and the living {ain’t} easy

It it “glazing” hot, as the Eldest has been known to declare.  The Littlest keenly focuses his eyes on his big siblings.  Those bigger ones know how to keep cool: they romp and run and dunk and splash in a cheap blow-up plastic baby pool.  The shade shifts; I adjust the Littlest and I to keep us out of that strong sun.  I declare now: this is how we will spend our summer.

It is the first time in days that I let my shoulders fall back in ease, release the breath I didn’t even know I was holding.  This picture of summer, alive in front of me, is familiar with echos of my own childhood.  I know how the blades of grass get stuck on wet feet.  I know that taste of sunscreen as it migrates with sweat and hose water to my lips.  I need this afternoon of innocence.

We were in our second car accident in a month last Wednesday.  Both times were not my fault; both times I had all three kids with me.  (Yes, we are all fine).  Since last Wednesday, I’ve been wrestling with my words, choosing carefully how to talk about all of this with the Little Ones.  The Eldest, with his tendencies towards worry, is afraid to get in the car again.  He tells me, frankly “But Mommy, you said a few weeks ago that we weren’t going to have another accident for a while!”  Of course I did.  I thought it was a safe assumption: in his four and a half years of driving in the car with me, we have never come close to being in a car accident before. The Middlest tells me “Mama, I don’t like car accidents” with a quiver to her voice.

So we talk about it.  The Eldest takes his job seriously, telling each new person in detail exactly what happened.  His words are concrete, his hands full of action.  With each telling, he gains strength over his worry: he begins to own this tale.  But in the quiet moments, his fear is undone.  I want to smooth his hair, hold his hand and tell him that there will be no more car accidents. I want to assure him that it will not rain and there will be no storms.  I want to promise a life full of sunshine and playing in the pool.  But that’s not life, is it?  And if I’m honest with myself, I know that my little boy knows that already.  He knows heartache.  He knows sadness and worry and he knows that life can be hard, and scary.  My best bet here is to sit in his worry with him.  To hold his hand through the sad and scary and hard.  To walk it out with him.  And in that, to show him my footprints through the tough stuff, sometimes as a guide, but more than that to show how it’s possible to come out the other side.  Addie Zimmerman says this:

“The world is infused with pain and with evils of all shapes and sizes, and they will encounter it, our children. It will get under their fingernails, on their toes. And in the end what I want most to do for my children is to teach them to walk well in a world that is sharp and hard and broken. I want them to love bigger, to love stronger, to be able to stay healthy when they encounter dirt of all kinds.”   Safe for the Whole Family

This accident we had was just that: an accident.  The man who rear-ended us has his own story; his own dirt and his own hurts.  I will forgive him for not paying attention.  I will forgive him for creating a mess of the car I was driving.  And yes, I will forgive him, too, for the burden of worry he helped heap onto my Little Ones.  I will forgive him for making my ten minute trip to Target feel painfully long and difficult because of the mind-game that we now play just to get in the car.  I will love bigger and stronger, because I’m teaching my Little Ones to do it, too.

Though my adult self can get wrapped up in worry, it is often triggered by these small bodies carrying more than I feel that they should.  As a child I was not a worrier.  Maybe it was my sweet acceptance that the world was no bigger than my backyard, my problems no bigger than practicing hard to run  faster than the neighborhood kids and earn those bragging rights.  One thing I know is that God can use these soft hearts that my Little Ones have: He can break their hearts for the things that break His.  He can use their hearts to move their hands, their feet in loving this broken world.  And this worry that they carry can be a window for them to see God: to see how He walks with them, to see how He answers prayer, making the sad things come untrue.  To allow them to know His faithfulness.

I want for my Little Ones to remember running hard in the backyard, hair matted down with sweat around their foreheads.  I want them to remember the force of  their strong round bodies jumping and landing in five inches of water.  But it is just as likely that they will capture the scary moments, too.  I want to honor it all.

We gather up our bags, and our courage, and hustle to the door.  I hoist long legs into Daddy’s truck, click car seats and buckles into place.  Before I turn up a little Johnny Cash to ease the drive (the Eldest’s request), his brave voice beckons from the back seat: “Mama, can you pray?” And so I do.  And we pause a little longer at our stop signs, look one extra time before making a turn.  But we together we sing loudly, and come home to put on our bathing suits 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

thankful tuesday: sleep edition

Today I’m linking up with Micha Boyett of Mama:Monk fame to share in the work of spreading gratitude.  Won’t you join us? 

My sanity is oh-so-terribly linked with my sleep.  I’m one grouchy mama when I’m in that daze of sleep deprivation.  Three kids in to this whole gig, and I’ve learned how to function on so much less sleep than I was used to before.  When the Littlest was born, the usual chit chat always turned to sleep: “So, you must be tired?” Let me tell you, I’ve been tired for going on five years now.  That’s nothing new; it just comes with the territory.  My kids are not the greatest sleepers.  They are yet to understand the grace of a good ol’ nap.

