I'm not a gardener. This is one of the many things that make me something of a black sheep in my family. My mother is blessed with a green thumb. One of my sisters is a pro with tomatoes and any number of vegetable and herb gardens. The other sister... I swear, as she walks along, little green shoots spring up from the earth from the path upon which she has passed. And they aren't weeds. Those ladies can grow a garden.
I, on the other hand, can kill a cactus. Or a chia pet. These two things are proven facts. Honestly, I think I could kill Astroturf. When I moved into our house, I was gifted a thriving, beautiful garden in our backyard and an impeccable lawn out front. It terrified me. For the past two years, I have watered but done precious little else. No planting, no weeding, no pruning. I gave the plants a drink, dollar weed and trumpet vine alike, and hoped for the best.
Bad things have happened. The front lawn has strange dead patches. I have no idea how that happened. The back yard has thriving vines and a beautiful rose bush, but a fair crop of Johnson grass and various other weeds as well. This fall I decided enough was enough. I was going to conquer my fear and become a gardener.
Because it was fear, more than laziness, that kept me from donning a pair of nubbly gloves and attacking Mother Nature. I have always been terrified of making mistakes. And when you are new to something, it is virtually guaranteed that you are going to screw up. I was afraid I would pull up the crape myrtles mistaking them for a weed or a "trash tree." Afraid that in my ignorance I would kill all the good and nurture all the bad.
This fall, however, I decided to be brave. I looked at my front lawn, wished it was pretty, and realized it wasn't going to get there without me. Collaborating with my husband, we planted some winter rye and I dug up some weeds. It improved. I was inspired. We went to a nursery where I purchased several flats of winter-friendly bedding plants. Some shriveled up and died. But others made it. And looked pretty. Nothing like the arboretum-esque gardens I drool over in magazines and that my family can replicate, but nice. Intentional. Like somebody loved that little flower bed.
So now that spring is waning and summer quickly approaching, I turned my attention to the wild, overgrown garden that surrounds our pool. Most of it is the vines that were planted there intentionally and look gorgeous. But they are intermingled with undesirables: baby trees far too close to the fence line, unsightly knee-high weeds, fantastically healthy dandelions. With a deep breath, I grabbed the clippers and went for it. With my limited horticultural knowledge I was fairly sure I would destroy something nice.
And I did. While my children splashed happily in the pool, I stared with no small amount of dismay at an area of Virgina Creeper that was drooping dangerously. By this evening, I have had to admit... that part's dead. In my zeal to clear the debris, I over-pruned and destroyed.
But I'm not going to despair. I'm going to take the advice I give my own children: you have to fail sometimes if you are ever going to learn. It's a tough pill to swallow and, no, my kids do not believe me on this one yet. It doesn't make it any less right. My garden still looks intentional, like somebody loves it. It's just somebody who got a little clipper happy.
The Virginia Creeper is going to be fine, I think. It is still thick and healthy further down the fence and it should do its job and creep along, covering up my mistake by summer's end. In the meantime, I moved my husband's gas grill in front of the bald spot so it looks like maybe I meant to do that for fire safety reasons or something. Maybe I'll hang a bird feeder. It'll be alright. And the important thing is, I'm trying. I'm not letting it fall to the slow decay of neglect out of fear that I might be less than perfect. I'm failing and I'm learning and remembering that, really, that's what life is all about.
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Saturday, May 26, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
Don't Feel Like Dancing
Wednesday was one of those errand running kind of days. Before one of these days it is always best if I can take several deep breaths, imbibe a half gallon or so of coffee, practice Zen meditation, and spend an hour in prayer. Because my errand days involve a rambunctious three year old and four year old. Getting in and out of the car, negotiating parking lots, and practicing our "store manners" is an exhausting and patience-trying practice. I have done it often enough now that I know it is best not to panic, not to be in a hurry, and to at least drink a cup of coffee and read a quick devotional before we head out the door.
On Wednesday, my two darlings were in particularly high spirits. I bribed them with frozen yogurt to get through the first half of our day and they managed to keep it together enough to earn their reward. While at the yogurt shop, I got a phone call from my husband (who has been working all kinds of overtime) with what I'm sure seemed to be a reasonable request: would I stop by the bank and get a cashier's check so he could drop off his truck payment the next day? I took a deep breath, trying not to envision the possible disasters of standing in line at the bank lobby along with the two giggling balls of energy currently slurping up their sugary treats across the table from me, and did the right thing. I put on my most cheerful tone and said, "Ok!"
Outside of the bank, I gave a pep talk. "Okay guys," I said, "this is the bank. So we need to have our best manners. That means no running, no climbing, no jumping around and no screaming." There was a moment of silence. Then Baby Boy asked me in his most outraged tone of voice, "No dancing?" I laughed and, oddly enough, relaxed. "You can dance," I said. "Just dance slowly." So while I talked to the teller (by an act of God there was no line) and took care of my business, my lovely, crazy children stood behind me and did a slow, quiet boogie to a soundtrack only they could hear.
I love how God uses my children to get my attention and realign my priorities. And sometimes re-realign them. I'm glad He keeps me laughing and grateful. I hope I'm never so stressed out or irritable that I would actually tell one of my babies that they couldn't dance. They can always dance and I hope that they always want to. I hope that they are downright infected by that kind of joy for their entire lifetimes. And I'm so grateful that they pass it along to me.
