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!

Good Friday hike. Getting our clean feet dirty.

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.

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.

Our new couch was a little bit bigger than I anticipated it being!

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.

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.