My daughter comes home in 23 hours. I have not been in her presence for 5 long months (22 weeks to be exact). Seasons have come and gone and there's been an ache that runs through all their beauty.
I always cut my I-teeth on Avonlea.
We've been preparing for her arrival home, planning surprises and Rowan looks at me and says, "You know that by the time I come home from college, you'll probably forget to pick me up at the airport." I exclaim that I'll be just as excited over him and make a mental note to carefully write down his flight times, because he has a point.
But there was 18 years with Avonlea, all chock full of her quirkiness and laughter. There's just no one like her in the world.
She had a wonderful semester in New Zealand. She said "yes" to whatever people invited her to do (thank God she was at a Bible College!). She ran a 4K (in jeans), learned to ride a unicycle, learned to play volleyball and basketball, led English Country dances, and wrote amazing papers. She met all kinds of interesting people and grew so much in her faith. I am so proud of her.
She entered the tunnel of "we" becoming "me". When she left, she thought in terms of "we". She was a portion of a whole, the "whole" being our family. When she got to school and people asked her questions about what kind of movies she liked, etc. she'd reply, "We like...". Inevitably that got weird and it slowly changed. Of course she's still a beloved part of our family, but she is forming her own independent me-ness, and it's good. We're certainly not about to ride unicycles as a family unit, however, her me-ness expands our family not contracts it.
When I got into bed tonight I said to Dave, "I don't think I can sleep, Avonlea is coming!"
I realized later that I had said those same words 18 1/2 years ago when I was trying to get some rest as my labor was starting. We give birth to the same child several times over in our life. We feel the labor pains and we disregard them in the joy of creation. Our lives adjust to the child's arrival, their growth, their challenges, their passions. Various internal parts of us grow pregnantly round and stretch taut. Our children metamorphosis and change utterly and end up almost unrecognizable. Almost.
Today a poem that I wrote when she was born came into my mind.
Her cry broke the silence
a thousand years thick
Time fell like rain
frenzied and quick
A life wound up tight
has now been let go
What direction will it jettison
is what we none know
Well now I know. She jettisoned toward truth and beauty and music and nature and ultimately toward her creator God. She is a blessing, and I would go through the birth process again for her in a minute. And I probably will.
My daughter comes home in 22 hours.
I always cut my I-teeth on Avonlea.
There's just no one like her.
Wednesday, December 12, 2018
Saturday, October 6, 2018
Motivation
I hear things when I wake in the night.
Sometimes it's the ice maker.
Sometimes it's a little foster girl yelling, "I have to go to the bathroom!"
Sometimes it's the refrigerator's hum.
Sometimes it's the howl of a coyote.
When Avonlea ran back out of the security line at the airport and gave us one last impulsive kiss I heard something. It was as if I woke up into silence and heard a clock ticking. Her curly head disappeared into a mass of people and I realized afresh my time with these children, this husband, on this planet, was finite. Like the ice maker and the fridge, I can hear the ticking now in the noise, because I first heard it in the quiet. Because this realization came fresh and loud into my sadness it made a deep impression and caused me to do things like swim and play volleyball. Meaning, the things I didn't want to do with my children, I now try to do when they ask, because the clock is ticking.
We sold the cottage and Grant bought a car and Rowan turned 13 and is plotting new adventures. Rose has Nutcracker rehearsals and school has to be done and animals fed and groceries bought. And under all these big kid things is the same force that held us all together when they were little kids.
Love.
And love is exhausting. Love is a constant pouring out and refilling and sometimes running dry. Love is grieving and rejoicing in growth all at the same time. Love is the muscle that stretches long and the muscle that flexes. Love motivates us to clean the bathrooms and snuggle on the coach and invite people into our home.
That's what the ticking tells me, in the quiet and in the noise, that the foundation of all of this is love. If I don't get the love part right, I'm in big trouble. And so are they. So I seek to love Jesus more because His love enables me to love them, even in exhaustion. I try to form loving habits that kick in when emotions kick back. I flail and flounder and my love is more like a glaze than true frosting but I keep on loving because that clock is a type of tinnitus that keeps me going and keeps me true to God and those He's entrusted to me.
I've been a mom for 18 years. I still have 3 children and a husband in my home who require a lot of love. There are nights I fall into bed so exhausted emotionally that I can't sleep. So I listen. I hear the house sounds emboldened in the silence, I hear the ticking which urges me to pray, and I hear the words of God, "Love is patient, love is kind......love never fails." (I Cor 13) And His love never will.
His love is the foundation that everything is built on.
His love is the ultimate motivation.
Sometimes it's the ice maker.
Sometimes it's a little foster girl yelling, "I have to go to the bathroom!"
Sometimes it's the refrigerator's hum.
Sometimes it's the howl of a coyote.