One of my favorite songs is "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" by the Scissor Sisters (it's written by Elton John which is one of the reasons it is so fabulous; sorry, music geek moment). It's peppy and fun. It is very nearly impossible to be in a bad mood when you listen to this retro-disco gem and, ironically, equally difficult not to dance. Even the most stoic of individuals would be hard pressed not to get a little bootie shake going while listening.
So to tie my kids cuteness and Elton John's fabulousness to scripture (not an easy trick), I was thinking about all of this in the context of Philippians 4:4. One of my favorite verses (written by the apostle Paul which is one of the reasons it is so fabulous), it says simply, "Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!" It seems like too much to ask. Too much when there are errands to run, bills to pay, children to raise, others to grieve for. But I think if we let Christ set the soundtrack to our lives, we can't help but move to the beat. If we let Him be the conductor, we will find ourselves dancing even when we don't feel like it. We won't be able to help ourselves. The idea of not dancing, of not rejoicing, will seem ridiculous and oppressive. Sometimes we will leap and shout and laugh out loud. Sometimes our dance will be slow, quiet, and set to music that no one else seems to hear. But we should be, we can be, always dancing, always rejoicing. Even in line at the bank.
On Wednesday, my two darlings were in particularly high spirits. I bribed them with frozen yogurt to get through the first half of our day and they managed to keep it together enough to earn their reward. While at the yogurt shop, I got a phone call from my husband (who has been working all kinds of overtime) with what I'm sure seemed to be a reasonable request: would I stop by the bank and get a cashier's check so he could drop off his truck payment the next day? I took a deep breath, trying not to envision the possible disasters of standing in line at the bank lobby along with the two giggling balls of energy currently slurping up their sugary treats across the table from me, and did the right thing. I put on my most cheerful tone and said, "Ok!"
Outside of the bank, I gave a pep talk. "Okay guys," I said, "this is the bank. So we need to have our best manners. That means no running, no climbing, no jumping around and no screaming." There was a moment of silence. Then Baby Boy asked me in his most outraged tone of voice, "No dancing?" I laughed and, oddly enough, relaxed. "You can dance," I said. "Just dance slowly." So while I talked to the teller (by an act of God there was no line) and took care of my business, my lovely, crazy children stood behind me and did a slow, quiet boogie to a soundtrack only they could hear.
I love how God uses my children to get my attention and realign my priorities. And sometimes re-realign them. I'm glad He keeps me laughing and grateful. I hope I'm never so stressed out or irritable that I would actually tell one of my babies that they couldn't dance. They can always dance and I hope that they always want to. I hope that they are downright infected by that kind of joy for their entire lifetimes. And I'm so grateful that they pass it along to me.
One of my favorite songs is "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" by the Scissor Sisters (it's written by Elton John which is one of the reasons it is so fabulous; sorry, music geek moment). It's peppy and fun. It is very nearly impossible to be in a bad mood when you listen to this retro-disco gem and, ironically, equally difficult not to dance. Even the most stoic of individuals would be hard pressed not to get a little bootie shake going while listening.
So to tie my kids cuteness and Elton John's fabulousness to scripture (not an easy trick), I was thinking about all of this in the context of Philippians 4:4. One of my favorite verses (written by the apostle Paul which is one of the reasons it is so fabulous), it says simply, "Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!" It seems like too much to ask. Too much when there are errands to run, bills to pay, children to raise, others to grieve for. But I think if we let Christ set the soundtrack to our lives, we can't help but move to the beat. If we let Him be the conductor, we will find ourselves dancing even when we don't feel like it. We won't be able to help ourselves. The idea of not dancing, of not rejoicing, will seem ridiculous and oppressive. Sometimes we will leap and shout and laugh out loud. Sometimes our dance will be slow, quiet, and set to music that no one else seems to hear. But we should be, we can be, always dancing, always rejoicing. Even in line at the bank.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Mother's Day
Mother's Day was never really a big deal in our house. While my mom appreciated any cards and gifts we came home with from school, she made it clear as we got older that a simple "Happy Mother's Day" or a phone call home were really sufficient. I grew up considering it a Hallmark holiday, nothing to make a big to-do about, and I carried that feeling along as I became a mother myself. A nice word or card from my husband, step-daughters, and other family and friends was nice but I didn't need anything dramatic.
So it is odd to me that Mother's Day has turned out to be tricky in the years since Eddie made me an "official" mother. Don't get me wrong; step-mothers are definitely mothers. I love my "wicked" step-daughters very, very much and would throw myself in front of a bus for them. But I'm not their mommy; someone else has that privilege and that fact is and will always be totally fine with me. In fact, it shouldn't be any other way. And there is something indescribably wonderful about the moment when YOU are the mommy. The great and powerful Wizard of Mom.
Eddie's labor was crazy and in retrospect a little funny. Scary, painful and topsy-turvy in almost every way, when the time came for me to push him into this world I was way more focused on getting the whole ordeal over with than on the reality that I was about to meet, face-to-face, the little man responsible for all the wiggles, thumps and heartburn I'd been experiencing in the previous months. Immediately after he was born, I experienced a rush of endorphins unlike any other, and had to be reminded by my doula, between my giggles, to sit up enough to catch a glimpse of him before he was whisked away to be surrounded by a crowd of doctors and nurses preparing him for his surgery and trip to NICU. I remember smiling at him, those bird-like, dark brown eyes that shone with righteous anger and indignation at being so rudely brought from his warm, womb-world into the bright florescent glare of "reality." A few moments later, as he was being rolled away in his little incubator to surgery, the ob/gyn called out, "Don't forget to show him to mom."
