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.

there you go

There you go, working good from my bad
There you go, making robes from my rags
There you go, melting crowns from my calves
There you go, working good of all I have
Till all I have is not that bad.
-Caedmon’s Call, “There You Go” 

I am bone tired.  This work of caring for the Little Ones is hard work.  It is all consuming, and refining.  At this point my daily task is triage: managing whatever need is most pressing.  It is delicate, often, to understand priority.

Today went something like this:  home from the grocery store, the drive a bit long for all, Littlest wanting to nurse and punctuating our drive with cries to let us know.  Into the house we go, arms full of Little Ones and cold groceries.  Get the salmon and yogurt in the fridge – all else can wait.  Scoop up the Littlest, new diaper and then to the breast.  Another new diaper.  Feuding bigger kids, screams demanding intervention.  Half dressed Littlest goes into the swing to deal with the escalating tantrum of the Eldest:  show down.  Finish up that diaper change.  Middlest in potty crisis necessitating new underwear.  Back to the breast.  Burp, burp — uh oh!  Spit up everywhere: couch, my shirt, my pants, soaked through to my underwear; new outfits for Littlest and me.  Gather the laundry, scoop the detergent, lid closed on the machine. Did I mention it’s lunchtime?  Hungry Little Ones, and the rest of the groceries are still in the car.  On it goes, a full hour since we’ve been home, and I’m finally putting the last box of rice away.

The needs are pressing and persistent.  Somewhere in there I find time to slather a piece of french bread with peanut butter, and pee.

We’ve been stuck together, in this space, for some time as we’ve battled sickness in the midst of life with a newborn.  My mom suggested a few fun ideas that might freshen up our playtime: an indoor beach picnic,  for instance.  I nodded, loving the thought of it all, but knowing deep in my body that I do not have what it takes right now to orchestrate even that.  So we stick with the old favorites: we read, we color, we breath and we move on.

This season for me is about offering up what little I have, in faith.  Faith that my love is communicated in the daily chores of mothering.  Faith that these seeds are being planted, to sprout with fullness in due time.  Faith that this work is forming beauty and rightness and tender love deep in my heart, in their hearts. My offering is this tired body, it is my less-than-enthusiastic make believe games.  It is my voice reading to the Little Ones, less dramatically than it was last week.  It is days in pajamas, and one too many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  I offer it all, giving more fully than I knew I was capable.  It is received, and redeemed.  I know it is made better, more full.  I am certain that my Little Ones will know this desperate love that I carry for them, as they will know the burning love of the One who redeems it all.

This work is refining.  This work is humbling.  This work is revealing.  It is beautifying, and mystifying.  I give it all as my prayer, my living sacrifice.

 

breathing the spirit

I don’t know how to love well – when to say yes, when to say no, when to be creative, when to lay down the law, when to hold to the rules, when to let go.

These words, written by Sarah Styles Bessey @ Emerging Mummy in her “Practices of Mothering” series, have been bouncing in and out of my head since I read them last week.

I have thought in the past that what makes a good mom is someone who says “yes,” emphatically and without question most of the time.  A mom who is adventurous and optimistic, a mom who does not squash a child’s natural curiosity or desire to explore.  A mom who can stand some crazy.  And I still think that this is true.

But, deep in these trenches, I’ve also learned that a good mom is one who knows her “no,” too.  Kindly, but firmly.  Not tough love — that’s not what I’m talking about.  Healthy boundaries, or even just a good read of the moment.  What are the needs, of everyone, right now?  This can be so much harder sometimes.

Both of these reflect the same thing:  love.  In my desire to love my Little Ones, deeply, profoundly, I need to be able to do these both.  And you know what?  Without Love Himself, I can’t do either.

Throughout this year, I’ve focused on my breath, to ground me, to inspire me.  My breath has kept me connected to the present moment, and  again, here, I’m reminded to breathe.  This moment, in.  Another moment, out.  It is so much bigger than me.  There are no rules, no formulas that make for good mothers, or good children.  But there is space, and grace, and hugs, and love, and I have to trust that in my mistakes, those times when I’ve said “yes” too much, the times when I’ve planted a hard-lined “no” in frustration — that these moments will be redeemed.   Lessons learned.  Fresh-starts are ours for the taking.

Bessey encourages her readers that good mothering is no different from following Christ in other aspects of our lives — the Spirit made visible in it’s Fruit. She writes: “When I make mothering with peace and patience, kindness and gentleness, love and self-control dependent on me simply trying harder, I run out myself very quickly.”  To love my children well, to grow them well, I need more than myself.   I don’t have brilliance to add to the words of Emerging Mummy — I’m only nodding my head vigorously at this truth.

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.

joyful parenting

Ann Voskamp offers this Joyful Parenting Manifesto and I think it is one of the most halting, inspiring things I’ve come across in a long time.  (Follow the link. Scroll past the pictures.  Seriously. You won’t regret it — such good stuff.)

I’ve had a copy printed out for a while, but haven’t found a good way to see it often.  Stick it in my mirror?  Frame it? Put it on the fridge?  Not sure yet.  For a while it sat on my bedside table, then it got shoved into my bible.  I’m not doing great, then, on paying attention to this manifesto, but I do try to keep the idea of it around in my head.

Particularly, I often remind myself that there are no emergencies, and we needn’t be in a hurry (#3).  Slow my mind, slow my steps, my pace so that I’m not so frantic, the kids aren’t so frantic.  This is particularly true at mealtimes, when I’m trying to get food on the table to hungry babes, especially the Littlest who has recently learned to climb up in any of the chairs at the table.  Or when we are trying to get out the door — please put your shoes on, I ask AGAIN.  The truth is that if I remember that “only amateurs hurry” as Voskamp states, then we will have a better experience getting where we are going.  There are no emergencies!  It does not matter if we are a few minutes late to preschool.  And the grocery store certainly doesn’t care what time we arrive.  Of course it is the lens through which I am viewing my year, but it echos for me again the reminder to breathe.  Let my breath set the pace, and we can avoid so many of our battles.  I will hold on to my patience.

I also love how Voskamp tells us to fight feeling with feeling (#4), claiming that she, at least, can only feel one feeling at a time (now, I’m not sure if that’s exactly how I think, but…) and then she urges us to chose to give thanks at all times.  We are biblically exhorted to do that same (see Eph 5:20).  She asserts that to battle mounting stress, or other negative feelings, we should turn our eyes to God and thank Him for right where we are.  I want to have that — to look around, in the muck, pause and say “thanks.”  To know the blessings, to acknowledge the blessings as the gifts that they are.  The tantruming child kicking me as I’m trying to help him get dressed.  Blessing.  The cries about stinkbugs: blessing.  The husband who is not here because he is at work: blessing.  Sleepless nights: blessing. The sink full of dishes to be washed, the laundry to be folded: again, blessings. All gifts from Him.  Glory be.

These ten points are provoking and challenging.  I am setting my mind to them, to live them out more fully. I know that to do this, I need to lean fully on God’s word, and His Spirit alive in my life. I want to speak grace words, to see beauty all around me.  Won’t you do the same?

I’m choosing #1 to focus on for the next week.  I’ll let you know how it goes.  What’s your focus for the week?