Ease in the work

Today during yoga class the instructor reminded us to "find the ease in the work".  She ticked off the working groups, "Plant your feet, turn on your legs, straighten your back, pull your shoulders in and down," a checklist of contracting muscles and bones and joints.  With a clear voice she told us to feel our muscles working, then settle into it and find the lightness there.

The funny thing is, I had just read a quote by CS Lewis today that communicated the connection between work and ease.

"The Christian way is different: harder, and easier.  Christ says 'Give me All.  I don't want so much of your time and so much of your money and so much of your work: I want You'... Both harder and easier than what we are all trying to do.  You have noticed, I expect, that Christ Himself sometimes describes the Christian way as very hard, sometimes as very easy.  He says, 'Take up your Cross'--in other words, it is like going to be beaten to death in a concentration camp.  Next minute he says, 'My yoke is easy and my burden light.' He means both." 

CS Lewis and my yoga teacher seem to be in cahoots, and when something like this happens I tend to think it is God whispering.  Embrace the work and lean into the grit.  Yesterday at the pool I was chatting with another mom and commenting on how I often tell Josh, "I just want to wake up and make it through the day the way I planned it.  I want everything to work the way it's supposed to."

Aside from smiling a crooked smile as he is working on something else in the house I've asked him to fix, Josh's typical response is, "Yep, I know it babe.  That would be nice."

That would be nice.... or would it?

Last week the yoga instructor had us change up some of the routine.  She never teaches the exact same class, but I can usually see what's coming and know that if my body is twisted this way right now, it will move into X pose next.  Well, on that particular day she had woken up energized, giddy even.  She said she was "excited to live life" or some such inspiring (read: terrifying) claim. I found my feet over my head when they were supposed to be planted in plank pose.  I found my hips in the air and my shoulders over my ears when they should not have been.  In short, sweat was dripping all up in my face space.  I felt beads of it streaming from my neck onto my hairline and into my eyes.  It stung and I couldn't reach my towel or I would have fallen clean onto my nose, so it stayed there, stinging.  I was blinking so hard I thought I'd have a headache.  As Libby continued to move us through her excited-for-life madness series, I was trying to figure out how to stay with her cues but still predict what was coming next and how to reach my daggum towel.

My brain stopped trying to catch up to my body, and finally accepted that we were on a different playing field.  Then, as if by magic, it was as if my brain sat back, popped a Corona and said, "Heart, lungs, do your thing.  I'm taking the back seat." It was clarifying.  I let the expectation drop and just decided to like the sweat in my ears and eyes.  

In any job there is the mundane, the expected, and then there is the wildly unexpected bordering on chaotic.  As I raise my children I am coming to expect both, and finding myself resenting them equally.  Make the bed.  Wipe down the counters.  Unload the dishwasher.  Why is it never done.  Take the suddenly feverish baby to the doctor.  Sweep up the broken china plate.  Hear the news, "Honey I think it's time to buy new land and move across town." Clench, breathe, clench. Cry. 

Nevertheless, there are moments when I realize I actually love the mundane and I cherish the surprises.  I was wiping down my gorgeous granite countertops the other day thinking how satisfying it was to watch that grime disappear.  I folded laundry and realized that sitting in the sunroom with an excuse to do so for an hour was soothing my harried mind.  The car had to go BACK to the mechanic and somehow I was more grateful than exasperated.

Is this what they mean?  Is this what it means to lean into the work, to find the ease there and to settle into the elbow grease of life as if it is the big comfy chair?  I am wondering if I stopped running towards rest and rather pushed back the branches in my mind and reached for the tool belt-- would I find that I prefer it?

Try as I might, I can't think of a single story in the Bible wherein the protagonist goes on vacation and achieves nirvana.  In fact, I can't think of a single story like that in my own life or the lives of my friends.  I can think of a lot of stories in which a person has striven for excellence and found, more than the achievement of their goal, a growth of self.  Furthermore, I can think of a dozen instances wherein a curve ball produced depth or a shock to the system turned into the greatest gift.  I am not naive enough to believe that every bit of unexpected news or droll work will bring happiness- the world is too broken for that.  I did not expect, however, for sweat in my eyes to become something I look forward to.  Realizing that I can feel the ache and reach into it for more makes me think that I can probably discover more of this delight in struggle.  Perhaps I can even find myself singing while I scrub a toilet... for the third time that day.

Lewis, CS. "June 23." A Year with CS Lewis. 1st ed. New York: Harper Collins, 2003. 191. Print

Easter Observation

Tonight I listened to William say his prayer.  He was reluctant to pray at all.  He said, 

"Dear Jesus, thank you for dying on the cross to forgive us for our sins."

Every "r" came out as a "w".  Then he sighed. 

"That's all, I don't know what to say next!" he explained in tired exasperation. 

I smiled at the floor while Josh explained to him that prayer is our chance to talk to God, that especially today, on Easter, we need to participate.  William started over, said again, 

"Dear Jesus, thank you for dying on the cross to forgive us for our sins,"

added one more sentence for posterity, and then fell asleep quickly. 