They paused beside my bed and I got a really good look at him. He was swaddled up to his nose and wearing a tiny hat, but looking at that fussy inch and a half of exposed face, something happened in my heart. It opened up, gained a dimension, broke in two and doubled in size all in one instant. I wasn't able to hold him or even kiss him, but I reached through the circle "window" and touched his forehead. I made the sign of the cross there and said the only words that came to my mind. Nothing profound. With more emotion than I knew how to deal with pouring through me, I whispered, "Hi, baby!"
I would get two Mother's Days with Eddie but I don't remember anything about either of them. They came and went like any other day back then I would guess, with desperate hope and gratitude that my baby boy was alive. I didn't prepare for the coming of my first Mother's Day without him because it had never been a significant celebration so I was surprised when I cried inconsolably the day before. I found on the day itself that I was pregnant with Baby Girl, so I blamed hormones for the tears.
I've got no excuse this Mother's Day. No pregnancy hormones to blame. And, still, unexpectedly, it was a rough one. One where my longing for the one I had lost threatened to overtake the gratitude I have for his life and the life of the two who are still with me. I put on a good face, went to church, worshipped and cried, but dried my tears in time to talk to friends and go to lunch afterward. I enjoyed a warm, sunny afternoon watching Baby Boy run crazy through a local splash-park while Baby Girl clung to my skirts and avoided the water at all costs. But when we came home, I needed to lay down, exhausted by a day of simply carrying on.
I dreamed of Eddie, lying in a hospital bed, the size he was at around eighteen months. He was sleeping, his central line and sterile dressing visible on his bare chest, the thin flannel of a hospital blanket covering him to the waist. I was explaining to a nurse that he was going to need TPN (his intravenous nutrition) and she was going to make sure they got the orders for it soon. He looked good, as he had on his best days when his skin was plump and healthy, his color a nice bronze but not yellow. The nurse was pleased at his liver numbers. It was a good "day in the life." I kissed his hairline, those beautiful, soft little curls, while he slept and waited for... something. I don't know what it was.
When I woke up I felt peaceful. Blessed to have been able to visit him, if only in a dream. To have been able to kiss him and remember with startling clarity what life was like back then. Hope triumphing over anxiety; peace in the midst of turmoil. Beyond my bedroom door I could hear my children laughing, big loud raucous giggles and I smiled. But I didn't want to go out there yet. I wasn't ready to leave the warm, womb-world of my bed and face the harsh florescent light of reality without my Eddie. The one who changed my heart. Who made me "mommy." So I lay there for a little while and thanked God for him. For holding me in the palm of His hand and giving me comfort. I closed my eyes, feeling close to God and close to Eddie, and breathed for a little while. Then I got up. Because life was waiting for me beyond that door. Hope was waiting. Joy was waiting. And two beautiful, smiling faces whose first words upon seeing me walking down the hall toward them was an excited and exuberant, "Mommy!"
So it is odd to me that Mother's Day has turned out to be tricky in the years since Eddie made me an "official" mother. Don't get me wrong; step-mothers are definitely mothers. I love my "wicked" step-daughters very, very much and would throw myself in front of a bus for them. But I'm not their mommy; someone else has that privilege and that fact is and will always be totally fine with me. In fact, it shouldn't be any other way. And there is something indescribably wonderful about the moment when YOU are the mommy. The great and powerful Wizard of Mom.
Eddie's labor was crazy and in retrospect a little funny. Scary, painful and topsy-turvy in almost every way, when the time came for me to push him into this world I was way more focused on getting the whole ordeal over with than on the reality that I was about to meet, face-to-face, the little man responsible for all the wiggles, thumps and heartburn I'd been experiencing in the previous months. Immediately after he was born, I experienced a rush of endorphins unlike any other, and had to be reminded by my doula, between my giggles, to sit up enough to catch a glimpse of him before he was whisked away to be surrounded by a crowd of doctors and nurses preparing him for his surgery and trip to NICU. I remember smiling at him, those bird-like, dark brown eyes that shone with righteous anger and indignation at being so rudely brought from his warm, womb-world into the bright florescent glare of "reality." A few moments later, as he was being rolled away in his little incubator to surgery, the ob/gyn called out, "Don't forget to show him to mom."
They paused beside my bed and I got a really good look at him. He was swaddled up to his nose and wearing a tiny hat, but looking at that fussy inch and a half of exposed face, something happened in my heart. It opened up, gained a dimension, broke in two and doubled in size all in one instant. I wasn't able to hold him or even kiss him, but I reached through the circle "window" and touched his forehead. I made the sign of the cross there and said the only words that came to my mind. Nothing profound. With more emotion than I knew how to deal with pouring through me, I whispered, "Hi, baby!"
I would get two Mother's Days with Eddie but I don't remember anything about either of them. They came and went like any other day back then I would guess, with desperate hope and gratitude that my baby boy was alive. I didn't prepare for the coming of my first Mother's Day without him because it had never been a significant celebration so I was surprised when I cried inconsolably the day before. I found on the day itself that I was pregnant with Baby Girl, so I blamed hormones for the tears.