When Avonlea ran back out of the security line at the airport and gave us one last impulsive kiss I heard something. It was as if I woke up into silence and heard a clock ticking. Her curly head disappeared into a mass of people and I realized afresh my time with these children, this husband, on this planet, was finite. Like the ice maker and the fridge, I can hear the ticking now in the noise, because I first heard it in the quiet. Because this realization came fresh and loud into my sadness it made a deep impression and caused me to do things like swim and play volleyball. Meaning, the things I didn't want to do with my children, I now try to do when they ask, because the clock is ticking.
We sold the cottage and Grant bought a car and Rowan turned 13 and is plotting new adventures. Rose has Nutcracker rehearsals and school has to be done and animals fed and groceries bought. And under all these big kid things is the same force that held us all together when they were little kids.
Love.
And love is exhausting. Love is a constant pouring out and refilling and sometimes running dry. Love is grieving and rejoicing in growth all at the same time. Love is the muscle that stretches long and the muscle that flexes. Love motivates us to clean the bathrooms and snuggle on the coach and invite people into our home.
That's what the ticking tells me, in the quiet and in the noise, that the foundation of all of this is love. If I don't get the love part right, I'm in big trouble. And so are they. So I seek to love Jesus more because His love enables me to love them, even in exhaustion. I try to form loving habits that kick in when emotions kick back. I flail and flounder and my love is more like a glaze than true frosting but I keep on loving because that clock is a type of tinnitus that keeps me going and keeps me true to God and those He's entrusted to me.
I've been a mom for 18 years. I still have 3 children and a husband in my home who require a lot of love. There are nights I fall into bed so exhausted emotionally that I can't sleep. So I listen. I hear the house sounds emboldened in the silence, I hear the ticking which urges me to pray, and I hear the words of God, "Love is patient, love is kind......love never fails." (I Cor 13) And His love never will.
His love is the foundation that everything is built on.
His love is the ultimate motivation.
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| Pa Jim helped Grant find his car! |
 |
| Going to a dance together! |
 |
| On top of Mt Adams! 12,300 feet |
Sunday, August 26, 2018
A Story and a Dream
The story goes....
One summer we felt the need to forgo traditional church and spend Sunday mornings with the kids in the woods. We'd pack a lunch, hike a trail, park our bottoms on some rock outcropping or next to a waterfall and do a devotion and pray. It was 2011 and our kids were 4, 5, 9 and 11. By the end of that summer two things were clear: our family needed more time together and we all absolutely loved the Columbia Gorge wilderness.
So we started dreaming. Like most dreams ours started with a "what if". What if we could find a house in the woods somewhere were we could vacation? What if we could find something small and low maintance with a creek and a mountain view? What if....?
So we looked and we found something that changed our lives....
I loved the cottage and the view and the creek....but it came with something I didn't anticipate but something I loved more than the other three put together.
An orchard...
I had never been in an orchard before and there was something so symbolic and beautiful and mysterious about it that I fell hard. I can't count the amount of times I've walked those rows praying my children and friends through mission trips and heartache, knowing that my prayers would bear fruit, heavy boughs of ripe God goodness.
Avonlea was 11 when we bought the cottage. She had never been in the woods for a prolonged period before, the cottage changed her life. During the last 7 years she has become an avid birder, animal tracker, mushroom hunter, and outdoor enthusiast. It's not unusual to wake up at the cottage and find her bed empty. She gets up early and stays outside in her camo with binoculars around her neck for hours. The peace and beauty of nature has become part of who she is.
Grant and Rowan slept in a tiny room together at the cottage. They stayed up late scratching backs and telling stories. The spent the days exploring with BB guns, machetes, and knives. They tried every kind of weapon they could get their grubby mitts on and they grew together tied by the bonds of a million adventures. They built forts and went sledding. The adventure and wonder of nature became part of who they are.
Rose was four when we bought the cottage. We would race down the long avenues of pear trees. She played Barbies in her room while the older kids were skiing. She'd come downstairs and ask me to make cookies and tea with her and I delighted in our quiet time together. She grew bolder as she grew older and learned to cross country ski, snow shoe, and sled (which one fateful Thanksgiving landed her in the emergency room). She grew up outside under the trees, under the stars. The joy and excitement of nature became part of who she is.
And so the story goes...
Avonlea's adventurous heart led her to New Zealand where she is thriving in Bible school and learning to unicycle. Every time she face times us she is outside with the blue sky over her head.
Grant starts community college this fall, on top of a part-time job, where his love of exploration will land him (in two years) with a high school diploma, AA degree, and his limited electrician's licence.
Rowan starts 8th grade next week. The curiosity and perseverance he learned in nature inspired him to write a documentary about iPhone usage and kids ("they need to get out and explore!"). He's interviewed professional doctors, psychiatrists, and brain experts. He will take bee keeping classes and raise a pig for the fair.
Rose starts ballet four days a week this September. Her love of the outdoors keeps her in the woods at our house when she's not dancing. The joy of nature has led her to love animals and she is currently saving up for a milk cow.
