Essays
Enough (Coats and Quiet Lights – #SmallWonder Link-up)
The More We Own The Less We Have to Name
If we had only one coat, we would call it Warm,
but if we got another, it would not be Warmer,
just our other coat,
and if we bought, borrowed, stole
or rescued from the trash
a third, fourth, or fifth coat,
if our closets held so many coats
jackets, parkas, capes, stoles, mantles and mackinaws
that if we changed them daily from October through April,
rotating cashmere, leather, fleece and down,
scarlets and peacocks, blacks and browns,
if we had coats to cover the entire tundra
and with it all our ancestors
who ever felt the chill of His absence,
none of these would be Warmer,
none of these would be Enough.
– L.N. Allen
We have a whole room in our house lined with hooks and devoted to the storage of coats – a startling array of outerwear designed to ease six people through four seasons of weather and everything in-between. That small back room, a former porch now closed in, boasts more coats than Baskin Robbins has flavors – a coat, you might say, for every palate.
I also have a whole room in my mind devoted to the coats of my past, a musty closet so full that the door will hardly stay shut. Digging my way into memory’s closet, I find, way in the back, the mustard-gold wool coat with large toggle buttons that I thought was oh-so-trendy in high school. Hanging near it, or cast forgotten onto the floor, lies the bright orange and navy blue windbreaker that matched so well with my eyes, but made me feel like a construction worker every time I wore it.
The dark wool pea-coat I bought at the Salvation Army during college still hangs stiffly on memory’s hanger. It was ungodly heavy, decked out with two rows of silver buttons and appeared to be a real cast-off from the Navy. Nearby would be the thin yellow rain coat I bought for a camping trip with my then boyfriend who later became my husband, as though the purchase of a coat between us somehow sealed the deal.
Hanging toward the front, still usable, would be the burgundy knee-length coat that makes me feel a little like a rock star every time I wear it. This is the coat that caused my husband to suggest in a gentle tone when I returned home from buying it, that maybe we should consult each other before making big purchases.
I have too many coats (maybe I always have) and my husband and children do too. Lately I’m hunting for a back-up winter coat for my daughter. I’ve made multiple trips to a variety of stores, ordered two online and returned, all because I don’t like the way her bright pink parka from last year is starting to show some wear.
Walking into Old Navy on yet another scouting trip I noticed a box for donating old coats as you buy a new one and I thought, “Why not keep your old coat and buy a new one to donate?”
I didn’t do either, though, not that day nor since.
The coats we wear, like much of our clothing, are often a symbol for identity, announcing to the world our interest in outdoor sports or our need to hide behind something long and warm that covers us. Our coats hold us, warm us, and I have to restrain myself every year to keep from buying an over-abundance of fleeces and hoodies at yard and consignment sales, so great is my desire and my pleasure at covering, clothing, my children.
I have too many coats as our back room will tell you and many days I’m convinced that this is more of a burden than a blessing. I wonder what these coats might tell me if I were to listen to them one by one?
Certainly they would speak of my vanity, my desire to fit in or stick out in equally competing measures. They might mention also, perhaps shyly, my fear of the cold and how holding myself too tightly rigid only makes the shivering that much worse. They would probably also want to know why I don’t go out more often, to enjoy the cold or the rain or the wind, especially now that I have them to keep me.
Gracious God, we in our frail humanity fear the cold, the wind, the rain. To put it more plainly, ever since that incident in the garden, we fear exposure. Forgive us, please, if we go a little overboard in covering ourselves and the ones we love. Help us to bear, oh Lord, your stripping. Teach us to welcome the first breath of frost and its burning sting. Help us to learn to let Warm be Enough.
* * *
Friends, are you longing for a moment of Quiet in the coming Holiday Season? I want to invite you to subscribe to my Advent Email Series called, “Quiet Lights.” Signing up will allow you to receive an email of a simple poem and a few good links to add wonder to your Advent journey. Watch my blog later this week for more info or subscribe NOW by visiting the link.
Click here to subscribe to Quiet Lights.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Slow Down
“Slow down.”
These words rise from heart to head each
morning as I wake.
I hear them walking away from a networking meeting at the
small, brick café down the street.
I hear them when the kids whirl around the kitchen like
snowflakes in a blizzard and it’s all I can do to keep from blasting them into
submission with a giant stomping shout.
“Slow down,” the voice says.
//
In seminary we ran intellectual marathons – punishing races
in pursuit of excellence.
In the hours when the kids are at school and I am my own
boss, I feel myself pushing again in that old, familiar pattern.
Run hard, run fast.
Do more. Do it better. Move, move, move.
//
And still, the small voice whispers, “Slow down.”
//
Last week we had the twins’ four-year-old well-visit at the
pediatrician’s office. John and I met at the office and the boys stripped down to their underwear and clambered around the room while we waited for the Dr.
We asked about their speech, which the preschool seems to
think needs fixing. We got caught up on necessary shots.
With their birthdays falling in August, the appointment was
well overdue. Between the well-visits, the eye dr. and the dentist we, it
seems, are falling behind.
“I can’t keep up,” I say to my husband, to myself, to anyone who
is still long enough to listen.
The thought of the dentist appointments needing to be
scheduled and adding speech therapy for two into the mix? It causes a panic in me, like water rising
around someone who cannot swim.
“Hurry, hurry,” life screams.
//
Last year, coming off of a weekend of panic attacks, I took
the twins to their well-visit by myself.
In the exam room panic rose around me.
My heart pounded, skin flashed hot and cold. Two half-naked boys perched, one on each
knee, was all that kept me from rising, running from the room.
Maybe this is why the voice tells me, “Slow down.” Because we can only spin so fast before we lose
our balance and start to fall.
