I pull a book out of the basket. Sam is heavy and warm in my arms, and I stretch my arm down the side of the rocking chair and grab the hard worn cover of The Polar Express. I turn the pages slowly, smiling at my littlest boy as I point out the large black train that fills the page. We take our time, replace the book, and pull out another.
The whisk turns speedily through the batter, combining the colors of chocolate brown and butter white. I click it off, hear the hum of the mixer taper off to silence, and draw the spatula along the sides of the bowl. There is a satisfaction in watching the rubber slide along the metal sides, slicking off the fluffy mixture.
My coffee starts to cool as I sip it slowly, reading the story of Christmas from a Bible that is soft and malleable in my hands, the leather feeling old and new at the same time. I remember what it felt like to hear it at age ten, sixteen, twenty-five. It changes every time I read it; I can identify with the wise men some years and with Mary in others. I treasure the words, holding them in my mind's eye and drinking them slowly, like my coffee.
At the white hot center of the star is where I find Christmas this year. From the center is where all of a star's rays begin and where they travel to. This is the cosmic pause, the epicenter of humanity.
Romans 8:22 says, "For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now."
Isaiah 53:7 predicts the suffering of Jesus: "He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth."
Creation groaned for Jesus. There was inspiring victory and crushing rebellion. There were so many stories of life and death and the painful renewing of it all, morning after morning as the sun chased the night away for generations, and as the darkness followed the day.
Jesus then groaned for creation, picking up his dusty feet through moment after moment, until we nailed him to a cross. He died for us and for us He rose.
Consider the pace of our history; the blinding light speed race that has carried us like a baton through the rise and fall of kingdoms, nations, and individuals.
At the center of our story is a moment when the groaning, of childbirth itself, quieted. Into the night came the cry of an infant. Look into his face.
Put aside the to-do list, lay down your work and your worry, and accept the offer to hold the baby in your arms. Accept a smile from Mary and take him, the answer to all of history's crying.
This is the colossal breath creation takes. All of the star's points lead to his birth, and all of its rays come from him. Yet, for a moment, everything stops. Breathe in, breathe out. There was a moment when everything had to wait.
Tomorrow is, for me, a celebration of this deep inhale. I cannot stop time from passing, but I can remember that moment when Mary had only to care for him, nurture him, and wait. My intention is to wait, to experience a moment of not moving so fast, to consent to the fact that in the manger there was the gentle rise and fall of his little chest, and everything that would come had to sit on the shelf.
If only for a moment.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
Joy in my Home Office
There is a sea of items on the desk. They are piling on top of one another, vying for space and growing. As I approach the desk to clean it there is a ball of anxiety that wells up, not for this small pile but for the redundancy of it, for the millions of small piles in my home, in my head.
I see a handful of Lego dudes, a little plastic horse, little vehicles crafted by little hands. Something in me stops, I don't WANT to pick them up. I like looking at them.
Normally when I have these sentimental pauses I push them to the side, shaking my head at my inability to just DO. I routinely pick them up and discard them into small bins, big bins, a room of these bins so that I can create order out of the chaos of childhood.
Today, however, I just stared at them. I took a picture of them. I cherished them. What is this in me that wants to touch, treasure, LEGOS of all things? After all, Legos are what I found in my two year old's mouth yesterday. Legos are what I step on and curse. They are the toy that refuses to be confined to its orderly bin.
Somehow, perhaps for the music of JJ Heller waving through the house, or perhaps because the windows are open and Fall is here and I'm feeling something close to FREE; today I stopped and I just loved those little Legos.
I love that Jonathan's fingers are still chubby and somewhat awkward as he puts them together, though he does it deftly and quickly, I can still see the rubber band wrist and the still-little fingernails as he works. So rarely do I watch him do it, but I know how he looks when he does.
There is a bubble of protective callousness in me that bursts when I see him helping William find pieces out of the bin and something so precious to me about Sam knowing what "guys" are, because at two he has already learned this boy term from his
"budders".
