near ‘nough

There is a story that my mother used to tell about her honeymoon.  It’s one of those stories that has become family folklore, and the sharp details have been worked smooth with each telling, until the words that spill out are more fairy tale than anecdote.  That’s okay with me, especially because as I’ve heard the story at different times in my life, I’ve heard the words differently.  As I tell the story today, I give you my version of this folklore, through the hazy lens of years of translation.

After my parents got married they took a road trip up through New England.  I don’t think it was plotted out on a map; I don’t think they set mileage goals each day.  I do think that they were looking for stories, and looking to find a version of themselves on the road.  My mom grew up in Nashua, New Hampshire, but had most recently made her home in Washington, D.C. where she met my dad.  This was more her territory than his, though she’ll be the first to point out the many distinctions throughout this land, tucked north on that map and labeled “New England.”

In my head, they are in Maine, but it could be anywhere.  They are driving, and lost. Maybe hungry.  Or it could have been definitely hungry and maybe lost.  They are looking for something, this I know.  Whether is was just looking for somewhere to grab a bite to eat, or to orient themselves towards a more specific destination, I don’t know.  Anyhow, they are looking.  And what they see is a man, on a bench.  In my head, he is an older man, wearing a newsboy cap, with a long white handlebar mustache.  He has his one ankle resting on the knee of his other leg, and a newspaper spread on his lap.  Oh, and he has glasses, too.

My parents slow their car, a VW bug, until they come to a stop in front of the bench.  It’s a sleepy little town, and there is no one else around.  They don’t need to throw their flashers on because there are no cars behind them.  My mom rolls down her window, because of course my dad is driving.  She leans her head out the window and throws her voice out to the man on the bench.

“Are you from around here?” she shouts.  He lifts his gaze from his newspaper. He is surprised at the sound of her voice.  She’s a little surprised by it, too.  The birds, whose song had been the only sound filling that empty street, stop as if to give my mother the stage.

The man makes eye contact with my mom, taking in the scene: my dad in the driver’s seat, the out–of-state license plate. He folds his newspaper, leans forward to answer her query.

“Near ‘nough,” he quips.

I’m not sure what happens next: did they get directions to a fabulous diner and eat breakfast for dinner?  Did they find the name of the town through which they had puttered, and discovered they were closer than they realized to the stopping place?  I don’t know. But here’s what I know for sure.  “Near ‘nough” becomes a mantra of sorts.  They become words to mark out how we honor each other with our best.  My mother’s car, into my teen years, carries the vanity plate NEARNUF. It becomes a way to measure out life.

I had forgotten about this story when I chose my one word for this year. I was going to orient my year around enough. I was going to shelve my own expectations for perfection, and instead embrace reality.  What I am is enough.  What I have is enough.  When I have to move a stack of papers and books from counter, to kitchen table, back  to counter again, to find space to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich: enough.  When I wish our house was bigger, with just one more bedroom, just one more bathroom: enough.  When one minute the Eldest is stomping up his stairs, the next he wants to snuggle on the couch to read with me: enough.  It is not perfection, no. But it is just this side of perfection.  And it’s better than perfection because it’s real.

And I think that this is exactly the legacy of this honeymoon legend.  It is saying that in all these things, I’m “near ‘nough.”  Not spot on, but it’ll do.  And what I’ve found is that as I embrace these places where my reality ends and only God’s perfection begins, the gaps are colored in.  The holes are filled up. Not made perfect, not erased – just blessed.

Because mostly, in life, we don’t ever get exactly where we thought we were going when we started out.  But I’ll take “near ‘nough” any day.

building my nest

LORD God All-Powerful, my King and my God,
sparrows find a home near your altars;
swallows build nests there to raise their young.
Psalm 84:3

I was nursing my Littlest in a room full of wise women today as I sat in bible study.  Conversation had come around to the catastrophes of the world, the multitude of hurt and suffering that so easily overwhelms us.  We were being urged to remember these global issues in prayer.   Our discussion covered a lot of ground, and somehow we had landed here, on this verse in the middle of the Psalms. I don’t even remember how it fit with it all.  But I do know that this was a word for me to hear today, as I gathered the Littlest in my arms.

I am building a nest.  I am raising young. And we, my young and I, are welcomed to be in His presence, to make our home near his altar.  

My daily battles are fought and won, not by me, but by my God who redeems all.  To talk about the problems of the world, while completely critical, sometimes feels abstract and difficult to understand.  What I understand is that there is a four-year old wanting to “help” with dinner, a two-year old who has quietly tucked herself away someplace, probably with markers, and a newborn who cries loudly if I put him down.  These are my immediate concerns, and this takes all of my attention.  Even my prayer attention.  Especially my prayer attention.

In my best, most “spiritual” moments, for instance in college when I served  in a leadership position for our Christian fellowship group, I was sort of disciplined about using my prayer time.  I typed up a chart that listed all kinds of concerns that I wanted to lift up to God, and I rotated through it regularly.  Some things were standing prayers, others changed as needs changed.  I had big things, like famine, and war, and poverty, and small things, like a dating relationship or a big project for a class.  And I was actually pretty diligent about praying through these things.