Sometimes slow is the only way to be.
Sometimes slow is the one necessary thing.
//
Sitting with those words, “Slow down,” and my markers, I found a few more words – maybe you need them too in this too often frenetic holiday season.
Slow down. Just be.
Be still.
Be present.
Listen to and dwell in what is
here, now, this moment.
What love? What fear?
And what possible doorway between the two?
(Grace, always, is the door.)
Twins, Terrorists and Vulnerability (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
When the twins were first born they both fit in one single stroller and routinely fell asleep tangled together.
They sit side-by-side on the paper covered exam table, ready for their annual pediatric well-visit. Clothed only in their Super Hero
tightie-whities, they’re “skin-skin-skin” everywhere. Impossibly long legs dangle, long arms stretch, and bright
little-boys faces gone round and full again in a growth spurt, shine. They’re barrel chested, broad shouldered
men-in-the-making at four-years-old.
Levi asks about the narrow extension at the head of the table. “Is it for your head when you lay down? Will it hold me up?”
“It’s the plank,” I say, invoking the image of a pirate
ship. “If you’re bad the Doctor makes
you walk it.”
His face shines with delighted disbelief.
“Is that true?” he demands.
When the doctor comes in she begins by asking them questions
and they jostle and jockey between themselves to be the first to reply, the one
to give the most detailed answer. Part way
through the questions Levi pipes up out of turn.
“Wait! If she’s just
talking to us, why do we have our pants off!”
My husband and I laugh, he’s right. The doctor assures them an exam will follow.
While they talk the boys, first seated at
separate ends of the table so the nurse would be sure not to confuse them, shift
closer together. Levi skootches the length of the paper sheet
until he’s snuggled in at Isaiah’s side, nearly knocking his brother off the
table. Half-naked they huddle there,
skin to skin intuitively finding comfort in each other in the midst of their
vulnerability.
Watching, I am reminded it has always been this way.
First home from the hospital (and for months to come) we
laid the twins to sleep together in a bassinet or crib. Unable to roll, to move really at all, like
every newborn, we were careful to place them swaddled a foot or so apart, worried
they would somehow suffocate each other.
Returning to check on them in the night, though, we almost always found
them tucked close together, their heads turned into the familiar scent and
warmth of the other. Unable to move
hardly at all, unable really even to see, they each somehow shifted until
their faces touched, their warm, milk-scented baby breath mingled
together.
This morning I am sitting with the wonder of these boys, the way they allow vulnerability to draw them closer together rather than push them apart. In the wake of this weekend’s terrorist attacks, in the light of so much fear and struggling world round and in our very own hearts, I am left with some simple questions . . .
What will I do with my vulnerability?
What will we do with our vulnerability?
Will we allow it to draw us closer together or push us further apart?
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Who Needs Your Mess?
This is not my laundry pile. But it could be . . . if you multiplied what’s here times three.
Her house wasn’t just small, it was tiny.
The shower was quirky and a litter box sat behind a curtain
in the bathroom.
The kitchen wasn’t much more than a hallway and we met
outside seated in a variety of plastic and canvas camp chairs.
What I mean to say is it wasn’t fancy.
I’d never been to a writer’s retreat before, so I’m not sure
exactly what I expected, but these were things I
noticed.
I want to say it didn’t matter, but it did.
The little bits of mess and imperfection were some of the
main things I carried away from the weekend.
Her mess was a gift to me and rather than being overwhelmed, I drove
home thinking, maybe I could do that too.
Welcomed into the REAL of her life, litter box and all, I found the gift
of freedom from perfection.
//
Six months later I invited my new writer friend to lead a
retreat at my house.
My house isn’t tiny, but it does have litter boxes in conspicuous
places and the shower isn’t just quirky, it’s dirty. Participants sat in secondhand Ikea furniture
and lined up on an old leather couch I’d dragged off the side of the road a
week before. I can’t tell you how many
times I thought of my friend and her gracious example in the days and weeks
leading up to the retreat, how much I clung to the gift of freedom she gave.
//
Tonight I’m welcoming a group of seven people to our house
for a brief workshop. Some are complete strangers,
others good friends, but only one has ever been inside our house before.
Some will sit around our dining room table, the one we
bought on Craig’s List and I’ll do my best to make sure the hardened remains of
a month’s worth of meals are duly scraped away.
Others will line up in plastic folding chairs (thank you Target
clearance) along a plastic table which will be oddly placed in the winter
room. I will write with broken bits of
chalk on our handmade black board. I’ll
do my best beforehand to de-clutter surfaces, sweep the kitchen floor and clear
a pathway through the mudroom.
But the laundry will still be piled high on the washer and
dryer, the litter box will sit ramshackle in the corner. The kitchen ceiling will still be peeling and
the ceiling fan’s blades lined with greasy dust. Paint will be chipped in various places and
the record player my husband had to buy will sit in a heap of records in the
corner.
There’s only so much I can do. Only so much I can ask my family to do.
But when I look at the mess, the glaring imperfections staring
me in the eye, I think of my friend and the gift her mess was to me. Maybe it’s enough to do something well in the midst of your mess. And maybe someone will leave here tonight thinking, “I could do that too.”
Next time you have someone over, try to worry a little less about your mess, maybe it will be a gift to someone who needs freedom from perfectionism. Maybe, even, it will be a gift to you.
My friend, Andi is a writer, editor and writing teacher and hosts a number of amazing events on her property, “God’s Whisper Farm.” She also runs an online writing group on facebook. I only dare write about her “mess” because I know she knows I love her! Maybe I’ll see you at her retreat next year?
Love Leads (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
In the rush between dinner and dessert, in the harried press to
Get-These-Kids-to-Bed, four-year-old Isaiah remembers.