At some points in my life I would kick myself for not cherishing the small toys EVERY day. I would respond to my tenderness with guilt, refusing to enjoy the joy of motherhood for all the hurts I have not comforted, all the toys I have literally thrown into bins as frustration and anger and exhaustion and confusion have tunneled themselves into hatred of those little plastic figurines.
Not today. Today I will love the joy, soak in it and work it into my head until bubbles of joy are forming. Wash in it now, for tomorrow I will remember the sweet feeling of standing in the waterfall.
Monday, April 6, 2015
Grasping at wild greatness
There is a children's book called The Story of Ferdinand. In it a young bull grows up contentedly in the pasture, is suddenly and shockingly thrown into the bull ring, and if you haven't read it you really should because it has a cute ending and adorable black and white illustrations.
I have been thinking about my season of motherhood lately, trying to view it as through a telescope. I need to get a far off perspective because I am tired and overwhelmed and also keenly aware that these days are expiring more and more quickly. My children's wrists are losing their chubby creases and their faces are lenthening, their muscles starting to be more defined. They are getting faster and faster and stronger every day. It struck me recently that I am not molding small pots, but rather I am watching as these boys, these arrows, fly by me at the speed of light. When I can I reach out and touch one, I leave my mark on it or adjust its course, but only very quickly and often subtly. They don't sit or listen long enough for me to train them up as a professor teaches his students; I have to just stick out my hand and graze them if I want to leave any impression at all.
These boys are fast approaching manhood, and though it seems preposterous right now, it is always that way, is it not? I remember working at a horse farm in middle school and one of the mares was pregnant. It was a small farm, and there was only this one pregnant horse so we young girls watched her as though she were Cinderella transforming at the hand of the fairy godmother. We were awestruck by the whole process and came as quickly as our moms could drive us when she finally gave birth. We arrived in the early quiet of morning before the sun had even risen halfway into the sky. There was this colt, this wobbly beautiful baby, and we were instantly in love. He was named Jet, and as his name would suggest he was suddenly a strapping young stallion; it happened so fast we didn't see it coming. The whole process of his growth was fascinating and startling; we marveled at his youthful energy and stubbornness and started in surprise when he nipped at our hands. We giggled at his progress and learned to fear his unbroken strength. The only way he became a capable, rideable gentleman was at the hands of the farm owner, a woman we all feared (as much as we feared Jet's youthful strength) and admired (a little less than we admired the horses, to be frank.)
Sometimes my fellas seem like this colt, with their unbridled strength, passion, and wilfulness. I try to bridle it every day, but sometimes it is all I can do to keep up with them. Thinking of the story of Ferdinand gives me a little lense into their youth and boy-ness. Jonathan reminds me of a bull at pasture, rough and strong and content in his field. William seems to often find himself in the china shop, and things get broken sometimes. Sam was born in the ring and lives there. He came into the world with a red flag in his face and has been attacking that thing ever since with a passion that will soon require restraint. I am not eager for the attempt.
These handsome young bulls of mine are the most complimentary gift the Lord has ever given me. To think that He believes in me to handle their wildness, joy, and stubbornness is amazing to me. All too often I don't believe I'm up to the task. I feel my humanity keenly and it feels like there is a great gulf between my energy, intelligence, and strength and their youth.
Perhaps this is the very reason God gave them to me, or one of them at least: When I do manage to touch them as they shoot through the sky, there is a moment, and it is ever so brief, in which I feel like I am flying too.
"Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are children born in one's youth." Psalm 127:4
"But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." Isaiah 40:31
"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." Philippians 4:13
I have been thinking about my season of motherhood lately, trying to view it as through a telescope. I need to get a far off perspective because I am tired and overwhelmed and also keenly aware that these days are expiring more and more quickly. My children's wrists are losing their chubby creases and their faces are lenthening, their muscles starting to be more defined. They are getting faster and faster and stronger every day. It struck me recently that I am not molding small pots, but rather I am watching as these boys, these arrows, fly by me at the speed of light. When I can I reach out and touch one, I leave my mark on it or adjust its course, but only very quickly and often subtly. They don't sit or listen long enough for me to train them up as a professor teaches his students; I have to just stick out my hand and graze them if I want to leave any impression at all.