As I listened to him pray, get disgruntled about praying, and then try again, I smiled to myself because of how perfectly he was echoing my own feelings at the time.  

Today has been a dreary Easter Sunday.  Josh and I were up for most of the night with a sick Sam, spent the morning apart as I went to church without the fellas, and then the afternoon apart as he took the big boys to lunch with the grandparents while I snoozed on the couch with our littlest.  I have picked up the computer three times to blog about the impact Easter has on my redeemed heart, and each time I have closed it in somber irritation at the fact that I just can't get at the joy of this holiday.  The rain has softly dotted the yard all day, the clouds have hovered low over our city, and I have felt as heavy as soaked denim. 

Last night we read the children the story of the crucifixion.  In years past they have relished this story, have wanted to read and re-read it, have asked questions about how the Roman soldiers were armed, how they hurt Jesus, and what they would like to do to the soldiers in vindication.  Truthfully, I used to cringe at their questions and silently wish to silence their fascination with the story of the cross.  Over time I have come to appreciate their dissection of Good Friday and have learned a lot about my own faith while listening to them drink in the truth of what Jesus had suffered. 

Last night, however, they wanted to move on.  When we finished the story of the crucifixion William asked repeatedly to read the story of the stone being rolled back and the ladies who went there.  He wanted the story to be finished.  He wanted to hear the happy ending.  He wanted Jesus to rise from the grave.  This morning, before I went to church, before the day had fully begun, Jonathan offered to read the story of the resurrection to his brothers.  He couldn't wait!  They sat on the couch and read together the story of Easter. 

I am learning from my children how to grapple with the reality of being human and how to claw at truth, to chase goodness, and to seek the simple yet profound fact of Jesus being IT.  

William's prayer tonight is my prayer today.  When all is said and done and the Easter Sunday trappings weren't exactly as planned, I thank my Jesus for dying on the cross to save me.  When I am tired and disgruntled I thank him for being my Savior, and I put away any more fanciful words. 

Furthermore, the story my boys craved is the story I long to hear.  Again and again.  I want to hear about Jesus rising.  I want to be told that He came out of that tomb.  I crave to remember how the women discovered him absent.  Absent from death, absent from the tomb, absent from the oppression of sin. 

I have been pondering the emotions of Mary lately; how she must have suffered when Jesus went missing for three days at the age of twelve.  I wonder what pole vaults her heart did when she found him and asked him, 

"Son, why have you treated us like this?  Your father and I have been anxiously searching for you." 

It has occurred to me that his next words must have reverberated through her life and her mind.

"Why were you searching for me? Didn't you know I had to be in my Father's house?"

I wonder, when Mary heard that her son's body was no longer in the tomb, if she recalled these words of his.  I wonder if it occurred to her that her son was on his way to his Father's house.  

Sometimes I expect a day, such as this Sunday on my calendar, or a moment that is packed with holy ceremony, to encapsulate my relationship with Jesus.  I want, each Easter, to be overwhelmed by the joy of the rising.  I want Him to be caught in Easter Sunday like a wintry scene trapped in a snow globe.   In thinking that a day can contain the wide mystery of my LORD's resurrection I find that I am cheapening the miracle.  

Today has not been pretty.  We did not all end up in our Easter outfits.  Yet, and here is the crux of it, we told the story.  We read it to each other.  We remembered the truth.  We accept the gift of Jesus ascending to his Father. 

Our Father. 

The Joy that is knowing Jesus can no more be caught in a day than the wind can be caught in the trees.  The joy is Jesus.  While I am trying to make Easter pretty, Jesus is clearing out the need for it to be.  While I am wishing for sunny skies, He is owning the rain.  As I regret the mess, He is entering it.  He is in his Father's house.  If ever I am at a loss to find the peace and joy that Easter represents, I have only to look at the throne at the right hand of God. 

Jesus said, "Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father.  Go instead to my brothers and tell them, 'I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.'"  

Mary Magdalene went to the disciples with the news: "I have seen the Lord!"  and she told them that he had said these things to her. 

John 20:17-18

Yoga, clarity, and being a mom

Today in yoga the instructor asked us to think about why we were there and she told us to take something from yoga, store it up and utilize it "out there".  As sweat beaded on my body and I had to focus on breathing hard in and out so that I wouldn't go cross-eyed, I thought about what I wanted to take with me. 


As my booted feet tromped across the street, my eyes squinting against the blazing sun and my shoulders hunched due to the below freezing temperature, I carried this... what is it?  I carried it with me.  Getting into the car and turning on the radio I carried it.  I rolled down the window to let the frigid air cool off my stuffy, sweaty heat.  Driving down the road I tried to tap into it, tried to find it.  Unsatisfied obligations and undone tasks crowded into my head like so many mosh pitters fighting for the spot right in front of the stage.  With effort I pushed them back, and tried to find the clear spot in my head.  I think this is the thing.  After an hour of sweat and burning muscles and deciding to believe I have one more chaturanga in me, the gift I have given myself is a pocket of clarity in my teeming brain.