Running through the house, he shouts, “Guys! We need to do our
yeaves!”
//
My family is growing leaves again this Thanksgiving.
Last Tuesday I cut contact paper into the shape of a large, barren
tree and stuck it to the wood paneled wall in the living room. Then we cut a bowl-full of leaves. Every evening we each write what we’re
thankful for on a leaf and stick it to the tree. By Thanksgiving the tree will be full and
green, vibrant.
//
Isaiah doesn’t remind us to do our leaves because he’s so very
grateful. Most of his leaves proclaim anticipatory
gratitude for the handcuffs he hopes to receive for Christmas (heaven help us). He reminds us because after the note’s
written, he gets to color his leaf and Isaiah is a big fan of coloring. He’s been known to spend a whole afternoon
coloring at the kitchen counter. He
loves it.
And his love leads us, even if it has nothing at all to do with
gratitude.
That’s the way love is.
Love opens doors, makes way and helps us remember what we set out
to do, who we wanted to be, when we ourselves have forgotten. And if we don’t have enough love of our own,
all we need to do is follow someone else’s, to sit for a while in the glow of
their passion and delight.
I don’t love coloring like Isaiah does, but his love for it cuts
through the evening rush, spurs memory and reminded, we follow in its
wake.
Do you have special family practices for the season of Thanksgiving? I’d love to hear about them in the comments!
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Broken Beloved (for everyone ashamed of the pills they take)
Often, it’s
a restless night and bad dreams that tell me I forgot.
Other times
it’s the way I snap and growl at my children in the morning. It’s not that they’re
worse than normal, but I’m less tolerant, carrying my own internal agitation
which they scrape against like matches, igniting a latent fury.
//
Before bed
and after TV, my husband takes the dog out into the darkness to pee. In the dim kitchen I grind coffee beans for
the morning’s brew, adding water and a clean filter to the pot. Then I open the hutch’s glass cabinet and grab the red bottle. Opened, little
oval pills scatter across the palm of my hand like seeds.
For months, maybe
even a year, I cut them precisely with a pill cutter. Then one day, in a pinch, I realized they
could be broken by hand.
One and a
half pills daily seems to be enough to do the trick.
//
Toward the
end of summer, for various reasons, I decided I wanted to cut down to one pill,
decreasing the dose by a third.
It would be
simpler, I told myself.
Maybe I’ll
lose weight, I thought (as though the daily consumption of potato chips
couldn’t possibly be to blame for a recent weight gain).
I’ve been so
sleepy lately, maybe I’m over-medicated, I considered.
The
psychiatrist, hearing my plan, looked at me with surprise.
“Usually the dose that works is the dose you
should stay on,” she said.
“Well,” I
said, “I want to try.”
What I
didn’t say was that I didn’t want to be on medicine, I didn’t want to need it.
//
I’d done
enough googling to know coming off of antidepressants can be complicated. I decided to drop the dose by a third every
other day for a while and see what happened.
One pill one day, one and a half the next, and so on.
The problem
was, I was nearing the one year anniversary of my psychiatric hospitalization.
And I was
preaching again for the first time in a year.
And we were
in the run-up for the annual back-to-school transition which, with four kids in
three different schools, lasts well-over a month.
And
transition makes me anxious.
I tried,
though. I did.
What I found is I was more anxious, more irritable, more snappy.
I was a
worse mother without that little half pill.
Unreasonably irritable, yelling and stomping rather than “using my
words.” It reminded me of the months
after the twins were born, when I struggled so with my oldest son. He would have been better off if I’d had
those pills then.
//
“It’s only
been a year,” my counselor says, “give it some time.”
Ah, but
me? I want to not need.
Only now,
what I want more, is to be a mother who doesn’t scream and shout in rage. I want to be a little more able to go with
the flow (which is the only way to go anywhere in a family of six). Maybe if I had more control, more money, less
kids I’d be able to structure my time, my life in a way that kept me from
needing those pills.
Yoga
morning, noon and night.
Health
food.
Meditation.
For now though, when I look at the real choices before me, I pick up that red bottle and break the pills, like pieces of communion bread – grace I need, grace I cannot afford to do without.
//
I have a
friend who was wounded deeply by someone she loves. After years of struggle and heart ache she
considered breaking the relationship and felt God giving her the freedom to do
so.
Then, also, my friend felt God’s invitation,
“Why don’t you try just loving the one who hurt you as God’s broken but beloved
daughter?”
I was
thinking about that today.
Thinking it’s true, really, of all of us.
We
are God’s broken, beloved children.
Maybe
it would all go a little better if we thought of ourselves that way, as people
who need. I am God’s broken, beloved daughter and I will take grace as it comes, however it comes, even if it arrives in a little, red bottle.
Choosing Your Groove (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Reaching across the purple loveseat where we sat, I grabbed a hunk of
my husband’s wildly overgrown hair and held it between my fingers. “I have an idea,” I said, “Let’s hold Daddy
down and cut his hair.”
The kids, sprawled around the room in various stages of candy
consumption, cheered at the idea.
My husband laughed and shrugged it off.
A second later Isaiah, returning at a run from the kitchen where the
scissors are kept, ran up behind my husband and started snipping.
John lunged forward and spun around to face his attacker, panicked at
the idea of a four-year-old hacking at his hair.
It sounded like Isaiah had scissors, but he didn’t. We all got a good laugh out of it and no one
was happier than Isaiah. His double
dimples winked with delight at the trick he played.
Standing behind John, the twins reenacted the prank over and over again
and John followed along responding to every attack with a leap and shout. It was like they were rehearsing parts in a
play.
Snip. Leap. Shout. Laugh.
They repeated the scene until their laughs were forced, a thin duplication
of their initial joy.