These boys are fast approaching manhood, and though it seems preposterous right now, it is always that way, is it not? I remember working at a horse farm in middle school and one of the mares was pregnant. It was a small farm, and there was only this one pregnant horse so we young girls watched her as though she were Cinderella transforming at the hand of the fairy godmother. We were awestruck by the whole process and came as quickly as our moms could drive us when she finally gave birth. We arrived in the early quiet of morning before the sun had even risen halfway into the sky. There was this colt, this wobbly beautiful baby, and we were instantly in love. He was named Jet, and as his name would suggest he was suddenly a strapping young stallion; it happened so fast we didn't see it coming. The whole process of his growth was fascinating and startling; we marveled at his youthful energy and stubbornness and started in surprise when he nipped at our hands. We giggled at his progress and learned to fear his unbroken strength. The only way he became a capable, rideable gentleman was at the hands of the farm owner, a woman we all feared (as much as we feared Jet's youthful strength) and admired (a little less than we admired the horses, to be frank.)
Sometimes my fellas seem like this colt, with their unbridled strength, passion, and wilfulness. I try to bridle it every day, but sometimes it is all I can do to keep up with them. Thinking of the story of Ferdinand gives me a little lense into their youth and boy-ness. Jonathan reminds me of a bull at pasture, rough and strong and content in his field. William seems to often find himself in the china shop, and things get broken sometimes. Sam was born in the ring and lives there. He came into the world with a red flag in his face and has been attacking that thing ever since with a passion that will soon require restraint. I am not eager for the attempt.
These handsome young bulls of mine are the most complimentary gift the Lord has ever given me. To think that He believes in me to handle their wildness, joy, and stubbornness is amazing to me. All too often I don't believe I'm up to the task. I feel my humanity keenly and it feels like there is a great gulf between my energy, intelligence, and strength and their youth.
Perhaps this is the very reason God gave them to me, or one of them at least: When I do manage to touch them as they shoot through the sky, there is a moment, and it is ever so brief, in which I feel like I am flying too.
"Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are children born in one's youth." Psalm 127:4
"But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." Isaiah 40:31
"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." Philippians 4:13
Monday, February 2, 2015
Milk or champagne?
Who came up with the phrase, "Don't cry over spilt milk"?
I'd like to share some choice words with them.
Do you know what spilt milk looks like? Do you know what it smells like? Anyone who doesn't ever cry over spilt milk has incredible self control... or a maid. On most days, I have neither (well, I never have a maid but there are lovely moments when I have self control).
Once I paid thirty dollars to have my car cleaned by the energetic gentlemen at Auto Bell, then went home and cleaned it myself... all because it smelled like a mouse had died in it, and not recently. It turns out my one year old had spilled his milk on my yoga mat. First I cursed the makers of his "spill proof" sippy cup. Then I cursed the one who coined the whole crying over spilt milk adage.
I only discovered that the atrocious smell of rodent death lay in my yoga mat as I was participating in my class at the Y. I kept smelling my hair, my armpits, my clothing ... all the while hoping my neighbor was not watching me.
At some point a cynical person amended aforementioned phrase to say, "Don't cry over spilt champagne." I don't know if they were trying to be ironic or funny, but I find the new phrase much more appropriate. First of all, champagne does not smell of putrid rot upon drying. Secondly, I cannot feed my children with champagne nor can I produce it from my person. These two qualities of milk cause it to increase in value enormously. Champagne is made with grapes and is not the best use of them, in my opinion. If it is spilled my husband will be spared a most infernal headache.
Advertisements and books I read and shows I watch keep encouraging me to appreciate the simple things in life, and that the best things in life are free. I would like to add that the opposite is true: the simple harms in life, the simple mistakes, can also be the most egregious.
