irene and i

The tumult that has been the last four days or so has  dissipated.  The breeze, calm now, has shed it’s angst and terror, left it on the lawn with the leaves and branches, detritus of the storm come and gone.

We settle again.  We breathe a collective sigh of relief.  We turn our praises  skyward, bewildered that the blue and bright could take their places where not long ago darkness swooped down, poured out.

First an earthquake startled us.  Then a hurricane tested our mettle.  I am proud of my resilient little gang here.

****

Our preparation began subletly on Friday, and more disctinctly on Saturday.  We walked the very fine line of giving enough information to the Little Ones so they could be included, but not too much information to create too much early panic.  Some things couldn’t be avoided:  Why are there so many cars in line to get get gas, Mommy?  And so he would hear my calm, firm words instead of the panic threaded through others, I offered my best preparations:  Yes, we area going to have a storm.  Yes, there will be wind and rain.  And Yes, Daddy and I will be here with you, keeping you safe, making sure you have whatever you need to feel comfortable.

He always likes a job, so we put him to work with us in the yard picking up a bit.  He giggled at Daddy on the roof cleaning out the gutters, and she, the Littlest with no concept yet of this type of worry, shouted strong admonitions: “Be careful, Daddy!”  The day meandered away, as most Saturdays do, but I still had the creeping worry of what was to come.  Be strong, mama.  I knew that I had to keep my unease breasted closely.

After tucking little ones in bed, the rain blurring vision through the evening windows, we abated our worry with mindless entertainment before turning to the up-to-the-minute details.  Irene was coming, right on time:  in the middle of the night, dark upon dark.  The Eldest already tucked into our bed, blissfully snoring,  we were just about to tuck ourselves around his tight body when the phone rang; more warnings, this time of a tornado.  My head swirled at this news.  This was a situation that we hadn’t rehearsed.  Cue power outtage.  My husband, good head on his shoulders, commanded we each grab a child, get low.  Babes and flashlights, trails of blankets, pillows piled.  They were quiet for a bit; it took a few minutes for them to wake enough to understand our change of scenery.  Breathe, mama.  Then, giggles and games, family camp-out.  Eventually, hoping to save this pregnant mama’s body, and ease all towards much needed rest we ventured back to the first floor, each Little One paired with a Big.

Morning came, as morning always does.  The Fitful, frightful night, gone.  Still no power, but Glory Be, we are fine.  More than fine.

Forty hours without power, but touched with the beautiful generosity of loved ones, neighbors and friends.  Community seeped out of the cracks, like the water in our basements, finding its level.  The winds whipped our houses, all; the waters pressed in against our foundations, all.  We each experienced something the same, and something different.  We each had something to offer in our mission together of putting back the pieces.

****

We all slept deeper last night.  There was no panic in his voice when I tucked him in, said goodnight.  The storm was over, and he had been brave, oh so brave.

My breath of thanksgiving pours out, again and again.

{this moment}

{this moment} – A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. ~inspired by SouleMama

aftershocks

I am blessed with a sensitive, imaginative little boy.  This is so delicious and such a joy on so many levels — he is so tender with his peers, so kind to his sister.  His touches can be a salve to my aches.  I envy his creative passion, his drive to find God in everything in his world.  But there is an underbelly of this is a heightened sensitivity for things unknown: new experiences can create such anxiety for him, and the intangible conceptual stuff can be scary in monumental proportions.  He has his lifetime to figure out how to navigate this stuff, but in these early years, in these tender moments, I get to help him sort through it, too.

Which leads me to the events of yesterday:  we had an earthquake.  Our stone house, thick walls heavy with plaster and sixty years of earth to hold it down, did a silly little dance as the ground beneath it stretched out her legs, shook off her own dust.  This is something that I never thought I would experience, and for me, it was all rather comical.  It was so minor, so trivial — I almost wanted to do it again!  (I am not trying to minimize what a real, big and scary thing this would be if it caused damage and destruction.  We were fortunate).  This is surely one thing that will be recorded in the little ones’ journals; I will note it in my calendar.  It may be the only earthquake I ever experience, being a solid East Coast family.