Looking on, I was reminded how often little children repeat the things
that give them joy. Tasting a moment of delight, they demand “do it again”, savoring its
sweetness, sucking joy down to its marrow.
I’m far more likely to reenact the difficult moments in life, to stand over
the kitchen sink come evening obsessively repeating a difficult conversation or
the bumpiest parts of my day. With the
remembering comes the feelings and, in the middle of a perfectly fine day, I
can find myself sunk in the shame or guilt of an incident that happened some
fifteen or twenty years ago.
This is what I thought as I watched my boys running themselves round
and around in that groove of delight.
Humans, young and old, learn through repetition and there they stood,
giggling, earning a degree in joy.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
I Hate Skittles
I hate Skittles.
I do not want to, as the slogan goes, “Taste the rainbow.”
If a Skittle accidentally fell into my mouth, I would spit
it out. This is how I feel about most
candy. Except for sour patch kids.
Levi and Isaiah, however, like every other four-year-old
alive, LOVE Skittles.
And M&Ms.
And Blow Pops.
And all the other Crack-in-a-wrapper kids get at
Halloween.
After a night of Trick-or-treat, Isaiah started the
candy-consumption-negotiations first thing this morning. I don’t think he was even all the way
downstairs before he started in. In
fact, he fell halfway down the stairs because he was lugging his bag of candy
along, slung over his shoulder like a little Santa’s sack filled with sugar.
He very quickly negotiated the potential consumption of one
piece of candy after lunch. I know this
because he reminded me of it before breakfast, after breakfast, before
preschool, after preschool, before lunch, etc.
The candy of choice?
A full size bag of Skittles.
The twins waited all morning for that candy which, for a
four-year-old, is basically a lifetime.
Isaiah’s bag was quickly opened, half-eaten, and spilled and
picked-up twice in the five or so minutes we waited after lunch before heading
to their older brother’s Halloween parade. Foreseeing the potential for a disastrous
candy spill at the parade, I went to get a zip-lock bag for both boys. I planned to open Levi’s bag and pour both
into separate preschooler-compatible packaging.
I forgot, however, that a four-year-old tears into a
candy-wrapper like a squirrel attacking a plastic feeder full of sunflower
seeds. Place a thin layer of plastic
between a toddler and a handful of chocolate M&Ms and stand back – all
sorts of destruction is about to ensue.
One second we were ready, almost out the door for the parade, then Levi’s bag of Skittles exploded shooting a rainbow of sugar all
over the kitchen floor. He ripped open
the whole side of his bag in one deft, semi-miraculous movement and Skittles
rained down, scattering (or would that be “skittling”?) under the island,
across the rug, behind the heavy iron radiator.
This, of course, was a crisis for him – children hunt
spilled candy like the shepherd hunting his lost sheep in Luke’s gospel, or the
women hunting her lost coin. Kids hunt
lost candy with the kind of determination and passion that God’s hunts lost
souls.
Crisis.
This was less than twenty-four hours after
confection-ageddon (aka Trick or Treat) and I had already had it up to HERE
with sweets.
Remember the candy-consumption-negotiations that started in
the pre-dawn hours of the day?
And the incessant reminders?
I wanted to explode like that bag of Skittles.
One preschooler was crying while the other tried to find and
consume as many of his brother’s lost treats as he could and all I wanted to
do was hunt down the person who thought it was a good idea to give little
people bags of candy bigger than their faces.
I did not scream, though, like I wanted to, did not stomp on
the candy in rage. I dug deep within,
past the part that had it up to HERE and somehow saw for one brief second the rainbow
right there in front of me. I saw how
rainbows lead to hidden treasure and rather than breaking the moment further, I
reached for the pot of gold.
I knelt down beside the crying boy and the thieving boy and
was thankful the dog at least was outside.
With due diligence, most of the loss was recovered.
We put the rainbow in a new bag and I zipped it tight.
Then we ran out the door together, two boys clutching
baggies of brightness and one Mama carrying a rainbow in her heart.
//
By the way, we did miss one red Skittle. This I know, because the dog found it . . . and
spat it out.
Even the dog knows better.
When the Wood is Wet (#SmallWonder Link-up)
Shift each log.
Make
room for air to move through.
Turn your head away and inhale, deep, through nostrils.
Then turn again toward the dark stove and exhale.
Aim low, for the coals, but not low enough to stir the
ashes.
Blow out long and hard until all air is gone.
Repeat. Again and
again. Listen for the roar,
watch for flames to leap.
Make each breath a prayer
for all the wet wood in your
weighted down life. Breathe out
for you, your spouse, your children.
Beg the flames to rise
as you tend them.
Shifting
each log.
Making room for air to move
through.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
When Your Huggy-Boy Won’t Hug (i.e. Everything is Coming Undone)
(THIS is the lovely view across the street from our house. Amazing.)
When the day starts with your huggy-boy not willing to give
you a hug.
Then progresses to yelling and hitting.
When you let them watch way more T.V. than they should and
it only whets their appetite for more.
And even the fun of pulling sunflower stalks thick as trees from the garden
isn’t enough to help you all find a flow.
Time is wrinkled. And
you are caught in its folds.
On those days there is no low hanging fruit. The easy way cannot be found.
//
The caterpillar, trapped within its cocoon, let’s go
completely. Dissolving all but its
essence – a bit of memory and the cells that tell what it will become. Antennae, wings, legs.
Sometimes I think this is what we must do on these ill-fitting days
that confine.
Let go, completely, of all but the essential.
Curl on the loveseat by the woodstove and nap.
Sit under the weight of a blanket, bookended on either
side by the boys who were fighting, the ones who want more T.V., and read book
after book.
Then maybe something new, but familiar as your own memory
of how the day could have been, will emerge.