I think, for me, that yoga means being alone and quiet.  Even if friends are on both sides and the music is playing and the lights are on and the instructor is loudly challenging us to "dig deep", I find solitude in the practice.  It is a rich opportunity to feel the tendons that connect to my muscles, to discover the length in my spine and the rotation of my neck.  When she tells me to imagine that someone is drawing my head up by a string, I can feel it.  There is a reckoning, an acceptance that my body can do more than it wants to, can go further than it feels comfortable, and past the point of what I think I can do.


That is not all.  I find that there IS a reason I am there, in that studio, in that particular practice of poses.  It is not a nebulous reason, it is as solid as the pavement under my feet.


It is my children.  This is not trite.  This is not a cop-out statement.  Three little lives are blossoming around my feet.  Three young boys are filling up the space around me, crashing through my bubble, leaving foot prints all over my aloneness, and beating drums into my quiet.  In a fast paced crash course in maturation they are growing up next to me.  I am trying to hold them back just a little, speak into their moments with lessons.  These lessons are piling up next to me like papers on my desk.  Millions of teachable moments are filling up our empty spaces, bursting out of drawers and cascading over the side of filing bins in our lives.  I can't hold them back, even if my only goal is to teach them how to run while they run.  They will fly forward while I seem to stand still.  What I want for them is to feel the wind in their hair and enjoy it, and even as I try to slow their roll so that I can make it safer, I know that my best chance is to run alongside them and let go when the string gets taut.


When I say that I exercise for my children it is not that they need me to carry them.  It is precisely the opposite.  They can't stand for me to hold them up, they are fighting to hold up themselves.  Watching them do it is taking every ounce of patience, control, and strength that I possess.  Observing their flight is making tears come to my eyes.  I can't tell if the tears are from the windburn of all of it happening so fast or from the deep ache of it. 


In the yoga studio I find those deep places where the ache dwells.  As she asks me to twist, and my arms and legs are shaky and weak, I can tap into the heart of being a mother.  My heart can pound, my body can move, and all the while I am practicing patience and stillness and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing.

A break in routine

The wind chimes on the neighbor's porch across the street sing a high pitched melody.  It's a repetitive  nursery rhyme, as if it's being sung by a woman in her garden absent-mindedly, the memory of childhood long past.

On my porch the tin cans clank together, my son's homemade wind chime from two years ago, in a lower baritone cadence.

The sun is reluctant to go down in late February, as if it's arguing with the night that it is nearly Spring and that the glow of it's fading light is more romantic for being in a time between seasons.  The hedges catch its glow and bounce it back, and in between the sky and the earth the glare catches in my eyes.  I squint inside my sunglasses and feel the tightness in my forehead creases: evidence of the faintest bit of sun kissed skin.

It is a kind of magic when a season arrives before it is due.  We are supposed to get wintry weather later this week, but for now we sit on the porch and run in the grass in tee shirts and tank tops, easing sweaty socks off our feet to stretch out our winter-hidden toes.

The boys are making criss cross marks in the yard with their bikes and scooters.  Eager to steal speed from the sunshine, they zip around like dragonflies, trading out toys as if their day depends on how many vehicles can be released from the garage.

Birds mimic their movements, flying and diving in the sky, singing along with the wind chimes, and bounding from tree to tree as if sharing their song will ignite the buds within.

Today has been a sick day, there have been antibiotics and tissues and the nebulizer even had to make an appearance, but sitting here with dirt on my knees from weeding, a tall ice water by my side that doesn't make my guts go numb with the drinking, this is alright.

Earlier today the dog got at the neighbor's chicken.  There are still feathers floating in corners of my house where they landed off her fur as I chased her to her crate in frustration and sadness, and horror that I would have to tell my neighbor of the death in my yard.  Men came to put new windows on our house and asked me, gently, if I was aware I lost a chicken.  I sadly explained the chicken was not mine.

All through the day I have been guiltlessly putting off folding the laundry, emptying load after load out of the dryer and into the bin by the washing machine, letting it become a mountain of cascading shirts, socks, and pants that seems to laugh at me as I pick a fallen sock from the floor and place it back at the top of the mountain, which is now so steep that it pitches to a point against the wall.

I think this is why I love it when Spring says hello in late February.  There's something decidedly rebellious about it, as if God himself is saying "leave the laundry!"  I don't know, this may be over-spiritualizing things, or looking for excuses where none are needed.  Nonetheless, I am finding the song of the wind chimes, the frenetic play of the children, and the deliciously warm sunlight studded by a crisp winter breeze to be scrumptiously off beat.

It's almost enough to take my mind off the poor neighbor children's lost feathered friend.  It is at the very least enough to keep my head clear enough that I have decided I will take them cookies and flowers and leave it at that.

I suppose the chicken just couldn't resist the temptation to play outside the pen in the early Spring weather.

Neither could my dog.

The star of Christmas

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.

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. 

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