This weekend we said good bye to the cottage. We signed the papers, washed the floors, had a garage sale and drove away. Another family is coming there to grow and farm and fall in love with the woods. And we are glad. Mostly.
I stood in the orchard with Rowan on one side of me and Rose on the other. I told them this is my favorite view in the whole world. We see these trees pruned in February, small, reduced, and dead looking. We see them bloom into color in April. We see the elongation of limbs and the heavy fruit that grows in the summer, and I tell them, this is what will always happen when God prunes us. He cuts us back so that we can grow more fruit. Every.Single.Time. He is faithful.
For us, it always starts with listening and obeying in the every day. That's the foundation for our dreams, then we ask "what if..." and then we watch God change our lives.
Because He is always Faithful.
One summer we felt the need to forgo traditional church and spend Sunday mornings with the kids in the woods. We'd pack a lunch, hike a trail, park our bottoms on some rock outcropping or next to a waterfall and do a devotion and pray. It was 2011 and our kids were 4, 5, 9 and 11. By the end of that summer two things were clear: our family needed more time together and we all absolutely loved the Columbia Gorge wilderness.
So we started dreaming. Like most dreams ours started with a "what if". What if we could find a house in the woods somewhere were we could vacation? What if we could find something small and low maintance with a creek and a mountain view? What if....?
So we looked and we found something that changed our lives....
I loved the cottage and the view and the creek....but it came with something I didn't anticipate but something I loved more than the other three put together.
An orchard...
I had never been in an orchard before and there was something so symbolic and beautiful and mysterious about it that I fell hard. I can't count the amount of times I've walked those rows praying my children and friends through mission trips and heartache, knowing that my prayers would bear fruit, heavy boughs of ripe God goodness.
Avonlea was 11 when we bought the cottage. She had never been in the woods for a prolonged period before, the cottage changed her life. During the last 7 years she has become an avid birder, animal tracker, mushroom hunter, and outdoor enthusiast. It's not unusual to wake up at the cottage and find her bed empty. She gets up early and stays outside in her camo with binoculars around her neck for hours. The peace and beauty of nature has become part of who she is.
Grant and Rowan slept in a tiny room together at the cottage. They stayed up late scratching backs and telling stories. The spent the days exploring with BB guns, machetes, and knives. They tried every kind of weapon they could get their grubby mitts on and they grew together tied by the bonds of a million adventures. They built forts and went sledding. The adventure and wonder of nature became part of who they are.
Rose was four when we bought the cottage. We would race down the long avenues of pear trees. She played Barbies in her room while the older kids were skiing. She'd come downstairs and ask me to make cookies and tea with her and I delighted in our quiet time together. She grew bolder as she grew older and learned to cross country ski, snow shoe, and sled (which one fateful Thanksgiving landed her in the emergency room). She grew up outside under the trees, under the stars. The joy and excitement of nature became part of who she is.
And so the story goes...
Avonlea's adventurous heart led her to New Zealand where she is thriving in Bible school and learning to unicycle. Every time she face times us she is outside with the blue sky over her head.
Grant starts community college this fall, on top of a part-time job, where his love of exploration will land him (in two years) with a high school diploma, AA degree, and his limited electrician's licence.
Rowan starts 8th grade next week. The curiosity and perseverance he learned in nature inspired him to write a documentary about iPhone usage and kids ("they need to get out and explore!"). He's interviewed professional doctors, psychiatrists, and brain experts. He will take bee keeping classes and raise a pig for the fair.
Rose starts ballet four days a week this September. Her love of the outdoors keeps her in the woods at our house when she's not dancing. The joy of nature has led her to love animals and she is currently saving up for a milk cow.
This weekend we said good bye to the cottage. We signed the papers, washed the floors, had a garage sale and drove away. Another family is coming there to grow and farm and fall in love with the woods. And we are glad. Mostly.
I stood in the orchard with Rowan on one side of me and Rose on the other. I told them this is my favorite view in the whole world. We see these trees pruned in February, small, reduced, and dead looking. We see them bloom into color in April. We see the elongation of limbs and the heavy fruit that grows in the summer, and I tell them, this is what will always happen when God prunes us. He cuts us back so that we can grow more fruit. Every.Single.Time. He is faithful.
For us, it always starts with listening and obeying in the every day. That's the foundation for our dreams, then we ask "what if..." and then we watch God change our lives.
Because He is always Faithful.
Monday, June 25, 2018
Trusty, dusky, vivid, true
She was 6 at her first piano recital.
I sat in our church sanctuary with my family and watched her pound out her simple song and I had absolutely no idea that I had just buckled my seat belt for a journey.
12 years later I am sitting in the same sanctuary listening again to her play.
There are differences. It's not a simple song and she doesn't pound. My dad is no longer sitting with us. Avonlea is taller and sweeter. The journey that I didn't know I started is coming to an end and there is an element of shock, as if a sudden stop informed me of how fast I had been traveling.