I've got no excuse this Mother's Day. No pregnancy hormones to blame. And, still, unexpectedly, it was a rough one. One where my longing for the one I had lost threatened to overtake the gratitude I have for his life and the life of the two who are still with me. I put on a good face, went to church, worshipped and cried, but dried my tears in time to talk to friends and go to lunch afterward. I enjoyed a warm, sunny afternoon watching Baby Boy run crazy through a local splash-park while Baby Girl clung to my skirts and avoided the water at all costs. But when we came home, I needed to lay down, exhausted by a day of simply carrying on.
I dreamed of Eddie, lying in a hospital bed, the size he was at around eighteen months. He was sleeping, his central line and sterile dressing visible on his bare chest, the thin flannel of a hospital blanket covering him to the waist. I was explaining to a nurse that he was going to need TPN (his intravenous nutrition) and she was going to make sure they got the orders for it soon. He looked good, as he had on his best days when his skin was plump and healthy, his color a nice bronze but not yellow. The nurse was pleased at his liver numbers. It was a good "day in the life." I kissed his hairline, those beautiful, soft little curls, while he slept and waited for... something. I don't know what it was.
When I woke up I felt peaceful. Blessed to have been able to visit him, if only in a dream. To have been able to kiss him and remember with startling clarity what life was like back then. Hope triumphing over anxiety; peace in the midst of turmoil. Beyond my bedroom door I could hear my children laughing, big loud raucous giggles and I smiled. But I didn't want to go out there yet. I wasn't ready to leave the warm, womb-world of my bed and face the harsh florescent light of reality without my Eddie. The one who changed my heart. Who made me "mommy." So I lay there for a little while and thanked God for him. For holding me in the palm of His hand and giving me comfort. I closed my eyes, feeling close to God and close to Eddie, and breathed for a little while. Then I got up. Because life was waiting for me beyond that door. Hope was waiting. Joy was waiting. And two beautiful, smiling faces whose first words upon seeing me walking down the hall toward them was an excited and exuberant, "Mommy!"
Monday, May 7, 2012
13.1
I finished my first half marathon yesterday. If you follow the blog, you know this is something I was training for, something I really wanted to do. On February 29th in my post "Seasons," I jokingly prayed at the end of it that God help me run the White Rock half marathon in under three hours. It was my goal and at the time seemed extremely ambitious to me.
I didn't run the White Rock half marathon yesterday. That one is in December. No, I ran the Heels and Hills half marathon and I finished in two hours, fifty three minutes, and fifty seconds. In other words, I accomplished my goal of running a half marathon in under three hours...seven months ahead of schedule.
I am not posting this to brag or to show everybody what a super athletic person I am. Um, actually, I'm not. I never participated in athletics in high school. My phys ed credits in college included bowling and ballroom dance. I ran a bit here and there during those years but never further than a 5k (3.1 miles). I started running in earnest during law school but was more interested in preserving my ability to lift a twelve ounce longneck and stay thin than in any kind of physical conditioning or competition. The triathlon I finished in 2004 was the only medal-worthy race I had ever competed in and it was immediately followed by a long, long, long break from any kind of physical fitness at all.
I'm posting this accomplishment because I want to tell everyone, including anyone who might just be stopping by from cyberspace, to look at what GOD can do. (Subtitle: Be careful what you pray for because you just might get it.) I prayed to be physically fit and God gave me a burning desire to get off my rotunda and get moving. He put people in my life with the same desires, similar goals, and they inspired me to set bigger, better, crazier goals for myself. He gave me focus and He gave me ability. And He saved me from myself.
Because I have issues. Really big, nasty ones. And one of these is an ability to get an oversized ego in lightning quick time. If I do anything praise-worthy, my first reaction tends to be, "Look what I can do." It's a character defect that I hope one day will be removed from me entirely by the grace of God, but in the meantime maturity and sobriety have at least bought me awareness. I am aware that I have this tendency and that it is a problem. So, anytime I feel the "me" in all of this rearing her ugly head I respond by praying one of the most difficult but also one of the most frequent prayers I pray. "God, please keep me humble."
A word to the wise: Don't pray this prayer unless you really, really mean it. Humility is a quality of Christ-like living and the gateway to gratitude and all other good things, but it is a lesson learned through ego-shattering humiliation and the appearance of defeat. Every time I pray for humility, I cringe a little inwardly and hope He's gentle with me. And normally He is, but He also answers the prayer and does what needs to be done to keep me humble.
I'm not going to list all the ways that He has done me this difficult favor during my months of training because many of them are embarrassing and I frankly don't want to share them. On the lesser side of things, there have been times I set out to do eight miles that I could hardly manage one. Times when I remembered the wheezy, injury prone, weak hipped, non-athlete that I have always been with sudden and alarming clarity. In the week leading up to this race, I faced more physical difficulties than I had in any week since I have begun running again. On the Saturday before the race I was a wreck. I felt like I had a cold, was nauseated, my hip and knee were killing me and I could not get any rest. I knew I couldn't run 13.1 miles the next day, but I wasn't panicked about that. Because I knew through Christ, I could.