But.  These past few months have really darkened the circles under my eyes.  It’s just been a combination of factors, not the least which is my own inability to sleep when I should be sleeping, or the Littlest who just loves to be held.  Or the Four year old who worries, lots.  Or the two year old who wants to run, run, run forever.  You get the picture.

So it is with the greatest gratitude, the highest praises of thanksgiving that I can say for two nights in a row, now, I have slept at least four hours straight.  That’s right, folks.  And I feel like a new woman.  I am thankful that for four days in a row the bigger Little Ones have successfully shared a room (this has been a long time comin’).  I am thankful that because of this, the “baby” room has been freed up, and the Littlest slept in his crib for the first time, two nights ago.  It could be complete and absolute coincidence (though I think not) but as soon as he was rocked and nursed to sleep in a dark and quiet room, and then snoring peacefully in this room all to himself, that he had the best night’s sleep he has had yet.  Let me tell you: for this I am thankful.  (Just this past weekend he had been up every two hours). I am thankful for Mark, who so faithfully parents through the night with me.  He changes every diaper that needs tending in the middle of the night, and is often the one to deescalate crises of heart.  And because of this, and for so many other reasons, I am thankful that he is sleeping by my side at night, now, too.

Because I am more rested than I have been, I have more patience with my Little Ones.  I have more energy to be fully engaged in the tasks of parenting.  I have new eyes to see these blessings here, before me.  I am thankful for the chance to read and write a bit.  Because I haven’t spent all morning draining my coffee cup and watching the clock until I can get horizontal again, I am able to do the things that need to be done while the Little Ones are taking their rest: I am thankful for the black bean soup simmering on the stove for dinner.  I am thankful for folding laundry in quiet.  I am thankful for each Little One: the Eldest reading his books in his bed; the Middlest snoozing in mine, my grown-up covers tucked gently under her tiny chin.  For the Littlest who has found comfort in his own space in his own crib.  Thankful for my lonely arms, empty for only a moment.  Thankful, knowing that they will be full again, always.

Today, I am thankful for rest. 

Now, head over to Mama:Monk and count your blessings with us!

fortress

It is standard dinner conversation: “Tell me about your day, Daddy?” the Eldest asks, in between bites of burrito and giggles of nonsense.  The interruptions, routine: the Littlest spurting protest cries, demands to be picked up.  The dance-call, familiar: I’ll hold the Littlest while Mark eats a few bites, then pass him over the table to into Mark’s grasp, taking turns holding this family together, and dishing out seconds.

It is this common family life that is now settling back in our house.  Mark has finished the work project that had him tied up with night shift. Now I eagerly peck him on the lips, barely awake to wish him well as he heads out the door to work at 5:30am.  This is familiar to me: knowing that he will be at our table for dinner.  The Little Ones run down the front steps to greet him in the driveway when he comes home, still covered in the day’s dust.  They, too, are thankful for his presence at the table.  They rejoice in their father’s hands tucking them in to bed at night. I take comfort in him by my side when I’m turning lights off, locking doors for the night.  I sleep easier when he is the last thing I see before I close my eyes.

We are now in transition, though.  When Mark was gone, I couldn’t rely on our old rhythms to get us from one shore to the next.  The benchmarks of how to mark time no longer made sense.  We needed new structure: the day was divided off differently, now.  New routines were created, new rhythms established.  And I built a fortress: a tower to protect myself.  Brick by brick, slowly, daily, I stood these supports together to steady myself in the darkness of parenting alone.  Mark is back now, and I have a partner again, but I find myself stuck, still alone in this fortress that I made.  I didn’t have an exit strategy in mind.  Now we’re doing the hard work, together, of knocking down this tower.  We’re reconstructing our home.

These past two months of upended family life have pushed me to my edge, and at moments passed it.  I did what was necessary to keep our family going, not always with grace or finesse, not always thriving.  And that’s the thing, isn’t it?  We want more than survival — we’re made for Life, Abundant.  And it’s not enough to hold my breath, wait until this one stress-test-of-life passes, because there’s is always another.  I’m beginning to understand more what it means to fix my eyes on Jesus, “the author and perfecter of our faith.”

Tonight, it’s bath night.  We’ll have dinner together.  I’ll try to hear about Mark’s day, in fragments.  The Little Ones and I will tell him about ours.  We’ll set the table together, fold laundry together.  We’ll hand Little Ones around, corralling and cajoling; admonishing and teaching; praising and encouraging.  Together, we’ll take down my fortress, fight through the hard conversations, step on each other’s toes more than we care to.  Together, we’ll hammer these new beams into place, build new rooms, with windows for the view.  Together, we’ll remember what makes this our home.

the pause

We’ve been moving through life: through spring colds, through warm spring and cool breeze, and those thunderstorms that come with it.  We’ve been marching out our footprints, through running races (like, real actual races) and hamburgers on the grill; through dirt and seeds and water; through Mother’s Day and work days and school days, and just good ol’ days.  And books, always.