Avonlea leaves for Bible College in New Zealand in 2 weeks.
I will miss more things than I can chronicle, but near the top of the list is her music.
I can remember when we told her she could take harp lessons. She didn't gush but she came into the kitchen later and said, "I'm not saying much because my heart is in my throat." That's Avonlea's chronic state. The spoken word that solidifies her heart is difficult for her to express. Her fingers take the place of her vocal chords. She plays her heart on the piano and harp. It's always sweet and lovely and often playful. When I'm hurting or upset, her music is a hug and calm words. When I'm grumpy her music is cheerful and I can't help but caper. Her music draws cats onto her lap and people into the room.
Like Avonlea, her music has just always been there. Always, an important part of my life, my day.
My mother reminds me I'm building a legacy.
My pastor reminds us that we're building a cathedral, not just a square stone.
My mind reminds me that I gave Avonlea to God long ago and that this next step is natural and healthy.
But my heart doesn't acknowledge any of these things!
My heart just loves her and wants her near!!!
Last year when I was planting my rose garden, Dave brought home a rose for Avonlea. It is called the New Zealand Rose. It has more blooms than any of my other roses. The scent of it is amazing. Somehow, the rose bush is comforting me right now. I am allowing her to bloom somewhere else. Other people will be given the scent of her laughter and music and Avonlea-ness. I know she will bring joy and healing and wisdom to those she meets because she loves Jesus and follows Him with all her heart.
I know she will have adventures that she will bring home to our dinner table to make us laugh.
I anticipate the delight she will experience learning more about God's Word.
I want to see her bloom full and lush and velvety.
Even in the hurt of letting her go, gratefulness is greater.
I thank God for a daughter that loves Him.
I thank God for Avonlea.
These have been very precious years.
I sat in our church sanctuary with my family and watched her pound out her simple song and I had absolutely no idea that I had just buckled my seat belt for a journey.
12 years later I am sitting in the same sanctuary listening again to her play.
There are differences. It's not a simple song and she doesn't pound. My dad is no longer sitting with us. Avonlea is taller and sweeter. The journey that I didn't know I started is coming to an end and there is an element of shock, as if a sudden stop informed me of how fast I had been traveling.
Avonlea leaves for Bible College in New Zealand in 2 weeks.
I will miss more things than I can chronicle, but near the top of the list is her music.
I can remember when we told her she could take harp lessons. She didn't gush but she came into the kitchen later and said, "I'm not saying much because my heart is in my throat." That's Avonlea's chronic state. The spoken word that solidifies her heart is difficult for her to express. Her fingers take the place of her vocal chords. She plays her heart on the piano and harp. It's always sweet and lovely and often playful. When I'm hurting or upset, her music is a hug and calm words. When I'm grumpy her music is cheerful and I can't help but caper. Her music draws cats onto her lap and people into the room.
Like Avonlea, her music has just always been there. Always, an important part of my life, my day.
My mother reminds me I'm building a legacy.
My pastor reminds us that we're building a cathedral, not just a square stone.
My mind reminds me that I gave Avonlea to God long ago and that this next step is natural and healthy.
But my heart doesn't acknowledge any of these things!
My heart just loves her and wants her near!!!
Last year when I was planting my rose garden, Dave brought home a rose for Avonlea. It is called the New Zealand Rose. It has more blooms than any of my other roses. The scent of it is amazing. Somehow, the rose bush is comforting me right now. I am allowing her to bloom somewhere else. Other people will be given the scent of her laughter and music and Avonlea-ness. I know she will bring joy and healing and wisdom to those she meets because she loves Jesus and follows Him with all her heart.
I know she will have adventures that she will bring home to our dinner table to make us laugh.
I anticipate the delight she will experience learning more about God's Word.
I want to see her bloom full and lush and velvety.
Even in the hurt of letting her go, gratefulness is greater.
I thank God for a daughter that loves Him.
I thank God for Avonlea.
These have been very precious years.
 |
| Avonlea and Grant June 2018 recital |
Sunday, May 6, 2018
Living the Contradiction
"So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it."
-Wendell Berry
taken from Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
I thought of this poem many times in the last month. I've loved it for a long time. Loved the idea that we are not computers, that the very ability to do something that doesn't compute or make sense, is the very thing that makes us human. That our life can be a great big contradiction of sorts. A parable.
So for years I've done things that don't make sense (I envision many nodding heads here). I filled my house with animals. I ran through every field I could. I danced when my feet hit sand. I drank out of china tea cups with four small children playing tag through my legs. You can fill in the rest.
But this year I took it to a new level. Our family signed up for foster care. I didn't feel like I could do much more than respite while homeschooling the kids so I thought I'd just get my feet wet. There is no such thing in foster care. Our first child came in November and was difficult and turned our family life on it's head. He was brutish and I decided we needed a girl next.