I knew God wanted me to run this race. I don't know all the reasons why. I know I've been blessed by it and I hope others will be somehow. But, as with all God things, I don't need to know why. I just knew He did. And if He wants you to do something, you can do it, no matter what. So I got ready Saturday night with all the excitement and anticipation of a race day ahead, ignoring the pain in my leg and my throat. I went to bed Saturday night, prayed that everything would stop hurting by morning, and got some rest, aside from the "Christmas morning" moments of waking up to look at the clock in anticipation.
Sunday morning I woke up feeling fine. Energized. Ready to go. My friends surprised me with a running shirt commemorating my first half and a 13.1 charm for my laces, as well as Team Abby shirts for themselves. We ran, we laughed, I dry-heaved and kept moving. It was hot, humid, hard, humbling and fantastic. At the thirteen mile mark, we sprinted for the finish. Within yards of the finish line, it felt like my legs were going to give way and I was going to do a face plant. I heard my husband's voice yell, "Go, Abby!" and looked over to see my beautiful family and friends watching and cheering for me. Face planting was no longer an option and I pushed and prayed and thanked God that I was really, truly doing this thing. I finished strong... and humble.
Because I didn't run a half marathon by myself. God gave me the strength and desire to train for it. He spared me from injury. But He went above and beyond that. I didn't earn those friends who ran with me and carried me through; God gave them to me. I didn't create an amazing family in my own power; God sent me my husband and He blessed us with these children. He used all of them and this race to show to me less about what I can do than what He can. He wants me to dream big so that He can do even bigger. So that He can push me through 13.1 miles two months after I began training for 3.1 miles. Because His plans for me are so much greater than any plan I might have for myself and His means to accomplish anything are infinite. And that is a wonderful, painless lesson in humility.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Overflow
I'm having a gushing kind of gratitude kind of day. One of those days where I find myself with a goofy grin on my face for really no apparent reason. I love these days, especially when nothing in particular "caused" them. It's easy to feel happy when awesome stuff happens -- your team wins the championship, you have a sudden financial windfall, you fit into your skinny jeans or someone gives you that gift that you didn't even realize you'd been waiting for your whole life. I'm not knocking those happy moments. They're great. I actually jumped up and down with glee the other day when my first issue of Runner's World was delivered. (Obviously, it doesn't even really take that much for me.) But after those ecstatic highs there is inevitably a little bit of a let-down at some point. The crash after the sugar-high.
But no magazines were delivered today. No gifts received, no championships won. Today has been an everyday kind of day. I switched the kids' room around this weekend and have begun the chore of sorting through the clutter that accumulates, thinning out the toys, reorganizing what remains. It's been a day of folding laundry and cleaning the litter box. Of games of Candyland and puddle splashing, wild tricycle rides and a skinned knee. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch and a play date in the park in the near future. As I approach midday, I haven't finished even close to all of my tasks and I don't know exactly what we're having for dinner. There have been days very nearly exactly like today in which I have felt harried, stressed, overwrought and in desperate need of a babysitter. So why the goofy grin today? I take a break in the middle of it all to ask myself this question and the answer makes my grin broaden.
Because today I am absolutely certain of God's complete and all encompassing love for me. I have been able to lay all my burdens at His feet and just bask in the light of an eternal Love. Today doesn't have to be spectacular in its circumstances; this is the day that the Lord has made and I get to just rejoice in that. He is going to take care of me. He loves me the same whether I'm "good" or not. Whether my kids eat their vegetables at dinner or if they just pig out on pizza. Whether I come up with a great master organizational plan or just dump everything back into the toy box. It doesn't matter. He is smiling at me regardless, feeling toward me the warmth of affection that I feel watching Baby Girl splashing away in her rain boots or Baby Boy riding hell-bent for leather down the sidewalk on his trike. The eternal, all-knowing, all-powerful Creator of the Universe loves me. That is something to smile about.
That is what enlightenment means to me. This is awareness. Knowing that the One who created every single thing and is aware and in charge of all of it loves you with a love that you can't even begin to contain. And when you have this knowledge, you will begin to feel it, filling you up and flowing out of you. Then you don't have to work at being "good." You just are because you are full of good. You don't have to try and love others; you would have to try not to. Perhaps best of all, you don't have to try and love yourself, because you have finally seen yourself as you are seen. Believer or non-believer -- if you are a human being you are known, loved, and accepted, completely, by a God who is nothing but pure unadulterated goodness. He sent His Son, Jesus, to show how much He loves you and to draw you closer to Him so that you might really, truly know His peace, hope and joy. I hope you know my Jesus and, if you don't, I hope you meet Him soon. Not because I want you to leave behind your wicked ways or because hellfire and brimstone await you beyond the gates. I want you to know Him because He's wonderful and He makes me smile. And everyone should feel this kind of crazy happiness, the kind that is lasting, crash-free, and overflowing.
But no magazines were delivered today. No gifts received, no championships won. Today has been an everyday kind of day. I switched the kids' room around this weekend and have begun the chore of sorting through the clutter that accumulates, thinning out the toys, reorganizing what remains. It's been a day of folding laundry and cleaning the litter box. Of games of Candyland and puddle splashing, wild tricycle rides and a skinned knee. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch and a play date in the park in the near future. As I approach midday, I haven't finished even close to all of my tasks and I don't know exactly what we're having for dinner. There have been days very nearly exactly like today in which I have felt harried, stressed, overwrought and in desperate need of a babysitter. So why the goofy grin today? I take a break in the middle of it all to ask myself this question and the answer makes my grin broaden.