We are tempted to gloss over our little slip-ups, and I am to blame as well. If I want to shed a tear over my spilt milk, I wonder how my six year old feels when I turn his tv show off five minutes too soon because we have to leave now. If milk can cause my blood to boil, perhaps it makes sense that my three year old will cry when presented with purple lettuce that he must eat in order to receive dessert.
Sometimes I overlook an apology for little things; I forget to explain to Jonathan's teacher why I was late for AR testing. I let my late arrival to a playdate be ignored and hope that it will just be forgiven.
Then I have a day where the little things in my own life pile up, like today. At one point I was in the bathroom on the telephone with my husband (the only place I can finish a conversation other than the car) and heard glass being thrown around the kitchen. You think I'm kidding, but last night Jonathan wanted a last minute glass of milk, so I filled a bourbon glass with milk and let him drain it. There the glass sat, still with that one last drop of milk, overnight, until the two younger children discovered it this morning and decided to play volleyball with it while I attended to a phone call in my "office".
My day progressed, it had its ups and downs, but what I really needed was something simple to bring me back to equilibrium. I didn't need damn champagne, I needed a tall glass of milk.
I met two of my dearest friends at the Science Center for a playdate and as I soaked up the giggles and the fish, the scampering feet and the delighted squeals and the interesting facts about tornadoes that William and his buddy can't get enough of, I felt some peace.
When you start to feel like you're making too big a deal of the small atrocities in life, know you're not alone. We all make too big a deal of them, because they are like mosquitoes: small, obnoxious, and occasionally carrions of deadly disease. When the milk spills, the shit hits the fan, and it's evidence of Murphy's Law, which is quite discouraging indeed.
Fortunately, what I've learned is that I can turn Murphy's Law on it's cheeky, arrogant head. If anything that can go wrong will, sometimes all I need is for something to go right. Occasionally a tall glass of milk going down cold and accompanied by a chocolate chip cookie is like a holiday at the beach.
So, cheers. Cheers and thanks to my friends for our playdates, to my husband for overlooking the takeout dinner, to my mom for cleaning my kitchen. I will cheers with a tall glass of milk (or a cheap glass of wine) and poo poo that champagne.
I'd like to share some choice words with them.
Do you know what spilt milk looks like? Do you know what it smells like? Anyone who doesn't ever cry over spilt milk has incredible self control... or a maid. On most days, I have neither (well, I never have a maid but there are lovely moments when I have self control).
Once I paid thirty dollars to have my car cleaned by the energetic gentlemen at Auto Bell, then went home and cleaned it myself... all because it smelled like a mouse had died in it, and not recently. It turns out my one year old had spilled his milk on my yoga mat. First I cursed the makers of his "spill proof" sippy cup. Then I cursed the one who coined the whole crying over spilt milk adage.
I only discovered that the atrocious smell of rodent death lay in my yoga mat as I was participating in my class at the Y. I kept smelling my hair, my armpits, my clothing ... all the while hoping my neighbor was not watching me.
At some point a cynical person amended aforementioned phrase to say, "Don't cry over spilt champagne." I don't know if they were trying to be ironic or funny, but I find the new phrase much more appropriate. First of all, champagne does not smell of putrid rot upon drying. Secondly, I cannot feed my children with champagne nor can I produce it from my person. These two qualities of milk cause it to increase in value enormously. Champagne is made with grapes and is not the best use of them, in my opinion. If it is spilled my husband will be spared a most infernal headache.
Advertisements and books I read and shows I watch keep encouraging me to appreciate the simple things in life, and that the best things in life are free. I would like to add that the opposite is true: the simple harms in life, the simple mistakes, can also be the most egregious.
We are tempted to gloss over our little slip-ups, and I am to blame as well. If I want to shed a tear over my spilt milk, I wonder how my six year old feels when I turn his tv show off five minutes too soon because we have to leave now. If milk can cause my blood to boil, perhaps it makes sense that my three year old will cry when presented with purple lettuce that he must eat in order to receive dessert.