So last month a little five year old skipped up my walk and threw her arms around me.
Ahhh this is more like it, I thought.
I wasn't thinking that the next day when she threw a peanut butter and jelly sandwhich at me. I wasn't thinking it when a water bottle brushed my head and she proclaimed, "I am little but I can throw hard." I wasn't thinking it when she screamed and spat and called me something to do with a donkey's anatomy. Nor when she laid her head on my counter and said in a little tearless voice, "My mommy hates me." Nor when I spent my nights stretched across the doorway into her bedroom so that Jason, Freddie, and Annabelle the murdering doll didn't get her.
I was thinking, What am I doing? This was living a life that didn't compute with a vengence. Why would I bring this out of control, raging, terrified little child into my home? I have no experience with this. I have four children of my own. The only word that echoed in my exhausted brain when I asked these questions was "Jesus". The romance of living a poem worked very well when running through fields, but Jesus takes our gift of humanity, of non-computing, way further. I danced on the sand and Jesus walked on the water and that was the difference I was experiencing.
The first 10 days she was here were long and hard for the whole family. But we all loved hard and gave generously and forgave quickly and we saw amazing fruits come from our little sacrifices. She started to speak the words that we were speaking. She joined in morning prayers with us, even asking if she could talk to God. She wouldn't let me out of her room at night without a Bible story. She hugged each of us many times a day (Rowan counted eight hugs one day, "And that's not including group hugs.") and told us she loved us. After 8 days the nightmares went away and I could sleep through the night in my bed again. She woke up on the ninth morning and said, "Last night when I was going to sleep an angel came in my room and hugged me and told me I wouldn't have anymore bad dreams." And she didn't.
I don't naively think that we changed her life. Our home was a merely a stepping stone and she has many years of trials and healing yet to come. But we introduced her to God and His Son Jesus. We showed her what a life looks like that's been transformed by His goodness. We showed her ways to live that don't make sense. God goes with her where we can't. He is the parent that will never fail or abuse her. My prayers wrap round her instead of my arms now, and that's even better.
We don't always realize that each step in life is preparation for the next step. Running through fields and loving the children in my home and caring for others faithfully enabled me to love someone who, at first at least, was not very lovable. Years of chasing after God can land us in some interesting places, but it will always land us closer to God.
She's living in a different foster home now with her two sisters. I miss her but know that she's where she needs to be. And I'm where I need to be, right here, preparing for the next thing God brings that doesn't make sense. In this world anyway.....
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it."
-Wendell Berry
taken from Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
I thought of this poem many times in the last month. I've loved it for a long time. Loved the idea that we are not computers, that the very ability to do something that doesn't compute or make sense, is the very thing that makes us human. That our life can be a great big contradiction of sorts. A parable.
So for years I've done things that don't make sense (I envision many nodding heads here). I filled my house with animals. I ran through every field I could. I danced when my feet hit sand. I drank out of china tea cups with four small children playing tag through my legs. You can fill in the rest.
But this year I took it to a new level. Our family signed up for foster care. I didn't feel like I could do much more than respite while homeschooling the kids so I thought I'd just get my feet wet. There is no such thing in foster care. Our first child came in November and was difficult and turned our family life on it's head. He was brutish and I decided we needed a girl next.
So last month a little five year old skipped up my walk and threw her arms around me.
Ahhh this is more like it, I thought.
I wasn't thinking that the next day when she threw a peanut butter and jelly sandwhich at me. I wasn't thinking it when a water bottle brushed my head and she proclaimed, "I am little but I can throw hard." I wasn't thinking it when she screamed and spat and called me something to do with a donkey's anatomy. Nor when she laid her head on my counter and said in a little tearless voice, "My mommy hates me." Nor when I spent my nights stretched across the doorway into her bedroom so that Jason, Freddie, and Annabelle the murdering doll didn't get her.
I was thinking, What am I doing? This was living a life that didn't compute with a vengence. Why would I bring this out of control, raging, terrified little child into my home? I have no experience with this. I have four children of my own. The only word that echoed in my exhausted brain when I asked these questions was "Jesus". The romance of living a poem worked very well when running through fields, but Jesus takes our gift of humanity, of non-computing, way further. I danced on the sand and Jesus walked on the water and that was the difference I was experiencing.
The first 10 days she was here were long and hard for the whole family. But we all loved hard and gave generously and forgave quickly and we saw amazing fruits come from our little sacrifices. She started to speak the words that we were speaking. She joined in morning prayers with us, even asking if she could talk to God. She wouldn't let me out of her room at night without a Bible story. She hugged each of us many times a day (Rowan counted eight hugs one day, "And that's not including group hugs.") and told us she loved us. After 8 days the nightmares went away and I could sleep through the night in my bed again. She woke up on the ninth morning and said, "Last night when I was going to sleep an angel came in my room and hugged me and told me I wouldn't have anymore bad dreams." And she didn't.