Something composed from your own longing for something more.
//
Unable to fit together as you are, the boys will spend an
hour playing in the bathroom closet, their “office.” And you will doze in and out of sleep in the
one room where you can hear them the least.
You will make a cup of coffee, adding cream and chocolate
syrup. Then it will be time at last to
wait for the bus on the front porch. The
boys, happy now, will attack you from their picnic table pirate ships. They will “fick” you into believing they’re
innocent farmers before whacking you with a sword.
In the afternoon sun, you will realize it’s warmer than you
thought and the day, unveiled, will emerge as something new.
Back When I Was A Crumudgeon (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
The seminary’s married housing sprawled in a series of low brick buildings
some five miles from campus. There the
newly married, newly empty-nested and a few brave families with young children
resided in dilapidated cinder-block two-story apartments.
My husband and I cohabitated quietly in our first floor
apartment with a school of saltwater fish, a frog and a cat. Although our closest neighbor had two
children and a couple upstairs added a baby before graduation, the sight and sound
of children in the building was relatively rare.
This wasn’t the case however in the open courtyard and
parking lots behind the buildings where children roved about in loud, unruly
gangs. A playground stood somewhere
back there, one we never visited and kids seemed, to my uninitiated young ears,
to be screaming there all. day. long.
As a student, I frequently stayed up all hours of the night reading
hundreds of pages of theology or writing and studying for exams. In the afternoon I rode the campus bus home
and slipped into our quiet bedroom with its big window and filmy yellow
curtains.
There I lay down for a
nap. The cat tucked in quietly beside
me.
Beneath that window, though, was a small alcove in the
building’s design. Children gathered there in the otherwise quiet afternoons like mice in a sewer drain. Squeaking, shouting, squealing. I had yet to learn the ability to sleep
anytime anywhere. I didn’t yet know how to
make myself sleep on command, how to tune out noise and distraction with the flick of an internal switch.
It made me furious.
The noise. The indignity. The gall of all those children, gathering
beneath my window, running through my front yard, taking up space, making noise
while I devoted my life to the steady, demanding work of thinking.
//
A great sweeping oak tree grew in the front yard of
our building. Its branches hung down
low. One evening, studying after dinner
with my books and papers sprawled on the table around me, I looked out our
sliding glass door and saw a boy. He was about seven or eight, the age of my oldest
boy now. Framed by the glass door, I
watched him hang and swing, tugging on the old tree’s branches. Another boy stood watching the first.
Whatever he was doing, it looked destructive. In a fit
of righteous rage I slid the glass door open and let loose a forceful,
“Hey!”
The boy froze and looked at me, the branch still in
hand.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
Still frozen, the boy replied, “I don’t know.”
“Are you trying to break that branch?” I asked, each word an
accusation.
“Uh, I guess.” The boy stared at me with eyes like
saucers. His friend stared too at this
seminarian standing back lit by her own apartment as evening fell.
I was Wild and Fierce, Protector of Trees, Interrogator of Little Boys.
“Then, cut it out!” I shouted, slamming the door shut.
The boys took off running.
My husband and I exchanged a look. Yes, he saw and heard it all.
I’m sure I attempted to justify my outburst. But later, we laughed.
We laughed at the boy’s look, at his sudden surprise. Laughed at the way I must have looked, the
way I did look and sound. We repeated
the scene over and over again between ourselves, the script of one of the
funniest episodes we’d witnessed in a long time.
Kids will do that to you. I know that now.
They get under your skin, pull and yank at your
lower branches, until something in you breaks. They tug you into the rough
and tumble world of parking lot clubs that meet beneath open windows and oak tree branches
strong enough to swing on. Then, resting in bed on a sunny afternoon while your four-year-old twins rumble and tumble downstairs, as you try
to distinguish between their cries and squeals of delight and the ones coming
from the daycare next door, then you will remember the boys and the tree and the things you said.
And you will smile and laugh all over again.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
The Napping House (I Don’t Have A War Room)
For thus said the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel:
In returning and rest you shall be saved;
in quietness and in trust shall be your strength. Isaiah 30:15
I sat in the little house with the oil lamp lit, computer in place. Every coherent thought was echoed by an equally incoherent refrain of fatigue.
I’m so tired. I’m so tired. I’m so tired.
The words
took on a rhythm, like breathing, while I struggled to work my way through Sunday’s
sermon.
Meanwhile,
the dog, who technically isn’t allowed in my office, snoozed lightly on another chair. The black cat lay in the sunshine just
outside the office door, flirting with sleep, as cats do.
I have three
hours of childcare this week. Three
hours to throw together a sermon, build a power point, harvest the word. And I was only an hour in with nothing near
an outline.
But, come
ten o’clock, instead of putting on a third pot of coffee, I pulled the cushion
off of yet another chair and threw it on the floor. A pillow followed, then a blanket and, with
gentleness, my own body curled like a dog in its bed.
The dog,
whose eye’s slitted open at my commotion, hopped down, tail wagging. Curious, she ambled over, sniffing at my
back, as if to ask, “You ok?” Satisfied with what her nose replied, she hopped
back into her chair with ease.
I fell
asleep in under five and woke a half hour later.
//
An elderly
friend of mine has operated a retreat house for the past twenty years. People often speak in hushed tones about the
holiness of that space, commenting in awe about its prayer-soaked walls. And that’s what I envisioned for this little
house of mine.
But more
than writing, praying or listening, this room has been filled with rest.
I keep a
pillow in the cupboard, not a prayer book. Soft fleece blankets hang over the backs of my
chairs, enough cushion and comfort to make a bed for one.
If I can be
honest, perhaps I thought this house would be a place where I would build my
own kingdom out of words and prayers and God would bless it because of my effort.