Because today I am absolutely certain of God's complete and all encompassing love for me. I have been able to lay all my burdens at His feet and just bask in the light of an eternal Love. Today doesn't have to be spectacular in its circumstances; this is the day that the Lord has made and I get to just rejoice in that. He is going to take care of me. He loves me the same whether I'm "good" or not. Whether my kids eat their vegetables at dinner or if they just pig out on pizza. Whether I come up with a great master organizational plan or just dump everything back into the toy box. It doesn't matter. He is smiling at me regardless, feeling toward me the warmth of affection that I feel watching Baby Girl splashing away in her rain boots or Baby Boy riding hell-bent for leather down the sidewalk on his trike. The eternal, all-knowing, all-powerful Creator of the Universe loves me. That is something to smile about.
That is what enlightenment means to me. This is awareness. Knowing that the One who created every single thing and is aware and in charge of all of it loves you with a love that you can't even begin to contain. And when you have this knowledge, you will begin to feel it, filling you up and flowing out of you. Then you don't have to work at being "good." You just are because you are full of good. You don't have to try and love others; you would have to try not to. Perhaps best of all, you don't have to try and love yourself, because you have finally seen yourself as you are seen. Believer or non-believer -- if you are a human being you are known, loved, and accepted, completely, by a God who is nothing but pure unadulterated goodness. He sent His Son, Jesus, to show how much He loves you and to draw you closer to Him so that you might really, truly know His peace, hope and joy. I hope you know my Jesus and, if you don't, I hope you meet Him soon. Not because I want you to leave behind your wicked ways or because hellfire and brimstone await you beyond the gates. I want you to know Him because He's wonderful and He makes me smile. And everyone should feel this kind of crazy happiness, the kind that is lasting, crash-free, and overflowing.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
The Gift of Gab
My boys weren't talkers. While Eddie had plenty of words, he was very particular about when he used them (never around a stranger, not often if a simple point and grunt would suffice). Baby Boy was content to make car noises and animal sounds until well past his second birthday. If the birth order of my children had been different, I probably would have been very concerned and signing up for speech therapy. Because once Baby Girl came around I discovered something amazing: toddlers can talk! And talk... and talk... and talk.
I've always been a talker. I was, since around nine months of age, "vaccinated with a phonograph needle" as my grandfather would put it. (A phonograph is a record player. For those of you who don't know what a record player is, google it. And you make me feel old.) I can't help it. There are words inside of me just bursting to get out. When I'm in a situation in which talking is frowned upon (church, standardized testing rooms, etc), I literally feel a physical pain in my chest from all the word build-up. Teachers find this habit irritating. As a senior in high school my government/economics teacher switched me from desk to desk, trying to find a group of people I wouldn't talk to. Such a group does not exist. So she moved me to a desk in the back, surrounded by empty desks. I talked louder.
I fear the same future for Baby Girl, though I am told she is rather quiet in her Mother's Day Out class. I'm virtually certain she will grow out of that. Because at home she talks, non-stop. Her vocabulary has always been impressive. While I was telling my mother about Baby Boy's recent trip to the dentist, she leaned over and told her emphatically, "It was a very positive experience." She talks to all of us, of course, but also to the television during her favorite shows, to her books as she reads them, to her toys as she plays with them, and to herself if no one or nothing else is available. She even talks in her sleep.
Because of the continuous chatter, sometimes I have to remind myself to LISTEN. Because the things she says are magical and funny and often really insightful. She tells stories full of imagination and drama. Her first story, when she was barely past two, was about a bunny that hid in tall grass and then ran so fast that she could not see him. Since then we have moved on to fantastic tales of princesses, dragons and even the odd zombie. Her flair for the dramatic leads to some interesting moments. Once when we were driving down the road, she started crying. I could tell the crying was fake, but still glanced back and asked, "What's wrong, baby?" With her eyes screwed tightly shut she wailed with sincerity, "I CAN'T SEE!" Aside from the hearty laugh this gave me, I couldn't help but feel a swell of pride at her excellent Method acting skills and envision a career in theatre ahead.
This fanciful streak makes it a little hard sometimes to distinguish between fact and fiction, but that is part of her magic. There is a fine line between telling a lie and creating a story and I try not to be too strict on this point. Her mind is filled with rainbows and faeries, exciting adventures and tragic tales and she tells me about them. I never want that to change. I want to listen and let her know her words are wonderful things. I am going to miss her pipsqueak little voice when it matures, will miss the mispronunciations and funny word substitutions of my three year old princess. But when her voice is all grown up and her stories have changed, I want to change with her. Instead of just listening, I want to encourage her to use that voice for all its worth. I want to tell her never to let anyone shame her into silence, to never be so afraid of embarrassment that she shuts up. (Except, you know, during church or standardized testing.) I know she already has words inside of her that are bursting to come out and I want to hear every single one of them. To do that I'm going to have to shut my own mouth (always a challenge), ask more questions, listen more and know less.