I don't naively think that we changed her life. Our home was a merely a stepping stone and she has many years of trials and healing yet to come. But we introduced her to God and His Son Jesus. We showed her what a life looks like that's been transformed by His goodness. We showed her ways to live that don't make sense. God goes with her where we can't. He is the parent that will never fail or abuse her. My prayers wrap round her instead of my arms now, and that's even better.
We don't always realize that each step in life is preparation for the next step. Running through fields and loving the children in my home and caring for others faithfully enabled me to love someone who, at first at least, was not very lovable. Years of chasing after God can land us in some interesting places, but it will always land us closer to God.
She's living in a different foster home now with her two sisters. I miss her but know that she's where she needs to be. And I'm where I need to be, right here, preparing for the next thing God brings that doesn't make sense. In this world anyway.....
Saturday, March 31, 2018
Good Friday
Last night we celebrated Good Friday. We had a family meal together and read, the account in the gospel, of Jesus at the last supper with his disciples. Dave and I got down and washed our children's feet, encouraging them to go and do likewise. It always surprises me how some of us fight being served. One child refused to remove his socks. A Peter among us asked Dave to wash his hands as well as his feet. It's a vulnerable place. To hand someone your filthy foot and try not to anticipate judgement.
Five or so years ago Dave and I took the kids out to dinner for Good Friday. We had a large gift card to the restaurant so we let everyone order lavishly. Order, like they wouldn't have to pay for it. To our surprise, the gift card that we gave our waiter had never been activated. We had lived largely and had a debt to pay. Thankfully, Dave had money in the car and we were able to leave without washing any dishes.
I'll never forget the the unwillingness of my child to uncover his foot.
I'll never forget sitting at a table and being told that what I thought would cover my debt, couldn't.
I'll never forget the moment I realized I needed a Savior, my debt was discovered, my filthiness exposed.
So we remember.
A life full of moments that we entered into the life of Jesus, and He entered into ours.
And we celebrate.
Because Good Friday, really is Good.
 |
| The world in resurrection! |
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| Good Friday hike. Getting our clean feet dirty. |
Friday, March 16, 2018
Life in the Oven
I woke at 4 am and thought, "I love baking. You always know what's going to come out of the oven by the ingredients you put in the bowl."
This may appear to be a random observation at 4 am, but it wasn't. It stemmed from the vastly different personalities of my children, all whom I have raised EXACTLY THE SAME.
The same ingredients went in the bowl, but let me tell you, I am pulling some interesting things out of the oven.
Avonlea rocked the boat a little as a teenager. Grant has capsized it.
It's not just a few scattered incidents, it's a constant state of incident.
Take this morning. I was in the shower. I was startled by a furious pounding at the door. I hear Grant yell, "I need help!"
At least he's admitting it, I muttered. I turned the shower off so I could hear him, "What's the matter?"
"I need a comb!"
"I'm sorry dear, but I am not getting out of the shower to get you a comb."
Real angst in his voice, "But I already put the gel in!"
I sensed tears were near so I jumped out, dripping, grabbed a comb and stuck it through the cracked door. Did I hear a relieved thank you? Oh, no.
I heard an exasperated Grant say, "Not THAT one!"
I think shock set in about this time and somehow he got his correct comb and I got my shower but I'm not sure how.
Recently, Grant had friends over for his 16th birthday. He told me that he gave them a talk about relationships. Okay....this was curious....what about relationships?
"Well, I told them there were two types of relationships, dominant and recessive."
I replied, "Aren't those gene types?"
"Yeah, well it works for relationships, too. Recessive relationships are shallow and don't last. (At which point he told me one of his friends shook his head and muttered, "I've had a lot of recessive relationships.") Dominant relationships have two characteristics; both people like each other and they are willing to wait a really long time."
I gathered my scattered wits at this eloquence and asked, "Where did you get this?"
He replied bitterly, "Experience."
Grant was running across the sidewalk the other week when his dog ran between his legs and sent him flying. He got up and ran after his dog. Comet is no fool and when she saw him coming she rolled onto her back and played dead.
I said to him later, "She didn't mean to knock you down Grant, you shouldn't have gotten so angry with her."
He replied, "I wasn't angry that she knocked me down, I was angry that she didn't come back to check if I was okay!"
At which point I laughed. Really hard. Because when you put the ingredients for scones into the bowl and pull pork and beans out of the oven the only reasonable response is laughter.
This may appear to be a random observation at 4 am, but it wasn't. It stemmed from the vastly different personalities of my children, all whom I have raised EXACTLY THE SAME.
The same ingredients went in the bowl, but let me tell you, I am pulling some interesting things out of the oven.
Avonlea rocked the boat a little as a teenager. Grant has capsized it.
It's not just a few scattered incidents, it's a constant state of incident.
Take this morning. I was in the shower. I was startled by a furious pounding at the door. I hear Grant yell, "I need help!"