I can’t do that now.  Nor do I suppose that is what God has intended for me now.  Of course I know that there is no formula or trick to earning God’s favor in prayer.  I don’t think if I click my heels three times after I say “amen” that my prayer will be magically granted.  But this time of mothering little ones has taught me that the form that my prayers take, the words I use (or even using words at all) is so much less important than recognizing the presence of God in all of this.  It is the stirring-the-pot prayer, the nursing-the-babe prayer.  It is the filling-the-bathtub prayer, and the driving-down-the-highway prayer.  It is the middle-of-the-night prayer, and the hold-my-tongue-prayer.  It is offering to God all those moments, and seeing Him in them all.  If my nest is at His altar, it is all prayer; it is all an act of worship.

God knows that my own little world in so all encompassing to me now that it is hard to see the World.  I know that if I can’t form the words to pray eloquently asking for relief of famine in the African horn, God isn’t going to be disappointed in my love for His people.  I’m loving His people.  He has called me to build my nest at His altar.  If me and my Little Ones are hanging out at His altar, in our nest of blocks and crayons, school and storybooks, temper tantrums and sleepless nights, than we are constantly in His presence.  If I am welcomed to raise my young at the foot of His dwelling, than it is a Holy place, and Holy work.

This all just makes sense to me.  That my prayers now are different, that my needs now are different, that my life now is different.  In many ways it is so much more real. How can I hang out at His altar and not be transformed by His Grace?  My need is too great.

The Psalm continues to talk about His blessings: to those who sing Him praise, to those who depend on Him for strength, to be water in the dry places.  He makes His people grow stronger, protecting His people.  He blesses those who trust Him.  When my nest is in His presence, it is easy to see His hand and receive His blessings.

Our LORD and our God, you are like the sun and also like a shield. You treat us with kindness and with honor, never denying any good thing to those who live right. –Psalm 84:11

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.

 

when i am certainly not (enough)

When I chose enough as my “one word” for this year, I didn’t realize that it would be such a challenge. 

Roll with it.  Go with the flow.  Usually I think I’m pretty good at this.  I mean, I think it’s actually one of my strengths, being able to just go with whatever is happening instead of digging in my heels and bucking the tide.  But still it happens where even in my best, most easy-going, yoga-breath moments it all becomes too much, and I find myself struggling to find that place of “enough.” And when I’m not at my best?  Well, that was this weekend.

Friday morning started early, and I’m sure that I wasn’t rested enough anyway.  No school because of the holiday weekend meant that we were not constrained to any particular routine, for better or worse.  The day was shaping up to be pretty special, though, because we were anticipating a visit from  long distance cousins (more playmates!), Daddy was coming home early, and it was my mom’s birthday with plenty of celebrating to do.  But waiting is the hardest part, and our visitors weren’t set to arrive until just before lunch, and then were waylaid due to traffic and traveling difficulties, and so it was that we were on pins and needles, waiting, waiting.  I did my best to occupy the Little Ones, trying to infuse semi-tired activities with new enthusiasm (Playdoh! Let’s make a feast! I’ll roll the hot dogs, you make the pancakes!)

We had a wonderful visit with cousins not seen often enough, so thankful are we for their dedication and love for us, and the welcome distraction of a well-played afternoon.  Daddy came home early, but with kids climbing up his legs and hanging from his back, he confessed that he wasn’t feeling well and needed to lie down.  (Didn’t see that coming, did I?  Roll with it). And so it was that while the Little Ones skipped their afternoon naps because of our guests, Mark spent the afternoon in bed.  We hugged our cousins good bye and sent them off, late afternoon cresting into early evening.  After I checked on Mark, and it was clear that he was in no shape to join in the birthday celebrations for my mom, I tromped around the house coming to terms with my own ragged tiredness.  The kids whined about not seeing their dad.  I was all too glad to have some place else to go.  I threw a pack of Saltines at Mark, said a quick “good bye” and half-hearted “hope you feel better,” and felt less enough than I have ever been.

Roll with it.  Right.  As the Littlest is buckled into his infant car seat, screaming, and the bigger kids are taking too long to get their shoes on.  As I realize that the Middlest has pooped in her underwear.  To the bathroom we go, screaming infant in tow.  As, once that is sorted, we all manage to get into the car, buckled up, I open the garage door and see Mark’s car blocking our way.  As the Littlest screams, and cries, and I can’t get this car moving soon enough to lure that guy into the sleep he so desperately wants.  Enough.  Somewhere in there is enough, but I couldn’t find it.

It was a long evening, after a long day, and once the bigger kids (who were so great) were tucked into bed, full up on birthday cake, I scurried around trying to figure out how to survive what I knew was to be a long night by myself.  The Littlest and I slept in the other bedroom, after I created a makeshift space for the two of us to snuggle.  And yes, it was a long night, but joy comes in the morning, right?  With heavy eyes, heavy body I nervously tapped on my bedroom door that next morning, wanting nothing more than to see a rejuvenated husband and daddy.  It was a rocky start, and I’m not sure our weekend ever recovered.

I have been less than graceful this weekend, less than gracious.  My momentum to roll with things dried up somewhere around 5pm on Friday, and was clearly not enough to last the weekend.  What makes this even harder for me is knowing that Mark will start a night shift on Monday, throwing our days on end for an indefinite period of time.  This weekend left me dried up already, so clearly not enough to handle what little was being asked of me.  And yet, in my absolute weakness I turned not to the One who redeems that, but instead threw my hands up, acting out in bitterness.

I don’t know what this week will look like, as Mark trades his normal working hours for ones that are skewed in awkward directions.  I hope that I will reclaim my ability to go with the flow a bit more, to recognize where we can be pliable.  I am certain that I will find my edges, and be made to see more clearly what “enough” looks like, in what I offer up, and in what I receive.

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