It will be a good discipline for me to learn. As I mentioned, our children are our teachers. Already she with her gift of gab is teaching me, a perpetual talker, to listen. Often she presses a tiny finger against my lips and says, "Mommy, be quiet." It should probably call for disciplinary action, but it never fails to make me laugh, and it is very nearly always because she has something she wants to say and can't get a word in edgewise, so I let it slide. We'll find our balance and for now I think I'll let her have a 60/40 split. I'm so grateful to have my little girl to chat with me and look forward to every conversation, every story, even every rant that we have to come.
I've always been a talker. I was, since around nine months of age, "vaccinated with a phonograph needle" as my grandfather would put it. (A phonograph is a record player. For those of you who don't know what a record player is, google it. And you make me feel old.) I can't help it. There are words inside of me just bursting to get out. When I'm in a situation in which talking is frowned upon (church, standardized testing rooms, etc), I literally feel a physical pain in my chest from all the word build-up. Teachers find this habit irritating. As a senior in high school my government/economics teacher switched me from desk to desk, trying to find a group of people I wouldn't talk to. Such a group does not exist. So she moved me to a desk in the back, surrounded by empty desks. I talked louder.
I fear the same future for Baby Girl, though I am told she is rather quiet in her Mother's Day Out class. I'm virtually certain she will grow out of that. Because at home she talks, non-stop. Her vocabulary has always been impressive. While I was telling my mother about Baby Boy's recent trip to the dentist, she leaned over and told her emphatically, "It was a very positive experience." She talks to all of us, of course, but also to the television during her favorite shows, to her books as she reads them, to her toys as she plays with them, and to herself if no one or nothing else is available. She even talks in her sleep.
Because of the continuous chatter, sometimes I have to remind myself to LISTEN. Because the things she says are magical and funny and often really insightful. She tells stories full of imagination and drama. Her first story, when she was barely past two, was about a bunny that hid in tall grass and then ran so fast that she could not see him. Since then we have moved on to fantastic tales of princesses, dragons and even the odd zombie. Her flair for the dramatic leads to some interesting moments. Once when we were driving down the road, she started crying. I could tell the crying was fake, but still glanced back and asked, "What's wrong, baby?" With her eyes screwed tightly shut she wailed with sincerity, "I CAN'T SEE!" Aside from the hearty laugh this gave me, I couldn't help but feel a swell of pride at her excellent Method acting skills and envision a career in theatre ahead.
This fanciful streak makes it a little hard sometimes to distinguish between fact and fiction, but that is part of her magic. There is a fine line between telling a lie and creating a story and I try not to be too strict on this point. Her mind is filled with rainbows and faeries, exciting adventures and tragic tales and she tells me about them. I never want that to change. I want to listen and let her know her words are wonderful things. I am going to miss her pipsqueak little voice when it matures, will miss the mispronunciations and funny word substitutions of my three year old princess. But when her voice is all grown up and her stories have changed, I want to change with her. Instead of just listening, I want to encourage her to use that voice for all its worth. I want to tell her never to let anyone shame her into silence, to never be so afraid of embarrassment that she shuts up. (Except, you know, during church or standardized testing.) I know she already has words inside of her that are bursting to come out and I want to hear every single one of them. To do that I'm going to have to shut my own mouth (always a challenge), ask more questions, listen more and know less.
It will be a good discipline for me to learn. As I mentioned, our children are our teachers. Already she with her gift of gab is teaching me, a perpetual talker, to listen. Often she presses a tiny finger against my lips and says, "Mommy, be quiet." It should probably call for disciplinary action, but it never fails to make me laugh, and it is very nearly always because she has something she wants to say and can't get a word in edgewise, so I let it slide. We'll find our balance and for now I think I'll let her have a 60/40 split. I'm so grateful to have my little girl to chat with me and look forward to every conversation, every story, even every rant that we have to come.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
The Life Coach
We are a nicknaming family. My family of origin is one too; we each had a half dozen or so nicknames apiece. I married a nicknamer so the tradition is being proudly carried on. Our nicknames range from the practical (Abby for Abigail, for example), to the descriptive (Baby Girl earned the moniker "Princess Pooter Pants" by the time she was six months old for what should be obvious reasons), to the downright silly (Eddie was, is and will always be my Sugar Snap Pea).
One of Baby Boy's nicknames is The Life Coach. He earned it when he was no more than two years old and it fits into the "descriptive" category. He is one of the most encouraging pint-sized people you will ever meet. I try not to project too much of an image of what I think my children will grow up to be. I avoid it primarily because I don't want to decide that they are going to be investment bankers only to be blown away and gasping for breath when they reach their young adult years and decide to be tattoo artists instead. I want to be able to smile and say, "That's awesome, honey. You just follow your path. I'm proud of you." And mean it.
Anyway, that being said, I can't help but think Baby Boy is destined for some motivating future career. Perhaps sales but I'm thinking personal trainer, motivational speaker or, as the nickname would suggest, life coach. He is full of boundless energy and eager to share it with others. Although he has a natural caution when in comes to trying new things and is refreshingly wary of adult strangers, get him around a group of peers (and he thinks the "peers" age range is from 2-12) or a group of people he is comfortable with and he is going to jump right in, trying to make everyone comfortable and even push their limits a little. When he was two years old and I was reticent to engage in any form of exercise apart from toddler wrangling, he would come up with elaborate fitness routines. Like, run around the ottoman until you're dizzy, then crawl like a baby, then jump around and wiggle your hips. If you didn't get up promptly to join him, he would say, "C'mon, get up. Get up!" If you were slacking on your baby-crawling form, he would urge you with a calm but insistent, "No, like this." Once you got your act together, he would shout an encouraging "Great job! Great job!" Did I mention he was two?