You can only imagine how differently the Eldest felt about this quake.  Last week we had a string of thunderstorms and heavy rain, with fear welling up into his sleep, and lots of worried talk about storms during his waking hours.  And of course, it is just as we were thinking about settling those storms-creations, he experiences nothing I could ever have prepared him for.  It was “quiet time” in our house, and his whole bed shook.  The door next to his bed shook.  Things rumbled.  And he cried out with his whole being.

With both little ones bundled in my arms, I did a thorough walk-around, checking every corner of our house.  After all passed the Eldest’s diligent inspection, I returned the little ones to their rooms and had a moment or two of quiet for all.  It wasn’t until after quiet time that the questions began to pour in:  what was that?  What happened?  Why did it happen?  Would it happen again?  All to be expected.  Some were entertaining: he wanted to know if the “earthtwig” had a beard.  He wanted to know if we could dig it up from under the ground.  I struggled with how to described something that happened as different than something that exists.  But it gave me a window into his beautiful, thoughtful, creatively smart mind.

I was not home for bed time last night, but my husband reported, not surprisingly, a little boy who needed extra love, and his father’s tender man-hands to tuck him in with deep reassurance.  Once asleep, though, he slept well, only waking this morning to discuss more about earthquakes.  Today he showed me with his hands how the plates of the earth shift.  I expect that we will have many, many conversations, art projects, and nightmares before our aftershocks die down.  All of this I know will help him integrate his experience and ultimately give him confidence and strength for the next unknown.  In my best moments, I carry grace wisely, and patience thickly.  In between, I send up my prayers of thanksgiving for this precious little boy, so tender hearted and raw;  I step back so that I don’t squash that openness.  Mostly, I point him to the One who created it all: “Do not be afraid — I am with you! I am your God — let nothing terrify you!I will make you strong and help you; I will protect you and save you.” (Isaiah 41:10)

And I know that next week there will be more storms to weather.

like a child

Our family ventured out to church this past Sunday.  This has been a push/pull struggle for us for a while, and we often don’t make it there.  It is a combination of a number of factors, and though it is clearly something that is theologically important to our family, it can logistically be a nightmare.  But a dear friend of ours was preaching, and things lined up well for us to make it there.  I’m glad we did.

As we lay in bed that night, my husband and I were recounting the day together.  We both had similar feelings about church:  We feel blessed to sit side by side our little ones in worship.  Both of our little ones are getting a bit older, and both did a bit better about sitting in a pew for an hour and twenty minutes or so.  It makes the experience just a bit better for us, then, too.  One of the struggles we so often have about church is that we want our little ones to truly be a part of the whole thing.  Not relegated to the back, not encouraged to play in the nursery, but to experience the mystery of church.  To be welcomed as a part of the Body, and not just any part, but an important part. At our Main Line church we are often swimming upstream on this one.  Luckily the service we attend can be lively, and their sometimes not-so-subtle presence can be tucked under the harmonies and pulses of bass and drum.  Both the little ones are entranced with the music.  They are drawn into the mystery of the words, the posture of the people.  They awe at the altar; they listen to the prayers.  They proudly join us a we receive communion and eagerly lean forward to receive their blessing.  They may not understand a lot of what goes on, but the language is beginning to be familiar to them.  Both of my little ones add their voices to the Lord’s prayer.  They enter into worship in their own child-like wonder and I know that God blesses them and teaches them there, too.  I hope, too, that after my little ones have participated in worship, side-by-side with someone who may not have expected to see such little ones there, that we have helped others remember Jesus’ words: “But Jesus said, “Let the children come to me, and don’t try to stop them! People who are like these children belong to God’s kingdom” (Matthew 19:14).

The challenge that God left in my heart that morning was about claiming my blessings, and owning up to my own blessedness.  We discussed what it might mean for me to be given the keys to the kingdom, as Jesus tells Peter in Matthew 16.  These beautiful babes that I have, these little ones who so earnestly seek His presence — this is my piece of the kingdom right now.  God has called me to raise them up to Him, and He has blessed me to do it right by Him.  I am thankful that I am not alone in this, but have a kingdom-community worshipping, living and growing side-by-side my whole blessed family.

{this moment}

{this moment} – A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. ~inspired by SouleMama