At least he's admitting it, I muttered. I turned the shower off so I could hear him, "What's the matter?"
"I need a comb!"
"I'm sorry dear, but I am not getting out of the shower to get you a comb."
Real angst in his voice, "But I already put the gel in!"
I sensed tears were near so I jumped out, dripping, grabbed a comb and stuck it through the cracked door. Did I hear a relieved thank you? Oh, no.
I heard an exasperated Grant say, "Not THAT one!"
I think shock set in about this time and somehow he got his correct comb and I got my shower but I'm not sure how.
Recently, Grant had friends over for his 16th birthday. He told me that he gave them a talk about relationships. Okay....this was curious....what about relationships?
"Well, I told them there were two types of relationships, dominant and recessive."
I replied, "Aren't those gene types?"
"Yeah, well it works for relationships, too. Recessive relationships are shallow and don't last. (At which point he told me one of his friends shook his head and muttered, "I've had a lot of recessive relationships.") Dominant relationships have two characteristics; both people like each other and they are willing to wait a really long time."
I gathered my scattered wits at this eloquence and asked, "Where did you get this?"
He replied bitterly, "Experience."
Grant was running across the sidewalk the other week when his dog ran between his legs and sent him flying. He got up and ran after his dog. Comet is no fool and when she saw him coming she rolled onto her back and played dead.
I said to him later, "She didn't mean to knock you down Grant, you shouldn't have gotten so angry with her."
He replied, "I wasn't angry that she knocked me down, I was angry that she didn't come back to check if I was okay!"
At which point I laughed. Really hard. Because when you put the ingredients for scones into the bowl and pull pork and beans out of the oven the only reasonable response is laughter.
Thursday, March 1, 2018
Remembering our Royalty
The days are dominoes. Slipping softly one after another or clanging loudly on top of each other aggressively. I am fairly passive in this process. My mold for each day, stuffing minutes like play-doh into the shape I want it to form, is gone. I tossed the mold at some point or maybe it exploded when the minutes became combustible. Entering the world of teenagers and middle schoolers has pretty much annihilated my game plan, and made me very very tired. I grab after laughter like ointment, the only thing that heals my chapped optimism, and I talk. I talk late to my boys. I see this world through their eyes and I feel the confusion and temptations that come with growing into manhood in this culture. I lay my time and heart out in mothering like I never have before and, yet, I can't guarantee anything. I pray for a faithful heart that doesn't grow weary.
Earlier this week I found a few minutes to curl up on our new couch with a magazine. The door opened and I saw my mom come in. I continued to read until I sensed an undercurrent of excitement in the room. Now, I love my mom, but her undercurrents of excitement usually stem from things like discovering that peanuts are solely responsible for obesity in America. (MOM, what have I told you about clicking on those ads on the computer). So I hesitated to look up, finding the magazine much more safe. I lifted my eyes to see her fidgeting at the edge of the couch.
I braced myself but not enough.
"I just found out that we're related to King David."
Just found out? As in angelic messenger? As in an old genealogy hidden in a secret compartment in Grandmother's jewelry case?
"No, my sister got a new app on her phone that traced us all the way back. She just kept pressing the back arrow and there was King David!"
That's a lot of back arrows. I tentatively asked, "How can they know the lineage that far back?"
"Oh, they kept very good records of royalty." She swished back out the door and I could almost hear her purple robe trailing behind her.
I love this woman. I want to throw in the towel and howl and she's content with knowing that she's royalty. And she is, she is God's daughter, whole-heartedly, and she never forgets it.
She reminds me, that I too, am of the generation of faith. I have a cloud of witnesses who lived this life faithfully before me. I may or may not have the blood of King David running through my veins, but I do have the same Spirit, and so do my children.
So I smile and ruminate that the royal line wouldn't be intimidated by the tactics of the enemy.
I open my Bible, ready to form a new game plan.
I continue to lay my time and my heart out in mothering like I never have before and I have faith that the words and actions I lay on this alter of love will help shape a generation, one life at a time.
Later, I go upstairs to tuck in my little daughter and I can sense an undercurrent of excitement in the room. I try not to groan, but an undercurrent of excitement in Rose usually stems from things like telling me how many scoops she got out of the litter box that day.
So I braced myself, but not enough.
"When I start my period will you get me a bunny to celebrate?"
I tuck in the slightly shorter version of my mother into bed and get my royal self downstairs.
 |
| Our new couch was a little bit bigger than I anticipated it being! |
I braced myself but not enough.
"I just found out that we're related to King David."
Just found out? As in angelic messenger? As in an old genealogy hidden in a secret compartment in Grandmother's jewelry case?
"No, my sister got a new app on her phone that traced us all the way back. She just kept pressing the back arrow and there was King David!"
That's a lot of back arrows. I tentatively asked, "How can they know the lineage that far back?"