While physical fitness was and is his focal point, he is the Life Coach rather than the Personal Trainer because he extends his knack for encouragement into other areas. He is very supportive of all creative and culinary adventures. Once, while we were gardening as a family, he busted out with a heart felt, "We make a great team!" I seriously don't know where this kid came from but I enjoy the hell out of him.
Since I have begun working out with a passion, he continues to be my greatest fan and motivator. As I push my double jogger, he often shouts, "FASTER! Great job, great job," spurring me on to longer, faster and better stroller runs. When I pick him up from the gym daycare (one of his favorite places), he usually has an encouraging word. Some recent favorites are "That was a great workout, Mom. You so stronger" and a request to not only run and swim with me but also "do stairs." I'm telling you, he is a four year old Bob Harper.
I've been blogging long enough now that I can't really remember what I've mentioned and what I haven't so forgive any repetition. If I'm repeating a concept, though, it is because it is one I find to be true in a mind-blowing kind of way. One of these concepts is that we are not our children's teachers nearly to the extent that they are ours. If we will set aside our manic adult need to be right all the time and remember that the kingdom of God belongs to these little balls of light that we are lucky enough to raise, we will not only do them a world of good, they will change our lives. Radically, completely and all for the better. My Life Coach makes me smile. He makes me work, he makes me want to be better, and he amazes me. When my oldest baby and perhaps my greatest teacher died, at that time in my life when I could have so easily been ready to give up hope, this little encourager was growing in my womb, already giving me something to hope for, something to thrive for, something to look forward to and someone to live for. So today's post is just a little note of gratitude for Baby Boy, for that bright light of atomic energy with his "full speed ahead" attitude and smile that you can't help but return. He is just awesome and I can't wait to learn everything he came to teach me.
One of Baby Boy's nicknames is The Life Coach. He earned it when he was no more than two years old and it fits into the "descriptive" category. He is one of the most encouraging pint-sized people you will ever meet. I try not to project too much of an image of what I think my children will grow up to be. I avoid it primarily because I don't want to decide that they are going to be investment bankers only to be blown away and gasping for breath when they reach their young adult years and decide to be tattoo artists instead. I want to be able to smile and say, "That's awesome, honey. You just follow your path. I'm proud of you." And mean it.
Anyway, that being said, I can't help but think Baby Boy is destined for some motivating future career. Perhaps sales but I'm thinking personal trainer, motivational speaker or, as the nickname would suggest, life coach. He is full of boundless energy and eager to share it with others. Although he has a natural caution when in comes to trying new things and is refreshingly wary of adult strangers, get him around a group of peers (and he thinks the "peers" age range is from 2-12) or a group of people he is comfortable with and he is going to jump right in, trying to make everyone comfortable and even push their limits a little. When he was two years old and I was reticent to engage in any form of exercise apart from toddler wrangling, he would come up with elaborate fitness routines. Like, run around the ottoman until you're dizzy, then crawl like a baby, then jump around and wiggle your hips. If you didn't get up promptly to join him, he would say, "C'mon, get up. Get up!" If you were slacking on your baby-crawling form, he would urge you with a calm but insistent, "No, like this." Once you got your act together, he would shout an encouraging "Great job! Great job!" Did I mention he was two?
While physical fitness was and is his focal point, he is the Life Coach rather than the Personal Trainer because he extends his knack for encouragement into other areas. He is very supportive of all creative and culinary adventures. Once, while we were gardening as a family, he busted out with a heart felt, "We make a great team!" I seriously don't know where this kid came from but I enjoy the hell out of him.
Since I have begun working out with a passion, he continues to be my greatest fan and motivator. As I push my double jogger, he often shouts, "FASTER! Great job, great job," spurring me on to longer, faster and better stroller runs. When I pick him up from the gym daycare (one of his favorite places), he usually has an encouraging word. Some recent favorites are "That was a great workout, Mom. You so stronger" and a request to not only run and swim with me but also "do stairs." I'm telling you, he is a four year old Bob Harper.
I've been blogging long enough now that I can't really remember what I've mentioned and what I haven't so forgive any repetition. If I'm repeating a concept, though, it is because it is one I find to be true in a mind-blowing kind of way. One of these concepts is that we are not our children's teachers nearly to the extent that they are ours. If we will set aside our manic adult need to be right all the time and remember that the kingdom of God belongs to these little balls of light that we are lucky enough to raise, we will not only do them a world of good, they will change our lives. Radically, completely and all for the better. My Life Coach makes me smile. He makes me work, he makes me want to be better, and he amazes me. When my oldest baby and perhaps my greatest teacher died, at that time in my life when I could have so easily been ready to give up hope, this little encourager was growing in my womb, already giving me something to hope for, something to thrive for, something to look forward to and someone to live for. So today's post is just a little note of gratitude for Baby Boy, for that bright light of atomic energy with his "full speed ahead" attitude and smile that you can't help but return. He is just awesome and I can't wait to learn everything he came to teach me.
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