one word: enough

In 2011 I chose a word, an intention, to guide the moments that would make up my year.  It was my challenge to breathe, to let my body set the pace.  I wrote about it, sometimes.  The breath that pushed me, stretched me.  It also slowed me down.  I learned about mindfulness, about the present moment.  And I learned to accept my needs and limitations.

As January dawned (and now is growing towards February), I’ve been slow to grasp and hold a word for 2012.  I had hesitations, unsure even about my transition to mom of three.  And that is the beauty of the new year, too — we never know all that it will become for us.  But now I have it:  enough.  It has chosen me as much as I have chosen it.

Enough — because what I have, what I give is enough.  Enough — because my house is clean, enough.  Enough — because everyone is clothed, and fed, and loved, yes, well loved, and that is enough.  Enough — because no matter how much I try, and work, and plan, it can seem like it’s not enough.  Because this work of mothering, of being a woman, and a wife, is hard.  Because it’s bigger than me, always.  Because I often feel like I don’t have enough — enough lap, enough patience, enough time, enough tenderness, enough hands, enough of me.

It is acceptance of my imperfection and offering up these failures.  It is my hands full of inadequacies, all the ways that I don’t meet the mark, knowing that it is still enough.  As I utter “enough” it is the intersection of reality and Grace in my life.  It is the loaves and the fishes — it is giving what I have, knowing that in His transforming power, it is enough.  It commands my faith to know what He can do with my “enough”  – Because He is Enough.

 “But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”  2 Corinthians 12:9

 

pause

It is so easy to want to speed things up right now.  I’m living in the anxious limbo of baby-almost-here.  But I am constantly engaging in this self-talk of slowing down, pausing, to remember these moments.  I’m not sure if I’ll be pregnant again; I want to remember what this feels like.  Every squeeze in my belly, every swift kick to my ribs is a reminder of this miracle that I am chosen to be part of.  I’m not sure when The Littlest will sit in my lap and rock, as The Littlest.  I want to remember her body in it’s perceived smallness, because I know she will appear giant the moment she meets her new brother.  There is chaos in this swirling time: coming down from the intensity of the holidays, filtering through all the indulgences that came with them; honoring this nesting instinct (which at times has felt more like a panic!); bridging the gap between family of four and family of five.  Within this chaos, I’m choosing to pause; to know the peace that is mine for the taking, the peace that I can give to my Little Ones.  Instead of speeding up, let’s slow it down.

Our house is a little up-ended.  We’ve scurried around, putting away Christmas decorations in a hurry, not knowing when I’d get to them if left a bit longer to linger in the sacred space of the twelve days.  We also needed to make room (a theme for us, always) — all of our bedroom furniture had to be moved out of our bedroom for new carpet to be laid, in an attempt to make our room a little more warm and cozy for a newborn.  It’s not like we have anywhere extra for this stuff to go, so piles of books, laundry baskets, dressers and yes, our bed, landed in the family room.  For one night, we experienced what it might have felt like to our ancestors, as our living space doubled as sleeping quarters, too.  Though our house can often feel teeny-tiny, I’m thankful for the bedroom that we do have.  And after ripping up lots of carpet in our many houses, swearing we’d never put intentionally choose it, I am thankful for the thick padded warmth and the degree or two it will add to our chilly bedroom above the garage.  While the timing of this project, of course, has added another dimension of crazy to these days, it has also encouraged it’s own sort of pause.  Pause to take stock at the stuff I’ve been moving around: the books, the journals, the nick-knacks, the baskets, the clothes. A nesting purge has settled over this room now, and we continue to make room.

There is lots more to be done in order to feel prepared.  But I know that this baby cares not if my clothes are folded and put away, if the kitchen is mopped.  This baby will care for little else than a warm, tender breast and arms to sleep in.  This is what I love about newborns: they are so simple!  He will have clean blankets, clean clothes, fresh diapers.  He will have his family to love and adore him.  And that is all that he will need, for a while.  This is another reminder for me to pause, and lavish the Little Ones that are here now with the extra that I have to give, now.

Instead of wearily living in the anxiety of the question mark of time, I’m going to emphatically say “yes” to today.  Yes, let’s sit on the floor doing puzzles!  Yes, let’s read another book!  Yes, I want to play play-doh with you!  Because today I can.  And today, I’m pausing to do it. I will answer to Wendy, and call you, oh Littlest, Bob, all day, lest I forget.  (Though this is where any similiarity between Bob the Builder and her imaginative play ends).  I will thoughtfully answer the questions that the inquisitive Eldest throws at me, even if it means having to search with him for an answer.  I will lay my hand on my belly, forever imprinting that squeeze, this stretch, in my brain, and bite hard my tongue when I want to complain of the back ache and indigestion.  I will pause, and rest, too, so that I can have it all to give when the time is ready.