Let me tell you: I’ve been reading some good stuff.  In  7: an experimental mutiny against excess, Jen Hatmaker takes on seven areas of her life over seven months, eliminating all of the “too-much,” fasting from the things that gunk up our lives and pressing into the calling of Christ on her life and family.  There is so much good stuff here, and I’m sure it’ll be oozing out of me for a while, but tonight it is this last month of hers that has held me captive.

The last excess that she ousts from her life is stress.  Now, obviously life is stressful; it just is.  We can’t actually cut out stress from our lives any more than we can cut out breathing.  It comes with the job of living.  And the flip side of stress is often beautiful and glorious: mountains and valleys.  While we can try to dial down excess stress, the stuff that only adds stress for the sake of stress, the best way to work this stress is to figure out how to cope with it  For her last month of this experiment, Jen embraces seven sacred pauses that she takes throughout the day to focus her attention: with prayer, with scripture, with an intentional pause to breath.

There is so much to glean from here.  I’m pretty sure that she was standing in my kitchen today while Mark was (blessingly) using his free time at home (he’s still on night shift) helping me to fold and organize clean laundry (I cannot begin to tell you how big this mountain of laundry – all clean! – had become).  I was moving, frenetically, setting the bigger Little Ones up at the table to paint, nursing the Littlest, back to refill paint, let the dog out, change a diaper, back to clean up paint, all the while trying to get back to the laundry.  And then those neatly organized piles of laundry were upended (by the dog? by an overly enthusiastic Little?) And those Little Ones are hungry, again!  I knew that my body was tensing, my shoulders beginning to tighten.  My breath was short, and so was my fuse. And then Jen Hatmaker whispers in my ear: time to pause.  Take it Heavenward.  And though I haven’t committed seriously enough yet to engage like she does, with some prescribed prayer and scripture to match, it was enough.  Not to slow down the demands of what swirled around me in laundry and lunches, but to recognize my place in it all, my contribution to the atmosphere of stress.  Using the regularity of my breath, it forced me to let my shoulders drop, and slow the pace of my feet through the kitchen as I reached for the mayonnaise from the fridge, the pretzels from the cabinet.

Jen writes this about the mid-morning pause (which was pretty much where I was):

This mid-morning pause has two emphases: the first is mindfulness of the Spirit’s abiding presence… This pause can redirect our morning trajectory from “efficient” to “inspired.” 

Second, the Blessing Hour is about the sacredness of our hands and work…. Kahlil Gibran said, “Work is love made visible”; what if we approached our work as an opporutnity to show love?  To our coworkers, those we serve, our children, to our students… visible love is possible if we work mindfully, as carriers of the sweet Spirit of Christ.
pgs 186-187  (emphasis mine)

Right? Right.  This just gets me.  Or me, it.  As I’m pausing to invite God’s Spirit into my stress, I am inviting Him to show me how to love.  As I’m patting dry the Middlest’s hands after washing the paint from them, I’m not just perfunctorily doing a duty: I’m loving her.  And not just me loving her but Christ loving her, too.  I’m making visible something that is so strong in my heart, so fierce in my brain and my belly.  Under His precious breath, it becomes more than my small offering: it becomes enough, more-than-enough.   Instead of moving through the blur of the day, heaping the daily chores onto my shoulders, already hunched, unable to straighten from the weight I’m bearing,  it’s bringing attention to what is in front of me.  What is it that is causing stress for me?  Is it the laundry? (Yes!) It’s being mindful in my choices, then.  What if I allowed my actions to be inspiration, instead of broken down into some energy input-output strategy of efficiency? What if I allowed God to fill those gaps?

And then, as the day closes, here is what Jen says about the last pause of the day, “the Great Silence”:

It begins with a gentle evaluation of the day.  The focus is on awareness, and we include not just weaknesses but the strenghts and accomplishments of the day.  The Great Silence teaches us to be healthy sinners, living in neither denial of our sin or despair because of it.

We welcome soft darkness that is exquisitly beautiful and healing. God dims the lights on our weary bodies, making the way for sleep, allowing us to see the stars. There is a beauty to the darkness, the natural rhythm of the earth that invites us to be still and rest.
pg 190. (emphasis mine)

Because to me, that’s what this is all about.  It’s my hands, palms up, loosening  my grip on the things I hold.  It’s not despairing in the mess  I’ve made today: in how I haven’t trusted fully, or served whole-heartedly. Not dwelling in  the mistakes I’ve made or the way I’ve squandered my one “precious and wild life”.  It’s recognizing the things I’ll do differently tomorrow.  It’s the mystery of Christ in me, the hope of glory.  It’s knowing that I’m loved, simply loved, and not for anything of my doing.  It’s having the perspective to know that this is just a teeny tiny part of the bigger picture.  And it’s receiving one more gift before we get the fresh start of tomorrow: the gift of rest.

It’s all in there:  all this glorious and not-glorious stuff; the bits and pieces of life. Sometimes it just takes fresh eyes.