and terrible?" I ask.

"Because not all flights are like that," he says. "And we'll be fine."

I stare out into the blue waves breaking against the white sand shores of the causeway and continue my messy, faulty half prayer.

"God, could you just give me a sign to calm my heart?" I ask. "Like dolphins or something?"

No sooner than I let the thought run through my head do I ask for God to scratch that request -- I know He's faithful. I know I can trust Him. And I know I'm supposed to test the Lord by asking for signs and such.

I repent in my heart.

And not seconds after I ask for a do-over regarding my sign request a fin pops through the silky, rippling, turquoise water. And then another and another. And another and another.

Suddenly, I'm not just watching the waters move and break, I'm watching an entire family of dolphins jet through the blue, jumping into the air as they play and swim.

A sign.

Not a "oh-everything-is-going-to-be-all-right-on-your-flight" sign.

But a sign saying, "I hear you, child.

And I know you need Me to reach out and give you some extra love to calm your heart.

To remind you that I'm bigger and better. I'm in control. And you can rest."

My doubting heart, my questioning brain don't deserve a love letter like that.

But He sent one anyway.

It's the story of my life.

I don't deserve it, but He sends what I need anyway.

In so many ways.

Want to live intentionally and remember the simple moments that make up the bigger picture? Live fully, capture it and share with us every Thursday. This week, Melissa is hosting our link up. I hope to read yours.

Bigger Picture Moments: One.more.single.second

Sometimes I'm the kind of mom who sees tiny little hand prints everywhere -- walls and chairs, light switches and white cabinets -- and I feel like I just cannot live one.more.single.second without scrubbing everything clean.

So I wet a rag and begin to scour all of the surfaces in the dining room as my 3 year old gives voices to toy fishies and my 16 month old food-finger paints with ketchup at the dining room table.

They giggle and my older son beckons me to abandon my work in favor of play.

"Look at my blue fish!" he exlaims. "They are the police officers."

I marvel over the brilliance of making the blue fishies police since they are, indeed, sporting blue.

"Look at E.!" he then says, switching gears. "He's eating his paints!"




While I'm explaining that the red paint is actually ketchup, I stumble into some made love with his chubby, red-coated fingers, remembering how quickly just how much I adore those little hands.

And I think to myself, I'd rather be the mom who thinks I just cannot live one.more.single second without enjoying those small hands --both sets.



So I kiss ketchupy fingers and giggle about toy fishies, taking a few more baby steps in the right direction.

Check out more Simple Moments that make up the Bigger Picture or link your own at Alita's place.