 

of celebration and rest; breathing in circles

We found our way through the mystery and joy of Christmas this year, and have come out the other side.  It was a glorious treasure to share these celebrations with friends and family alike, but always, (always) after times like these I find that we need to recalibrate — to fall back into the familiar, unhastened rhythms of our own family, in our own space.  This year, more than ever, I’m feeling this heavy return of the pendulum as we share this last few weeks as a family of four.

Blessings abundant have been poured out onto us — in time, food, love, attention, devotion, hugs and kisses, laughter — but of course in gifts.  Real and tangible, things to hold and cherish.  I truly blush at the myriad ways that my Little Ones especially have been lavished.  It is good; of course they are beyond thankful. But all of these blessings, all of these gifts are now lined up in my family room, staring me down.  I’m being mocked by my desire for simplicity, scoffed at by these piles of toys and books.  What I know this means is that it is time to sift and sort, time to cultivate and curate.  But oh, how easy it is to be mastered by those piles!

Likewise, though I was more protective of our family time and our need to just be in the holiday, instead of making our way, doing the holiday, it still is just so much.  There are people who love us dearly, whom we love, that need our time and attention.  While spread over the course of four days, it was definitely a long four days, and even with copious amounts of time at home to play and drift and nap, by that fourth evening out I had two fragile Little Ones.  And really, I of course can’t say that I felt any differently.  When I had to prompt the Eldest, who is usually overly polite and bursting with manners, to say “thank you” for a gift, and received defiance and tears, I knew that we were on our very edges.  And oh how I long to teach my Little Ones to respect their edges!

The overcast sky and its imposing drops of rain tell me today that we are right at home: resetting, finding our center.  The Eldest is still cozy in his pajamas; I’m still reaching for my tea cup.  I’ve traded our endless loop of Christmas music for a soundtrack to mirror the darkened sky.  Laundry is being pushed through, a constant reminder of the circles we weave in our home, leading us back to center.

The Blessing of the blessings is that we breathe; we settle in. We circle ’round.  We continue to make room.  We make room for Light that has come into this Dark; we make room for the toys and gifts that will rearrange our play area.  We make room for newborn diapers and burp cloths; for swaddling blankets and newborn hats. We make room for Peace, incarnate, and peace in our home.  We leave space for fragile ones, arms open wide with extra grace.  And rest.  Deep, abiding rest.

locked out

The Littlest and I had ourselves quite an adventure this past Friday morning.  In what was going to be the time and space of a normal morning, anticipating the coming weekend, and moving through the bustle of our routines, I was again stretched, reminded to breathe and thankful for my blessings, especially the blessing of community.

Three days a week, our mornings can be a little hectic.  The Eldest attends school at our church, a program run by a friend of ours and staffed by familiar faces.  It is because we adore these folks and the loving work of Jesus that happens here that I make the sometimes forty minute drive, side by side business professionals commuting to work.  Though with the change from Daylight Savings, the Little Ones have been rising earlier, and our movements through getting dressed, teeth brushed, bellies full, bags packed and ready to go have been flowing together with less haste.

Friday mornings are an especially nice time for the Littlest and I.  After walking The Eldest to his classroom and giving enthusiastic hugs and kisses, she challenges me to chase her up the ramp as we slowly make our way back to the car.  Here there is no hustle: we have some time to pass before we share our music class together.  This class has been a sweet time, just the two of us together.  She glows with the undivided attention, and I am eager to lavish it on her. Today was our last class of the session, made more sad by the fact that the program is closing at the end of 2011.

After chatting with some friends on our way out, I casually plunked the Littlest into her car seat, buckled her in, and gave no thought at all as I tossed my keys, as I so often do, onto the drivers seat before closing her door.  It was less than a breath later as I tugged on the handle of my door, a moment of clarity falling sharply: locked.  All of the doors: locked.  While I had been carelessly sharing details of my upcoming weekend with a friend, the Littlest had been entertaining herself with the buttons on my key fob: locked.  There she was, on one side of the door, smiling wide at me from her seat; here was I, on the other.  My keys set mocking me on my seat.

I didn’t panic, yet.  There were two women chatting in the parking lot.  I approached them with my situation, and both hugely sympathetic, offered themselves to me.  With these moms smiling and giggling at my Littlest, I went in search of help. My cell phone and wallet were among the other important things also inside my car.  Inside the church, I found the sexton, another familiar face, and he preached the love of Christ to me in his actions for the next 45 minutes while he lay aside his other tasks and patiently tried to break into my car.  It was as I was trotting back to my car (my 32-weeks-pregnant-body trying not to pee my pants) that I quietly let some tears slide down my cheeks.  By the time I returned to my car, I was buttressed by the encouraging, and normalizing, words of these two moms, who until this morning were complete strangers to me.