But the
opposite is true.
In my little
house, I cast my efforts aside.
I lay
down on a mat on the floor, like a child at nap time.
Here I’m vulnerable and weak, owning my
need.
I rest in the grace of God who
doesn’t need my good deeds. God who
says, “Come you who are weary.” Here I
enter into the kingdom of God, where the last is first and a little child
leads the way.
//
With the hazy fog of sleep slowly dissipating around me, I
sat again in my curved black chair. The
passage was there still, waiting. But
the chant of my fatigue, the undertow of exhaustion, had lifted. The sermon came, slowly like a gift, like treasure
at the end of a hunt.
The dog
watched, unfazed by my strange human ways. When I left the little house to head inside again, the cat
followed, meowing, as if to say, “Well, I thought you needed a nap!”
He Danced (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
A community is only being created when its members accept that they are not going to achieve great things, that they are not going to be heroes, but simply live each day with new hope, like children, in wonderment as the sun rises and in thanksgiving as it sets . . . The beauty of humanity is in this fidelity to the wonder of each day. – Jean Vanier in Community and Growth
Twilight
fell and the campfire flickered.
A small,
clear voice rose, “The floooo-wer grooooows, and the house, and the stooooop
signs, and the caaaars.” He was just getting warmed up.
Later, his
body twisted and turned, arms in the air, waving, then down at his sides. His hips wiggled, feet stomped. He spun, swooped, shook, with a far off look
in his eye, his body responding intuitively, impulsively to the sounds of the
singer, the acoustic guitar.
Four year
old Isaiah stole the show last night.
His twin
brother, Levi, drifted off to sleep, tucked into the nest formed by my arms and legs,
a fleece blanket pulled up tight around his cheeks. Sleep hits him like a freight train come
seven thirty. Seated on the ground by
the fire’s warmth, I swayed like a cradle and watched his eyelids drift. Lifting his face, he said, “I’m going to
sleep now for a little while. Wake me up
when they clap because that means it’s the end.”
Isaiah
danced so long and so hard he finally flopped right down on the
ground, huffing and puffing. Then he was
up again, moving and shaking and running over to his Daddy and I every minute
or two, a desperate look on his tired little boy face.
“Is it
almost done?” he asked.
Afterwards, he
was proud.
“Someone told
me ‘Thankyou,’” he said, “and someone else patted me on the back.”
It was a big
and important thing he did, that dancing.
He danced with serious abandon, every move an extension of his
soul.
Over fifty
people came to hear John Francis perform in the lap of our great, wide yard,
underneath the dark night and stars.
Kids tore in
every direction on wheels of every shape and size.
Our dog, Coco,
chased kids and chickens like it was her job.
Donations
were collected and we raised $400 to help provide hot, home-cooked,
Thanksgiving meals for local families in need.
We huddled
close around the fire in the surprisingly cool night air. We shivered and laughed, shrugged under
blankets. We sang along and clapped our
hands and I felt the goodness of a frequent smile on my face.
But the best
part of it all, by far?
My son – he danced.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
This is My Confession (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
A small
group of women sat in a circle. The
question was greeted with silence and I didn’t dare tell the truth. What would they think? It’s just not the kind of thing you admit in
public. And besides that, I felt
guilty.
But maybe
it’s time now I owned up.
I’m not
busy, not in the way most people are.
And, I’m not
terribly productive.
I’m happy.
My life is
incredibly fun.
I play all
of the time.
//
After
listing seven attributes of play, Laura Boggess, author of Playdates With God,
asked the women in our small retreat circle to name ways they already
play.
I thought of
my kids – the way they invite me to join them on our
hammock-turned-pirate-ship, the games of fishy-fishy-cross-my-ocean that form
in the yard. But it’s not just the kids’
fault. When they’re gone – at school and
preschool – I cut flowers from the garden, I paint and color, I design and make
Tiny Books of poetry.
And I
write.
In the
silence that followed Laura’s question, I offered, “Writing’s a form of play
for me, I think. . . . cooking too.”
Women
nodded, smiled. I didn’t dare add about
the coloring, painting, yo-yo fun and Ukulele experiments.
//
It’s a
miracle really that I’m having so much fun.
My personality type’s represented by a worker
bee and yet, here I
am flitting and fluttering about like some kind of butterfly.
Last summer
God told me, “I’m going to restore your joy.”
This past
weekend, a year and a half after God’s revelation, one of the retreat attendees noted on her evaluation form, “The leaders had a joyful countenance.”
Some secrets
can’t be hidden. The shine, like a
light, like a smile on our faces. If you’re
happy and you know it, you won’t be able to hide it for long.
That’s why
I’m here confessing.
Miracles CAN
happen. Even worker bees can learn to dance.
(And, for your Monday morning happiness boost, click on the video below. Dancing around is encouraged.)
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
The Player
The Player
My husband
wanted
a record player.
Why? I
asked.
We don’t
have ROOM for a record player.
We don’t
NEED a record player.
We don’t
even OWN any records.
Still, every
time I browsed local thrift stores
he asked, Did you see any record
players for me?
An icy no was my standard reply.
Where would
we PUT a record player? I asked.
Why don’t
you ask for one for Christmas? I offered.
One night we
wandered the Salvation Army
before heading out to dinner. I turned my back
not one minute and, of
course, you know what he found.
A record
player.
A brown
record player.
In a portable
plastic case.
He crossed
the store grinning,
that contraption hanging at his side
like a briefcase.
It’s only
$10, he said.
It’s not
even attractive, I whined.
Are you
kidding?
It’s portable.
It’s awesome, he said.
Then, of
course, we had to buy
some records.
Come Gather (#SmallWonder Link-Up)
It’s a quiet, gray morning here.