"Oh, they kept very good records of royalty." She swished back out the door and I could almost hear her purple robe trailing behind her.
I love this woman. I want to throw in the towel and howl and she's content with knowing that she's royalty. And she is, she is God's daughter, whole-heartedly, and she never forgets it.
She reminds me, that I too, am of the generation of faith. I have a cloud of witnesses who lived this life faithfully before me. I may or may not have the blood of King David running through my veins, but I do have the same Spirit, and so do my children.
So I smile and ruminate that the royal line wouldn't be intimidated by the tactics of the enemy.
I open my Bible, ready to form a new game plan.
I continue to lay my time and my heart out in mothering like I never have before and I have faith that the words and actions I lay on this alter of love will help shape a generation, one life at a time.
Later, I go upstairs to tuck in my little daughter and I can sense an undercurrent of excitement in the room. I try not to groan, but an undercurrent of excitement in Rose usually stems from things like telling me how many scoops she got out of the litter box that day.
So I braced myself, but not enough.
"When I start my period will you get me a bunny to celebrate?"
I tuck in the slightly shorter version of my mother into bed and get my royal self downstairs.
Rowan is Twelve and Skinning
Rowan turned 12 this October and has once again baffled me. His new means of intrigue is taxidermy. Remember when he wanted to be President of the United States and made me go and judge a debate so that he could learn how to out talk his opponents? Presidency and debating are things of the past and he now wants to pursue professional taxidermy. Meaning, he skins whatever animals he can get his little mitts on. Which right now means moles.
So for his birthday he got a pellet gun from us and he used his birthday money from his grandparents to invest in flesh scraping tools, scalpels, and de-greaser. The birthday money that usually goes into the bank for college. Apparently taxidermists don't have to go to college, but they do need sharp knives.
This hobby has once again rocked my world. Here's a vingette from this week.
Rowan walks into the house with bloody gloves on and says, "I'd have no problem being a doctor, this kind of stuff doesn't bug me at all."
My eyes light up. "Are you interested in becoming a doctor Rowan?"
"Nope. Do you think I could get a frozen bobcat to skin for Christmas?"
"I'll be in my room, please don't let anyone disturb me until the crying is no longer audible."
His birthday brought another unexpected change to our family. I bought Rowan the TV series, "The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew." They were filmed in the 70's and I had watched them when I was little (on Saturday right after Hee-Haw). We watched the first one as a family and almost died laughing. The only thing is...they weren't supposed to be funny. But they were.
The first result of watching several of these episodes was that people started getting paranoid. Rowan thought the mail was being pilfered by a strange man (the newspaper deliverer). Avonlea heard musical chords in the night. When I ran into the door in the dark, my first thought was that an intruder attacked me.
The second result is that we were exposed to the music of Shaun Cassidy (AKA Joe Hardy) and vibed with his groove.
Way.too.much.fun.
Dance parties followed and I got my stiff boys loose and laughing. All of them.
Then I received a CD and call book for English Country Dancing which I used to make everyone dance. They endure my hobbies and I endure theirs. Rowan can dance with the best of them and I'm completely nonchalant about the mole skins laying on my sofa table.
This is family. The little strings that tie us tight together. Moles, dancing, and the Hardy Boys.
So for his birthday he got a pellet gun from us and he used his birthday money from his grandparents to invest in flesh scraping tools, scalpels, and de-greaser. The birthday money that usually goes into the bank for college. Apparently taxidermists don't have to go to college, but they do need sharp knives.
This hobby has once again rocked my world. Here's a vingette from this week.
Rowan walks into the house with bloody gloves on and says, "I'd have no problem being a doctor, this kind of stuff doesn't bug me at all."
My eyes light up. "Are you interested in becoming a doctor Rowan?"
"Nope. Do you think I could get a frozen bobcat to skin for Christmas?"
"I'll be in my room, please don't let anyone disturb me until the crying is no longer audible."
His birthday brought another unexpected change to our family. I bought Rowan the TV series, "The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew." They were filmed in the 70's and I had watched them when I was little (on Saturday right after Hee-Haw). We watched the first one as a family and almost died laughing. The only thing is...they weren't supposed to be funny. But they were.
The first result of watching several of these episodes was that people started getting paranoid. Rowan thought the mail was being pilfered by a strange man (the newspaper deliverer). Avonlea heard musical chords in the night. When I ran into the door in the dark, my first thought was that an intruder attacked me.
The second result is that we were exposed to the music of Shaun Cassidy (AKA Joe Hardy) and vibed with his groove.
Way.too.much.fun.
Dance parties followed and I got my stiff boys loose and laughing. All of them.
Then I received a CD and call book for English Country Dancing which I used to make everyone dance. They endure my hobbies and I endure theirs. Rowan can dance with the best of them and I'm completely nonchalant about the mole skins laying on my sofa table.
This is family. The little strings that tie us tight together. Moles, dancing, and the Hardy Boys.
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