The Littlest chirped cheerfully to herself in the car.  She could reach her books and was content waving to me every few minutes.  The weather was temperate: 40 degrees and overcast, alleviating much of my fear for her inside the car.  It became clear that my car needed a professional to get into it; the moms stayed by the Littlest so that I could run into the school office to find the right phone numbers and make the right calls.  All along the way, I was met with the blessings of unknown community, offering a kind smile or a similar story.

AAA came 30 minutes after I had called.  He was here for less than one minute, using his professional tools and experience to make light work of our predicament.  The sexton, though he knew that more knowledgeable help was coming, never gave up on me.  Saying he never was one to quit a job, he wiggled his slim jim with such patience and vigor that I felt so sure that any moment he would pop the door open.   The two moms laid aside their morning plans to make sure that we were safe and OK.  The door opened, I unbuckled the Littlest from her seat, where she had been safe and contained the whole time, and we paraded through the school, making sure that all who had helped us along the way knew that we were rescued and fine.

I was back in my car, keys in the ignition, cell phone and coffee in hand, debriefing the morning, with the dawning realization that we had missed our last music class.  A dear friend, knowing what I needed more than I did, after a quick text or two, invited the Littlest and I to interrupt her plans, a working coffee, and join her for a hug and comfort.

Throughout this whole thing we were all fine:  the Littlest was fine inside the car, I was fine rising to the challenge of doing what was necessary.  But what was more than fine was the blessing that I received:  the blessing of familiar faces, and of strangers.  The blessing of moms who’ve been there, and moms who haven’t.  The blessings of care, and love, and community.  The blessing of seeing others step up to help a panicked pregnant mom in need.  My needs were small this morning, really.  But they were real, and they were answered in real ways.

It’s experiences like this one that I need to cause me to confront the borders of my own little world.  It’s easy to operate as the one-woman-show I think I am.  But I’m not.  It’s easy to carry on, not noticing those who I share life with, however small  of a piece it may be.  I need these adventures to teach me to roll with the punches, to continue to breath when sometimes it seems hard, to see with real eyes what is around me, and be thankful for it all.  Sometimes it just takes being locked out.

golden november

I had no idea what was in store for me as I stepped out of bed this morning.  I did not anticipate the blessing, I could not have imagined this glory.  This, a golden, stolen, sun-soaked November day.  The juxtaposition of brown crunching under our feet as we peel off layers of clothing, freeing limbs to run and climb and stretch forth in the warm air.  I hold my breath, want to make time stop, to listen, see these moments for what they are: endless, but delicately finite.  This morning’s strong battle of wills fades from my consciousness, the fresh air wrenching tension from my shoulders, the breeze reminding me of my own breath: inhale, exhale.

Some gifts are easy to recognize: they come wrapped with bows, handed to us graciously, enthusiastically.  We pull off the paper, eager to experience some goodness.  Today is one of those gifts: the trees are decorated in their finest glory, brilliant reds and oranges calling us into their presence.  This day was enthusiastically given, I know, without disguise. As we set our clocks back, darken our evenings, look towards our hibernating routines of winter, I know that the sun is bending earthward today, lighting her beams on our backs, our faces, to remind us to be thankful for this time before.

The Eldest ran and jumped and did things I didn’t know him capable of.  He is athletic, instinctually strong and agile, like his father.  His darkening locks fall shaggy in his face; he pauses by my side for a sip of water, brushing them out of his eyes.  He’ll tell me later: “Mommy, I need a haircut.”  He runs back to join his friends, bodies falling on one another with peals of laughter, chasing across the playground.  He has heart-ties, strong and deep: these friendships are formative, lasting.

The Littlest has been content to keep company with the adults, sharing her snacks with the smallest amongst us, tender in her care.  But she watches: her eyes following the bigger kids until she feels brave enough to join.  And when she does, her tenacity takes her to the edge, pushes my comfort level as I run wildly after her on playground equipment too high, too big for her tiny arms and legs to master yet.

And after, quiet settles on this house, because not even these strong bodies can maintain this pace.  Pungent autumn air trickles through unexpected open windows.  I move swiftly past the laundry whispering my name, knowing the gift of this quiet is mine, too.

When the house awakens, darkness will threaten, the golden moment lost.  Chores will take precedence, routines of evening will creep in, demands of the day threatening to rob us of our gratitude, our peace.  But I will know this gift; I will tuck it into the creases of my heart pocket, procure it the middle of those other moments, to remember, to give thanks.

I doubt that there is such a thing as a measure of spirituality —but if there is, gratitude would be it.  Only the grateful are paying attention.  They are grateful because they pay attention, and they pay attention because they are so grateful.”  (~Barnes, The Pastor as Minor Poet, quoted by Douglas Wilson).