Sometimes I overlook an apology for little things; I forget to explain to Jonathan's teacher why I was late for AR testing. I let my late arrival to a playdate be ignored and hope that it will just be forgiven.
Then I have a day where the little things in my own life pile up, like today. At one point I was in the bathroom on the telephone with my husband (the only place I can finish a conversation other than the car) and heard glass being thrown around the kitchen. You think I'm kidding, but last night Jonathan wanted a last minute glass of milk, so I filled a bourbon glass with milk and let him drain it. There the glass sat, still with that one last drop of milk, overnight, until the two younger children discovered it this morning and decided to play volleyball with it while I attended to a phone call in my "office".
My day progressed, it had its ups and downs, but what I really needed was something simple to bring me back to equilibrium. I didn't need damn champagne, I needed a tall glass of milk.
I met two of my dearest friends at the Science Center for a playdate and as I soaked up the giggles and the fish, the scampering feet and the delighted squeals and the interesting facts about tornadoes that William and his buddy can't get enough of, I felt some peace.
When you start to feel like you're making too big a deal of the small atrocities in life, know you're not alone. We all make too big a deal of them, because they are like mosquitoes: small, obnoxious, and occasionally carrions of deadly disease. When the milk spills, the shit hits the fan, and it's evidence of Murphy's Law, which is quite discouraging indeed.
Fortunately, what I've learned is that I can turn Murphy's Law on it's cheeky, arrogant head. If anything that can go wrong will, sometimes all I need is for something to go right. Occasionally a tall glass of milk going down cold and accompanied by a chocolate chip cookie is like a holiday at the beach.
So, cheers. Cheers and thanks to my friends for our playdates, to my husband for overlooking the takeout dinner, to my mom for cleaning my kitchen. I will cheers with a tall glass of milk (or a cheap glass of wine) and poo poo that champagne.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Mutually Assured Destruction
Driving in the car this morning.
William: "Mom, what is dat gwumbwing sound?"
Mom: Sigh. "Um, that is us driving over a bumpy part in the road."
William: "No, what is dat GWUMBWING?"
Mom: "I just told you."
William: "No, what is dat gwum-- sou--, what does SOUND mean?"
Mom: "William, I am going to need you to stop talking until we get to the grocery store."
William: "K."
This is unbelievably, cross my heart, EXACTLY the type of conversation William and I engage in at least ten times per day. You might be thinking that I am shafting him on some good old conversational training, or that I am stifling his adventurous spirit, or that I don't appreciate the adorable curiosity of a three year old. You might be right.
Nonetheless, continuing on these threads is mutually assured destruction. Eventually William will still not have his question answered, (largely because the question mutates with the speed of light), and I will be raising my voice saying something like, "Well then you can take a NAP for all I care."
Which is exactly what happened later on today.
From 10:30-11:30 I was pretty sluggish, being as we completed a to-do list six items long from 7:15 to 10:15. From about 11 to 11:30 William asked me every five minutes to make him lunch. Finally I hopped up off the couch and said cheerfully, (yes, cheerfully, I specifically remember being cheerful):
"Ok, bud, what do you want for lunch?"
"Cheese and cwackus."
"Here is your cheese, crackers, and a banana."
"Can I have juice mommy?"
"Hold on, I need to make my lunch and Sam's lunch too."
"Can I have juice mommy?"
"Just a second bud"
"Can I have juice mommy?"
"William! It is NOT all about YOU!"
I give him the juice. He takes one bite of cheese.
"I am finished wif my lunch"
It does not behoove me to tell you how I responded. Suffice it to say, he ended up taking a nap. Early.
See, I know that we need to learn how to communicate with one another. I know that a lot of our conversations are priceless. Sometimes, though, it's better to cut them off at the pass.
I really like it when he prays. It helps that God is getting his earful too, and it gives me insight into my little boy. For the last three nights he has been praying for his Aunt Maria, because she's having a rough week at college. He also thanks God for me. Every single night.
The wrap-up, I suppose, is this: Conversation with a three year old is exhausting, but there are gems in there that are worth the ride.
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