The super moon and its eclipse were hidden last night by wavy white clouds.
And I was glad.
Glad we could send the kids to bed, glad we could send ourselves to bed, without feeling like we missed a thing.
Coming off of a wonderfully full weekend, I want to offer this space to you as a gathering place while I myself rest in silence for a bit.
Please come, gather, leave your words.
I’ll be back later in the week with a few of my own. (If you want to hear a little about the As a Little Child Retreat, pop over to Laura Boggess’ place.)
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
I Feel Insecure (and What My Husband Has to Say About It)
I sat at the kitchen island prepping brown paper bags with the words, “Beloved Child of God.” Over and over I wrote with permanent markers in one color after another.
Everyone who attends the As a Child Retreat will get a bag. Meant to trigger memories and fun, each bag holds playdoh, a bouncy ball, a lollipop and a colored pen.
For months, I’ve been planning, praying, gathering materials for this retreat and now the day is almost here. But last week, as I wrote those letters over and over again, I felt a creeping dis-ease that multiplied throughout the day. By evening anxiety was spinning a sprawling web through my insides as I tried to explain to my husband how I felt.
“I feel insecure,” I said.
Naming it helped, giving words to the way self sometimes crumbles in on itself, searching for something, anything solid to stand on.
Finally, tired of sinking in my own stew, I asked my husband, “Is there anything you can say to make this better?”
Without a second’s pause, he replied, “You’re a beloved child of God too.”
Simple truths have a way of cutting right through the haze, don’t they?
I gave my husband a small glare. By that point I was fairly attached to my pity party and, in the end, I envisioned a bag of chips being involved.
But he was right.
Later he told me how funny it was, watching me writing the same words over and over again, but not letting them sink in.
“Beloved child of God.”
Yes, that’s the heart of it. Isn’t it?
Those four words offer the most solid ground I know.
The Marooner’s Stone (#SmallWonder Link-up)
(Welcome to #SmallWonder. I’m happy you’re here. This week I’m re-sharing an old post as I put my time and energy into preparing for a retreat this weekend, co-led with Laura Boggess, “As a Little Child.”)
Wendy knew the story of Marooner’s Rock. It was named by evil captains who abandoned sailors there. They would drown when the rising tide covered them.
* * *
Soon after the dinghy was gone, two feeble cries drifted over the lagoon. “Help! Help!” Peter and Wendy lay on top of the rock. Peter was wounded, and Wendy was tired and weak. . . .
“We have to get off the rock,” Peter said. “The tide is rising. Soon we will be covered.”
“I am too tired to swim or to fly,” Wendy said weakly.
“And I don’t have the strength to carry both of us,” Peter moaned.
“Then we will drown,” Wendy said.
They put their hands over their eyes to shut out the horrible thought.
Something touched Peter’s cheek. He opened his eyes. A kite hovered over the rock. Its lone tail had brushed Peter’s face. “Michael’s kite!” Peter exclaimed. “He lost it the other day, but here it is!” He pulled the kite toward him. “We shall use it to carry us home.”
– from Peter Pan, by J.M. Barrie
It’s only Monday, but, already, I feel the water rising.
There’s too little time, too little money, too little of me to go around and I’m stacking sandbags in my mind, guarding against the scarcity of my own limitations.
There are days when it feels like I live on Marooners’ Rock, days when it feels that the tide is constantly rising, slowly licking at the small space I’ve secured.
But at least I’m in good company, because so many of us live this way, don’t we?
Believing the lie of too little, we hold our breath, shrinking back from the shrinking shore, moving from crisis to crisis as, surely, the water rises.
Like Peter and Wendy, we are tired, we are weak and many of us are wounded.
“We will drown,” I say with certainty as I seal the envelopes that carry the checks to the electric company, the phone and natural gas.
“I am too tired,” I say as I climb the stairs again to face the fussy child who will. not. sleep.
“I don’t have the strength to carry both of us,” I think, as I look at the long and weary face of my tired husband whose head aches nearly every night of the week.
Isn’t it illuminating that deliverance for Peter and Wendy comes not in the form of increased strength or personal exertion, but rather in the playful and gentle nudge of Michael’s kite?
Most often, when I grow weary of my self-imposed exile on Marooner’s Rock and finally, at last, lay my head down in surrender, grace and deliverance arrives disguised as the gentle voice of playfulness, the invitation to imagination and creativity.
The more I tend playfulness through prayer and creativity, the more I’m able to reject the lie of Marooner’s Rock. The truth is we’re not abandoned, we’re not alone, there’s always Someone waiting to carry us home.
Playfulness requires trust and surrender, a willingness to live openly and unabashedly hopeful in the sheer goodness of the moment and it’s here that we find deliverance, here that we find a wind strong enough, gentle enough to carry us home.
Is there a practice of playfulness or creativity that helps you find your way home? I’d love to hear about it in the comments . . .
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Food Assistance (I Don’t Feel Entitled, I Feel Grateful)
The Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants, and Children (WIC) provides Federal grants to States for supplemental foods, health care referrals, and nutrition education for low-income pregnant, breastfeeding, and non-breastfeeding postpartum women, and to infants and children up to age five who are found to be at nutritional risk.
I hate WIC.
I’m so thankful for
WIC.
These two thoughts follow seamlessly one after the other as
the milk, eggs, peanut butter and other sundries pass on the grocery store conveyor
belt.
//
We signed up when I became pregnant with our oldest and have
been on and off of the Women Infants and Children Supplemental Nutrition program
ever since.
Every time I work – adjunct teaching stints and a year as a
pastor – we call and drop ourselves from the system. Every time we return to one income, we reapply.
Every few months I cart our kids to the small, gray office
and fill out reams of paperwork. The
kids alternate between playing and clinging anxiously. Twice a year the visits include a weight and
measure and much dreaded finger pricks to check for iron count.
Despite frequent well visits at the
pediatrician’s office, the WIC office needs its own numbers.
At times I feel indignant at the intrusion. I’m angry for my children who cry at being
poked and prodded. How much blood, how
much information do we need to give for a few dollars worth of food?
Then I remind myself we need the money.
It’s their office. They set the rules.
Does this make me a bad mother?
Or, would pride that kept us from receiving
such assistance make me a bad mother? I’m never entirely sure.
After these intrusions we squeeze into a smaller
office. I wrangle kids on my knees while
answering questions about our food consumption and setting nutrition goals for
each of my children.
At the end of the visit I leave with a ream of checks averaging $120
worth of food per month. We received the
most when the oldest kids were four and two and I was pregnant with twins,
we’re nearly off the system now as the twins prepare to age-out next summer at
five years old.
//
Do I look too
wealthy? What will they think of the
Marmot ski coat I wear, the $300 dollar coat I got on clearance for $50 after
Christmas one year?
Do we look poor?
These are the questions I ask myself waiting in line at the
grocery store.
//
With just one week left to use August’s checks I head to the
grocery store with six in hand – two for as little as $8 each, two for about
$30 and two somewhere in the middle.
I keep the checks in the shopping cart and subtly check and
recheck acceptable sizes and brands for peanut butter, grains and cereal as I hurry
through the store. When in doubt, I sheepishly
pull out the large white pamphlet that clarifies.
I hope I don’t run into anyone I know.
We travel one town over now to bigger grocery chains to use
our checks because the small local grocery store requires the cashier to call a
manager to approve WIC checks. The
unwanted attention and wait feel mortifying enough to warrant a ten minute
drive.
The cashier is unfriendly and I wonder if it’s because of
the WIC checks lined up in front of her.
Is she judging me? I feel myself
get snappish, then reign it in. Maybe
she’s just tired, maybe it’s been a long day.
I planned to get three checks, but ended up with four separate
orders on the checkout line. I feel bad
for anyone who gets in line behind me, not knowing I will check out not just
once, but four times. I wonder what they
think of my food, of me. Maybe they’re
happy the State gives needy families wholesome foods like milk and cheese. Maybe they despise the fact that I choose the
more expensive brands.
Who knows?
I group the food by check, separating each with a
spacer. I sign the checks ahead of time
to speed the process along. Still, it
takes time and often I fail to get exactly the right product. Sometimes the rules change and items that were once ok are no longer allowed.
//
When election season rolls around people inevitably make
nasty comments about those who receive government assistance, about people who supposedly feel entitled to benefits.
Are they talking about me?
Do I feel entitled to these benefits?
No, mostly I feel embarrassed and hugely grateful.
Does my family need WIC?
That’s a question I haven’t been able to answer.
At some point we decided that not accepting the extra help
would be a prideful and foolish move especially in the years when the sudden
break-down of a vehicle or unexpected home repair left us in debt to credit
card companies.
There’s something about mouths to feed that lowers the
playing field for me, that helps make it all a little clearer.
My children need to eat healthy food, so I do what I can to
make it happen.
Even when it’s the last thing I want to do.
Questions We Carry (#SmallWonder Link-up)
“How will
them love me?”
This from my
little boy with big brown eyes, like a puppy.
Standing in front of me this morning in his new Teenage Mutant Ninja
Turtles shirt, backpack on, he adds, “I have a new shirt.”
//
“I feel . .
. what’s the word? Not scared . . .”
Blond hair,
blue-green eyes, he scrunches his face in the morning sunlight. Gears turn as he searches for the new word he’s
learned in the days leading up to the first day at a new preschool. The new word gives name to something he’s
known up until now only by its bodily sensation.
“Nervous?” I
offer.
“Yeah!” he
says, “Nervous.”
Naming it
eases the tension in his face. For now,
naming it is enough.
//
“I feel
scared. What if I don’t know all the
letters?” Isaiah asks.
The older
two have boarded buses headed to separate schools and the twins are strapped
into the van. Then we too are off. Just down the road, we pass the old preschool.
“When will
we see our teachers again?” Isaiah asks, in a tone of melancholy. “Them really loved us.”
//
These little
boys of mine will be fine, but oh, their honest, transparent hearts. Their simple words, their freedom to be
utterly vulnerable with me.
In their
openness, they open a window to my own heart – to each of our hearts. For we each carry within us similar
questions, similar fears.
How will
they love me?
What if I
don’t know enough?
This day, I
hope you will take time to tend to the child within you. The one that asks such simple, clear questions. I hope you will remember that each person you
meet also carries similar questions.
That within the eyes of a stranger you will see the eyes of a little
boy, a little girl, who simply wants to know they are loved.
And
you? Yes, you?
Oh, friend,
you are loved. You are enough.
May you hear
the voice of the One who calls you Beloved.
* * *
Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.
What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?
That’s my proposal – that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.
You’re invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder. Don’t worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right – you’re welcome to come as you are.
While you’re here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.
Books
Between Heaven and Earth (poems)
Prayer can easily become an afterthought, a hasty sentence, a laundry list of all the things we want. But what if prayer is a time to find out what God wants for us–and for our world? What does it mean to pray that the kingdom would come here and now as it is in heaven? Explore these questions in this study, and learn prayer practices that nurture intimacy with God and sensitivity to God’s dream for the world.
Follow this writer, spiritual director, and mother of four as she dives into the deep end of chicken farming and wrestles with the risks and rewards of living a life she loves. At turns hilarious, thoughtful, and always compassionate, Chicken Scratch will change the way you see the mess and chaos involved in living life to its fullest.
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