Enjoy the Show

Friday night was opening night of the Nutcracker.
This was Rose's fourth year performing.
Our whole family stood in line an hour before curtain and finally got seated in the middle, five rows from the front. 
The first half was flawless and intermission came with only minimal suffering for the brothers. 
The first number of the second half the stomach flu hit. Literally. It hit the floor of the stage and froze the dancers mid move. The curtain closed quickly and Dave and I exchanged amused glances over the heads of our children who were seated in between us. A man behind me muttered about "low income productions" (I wonder how a bigger budget could have kept her from vomiting?). Someone in front of me suggested just dancing over it.
My friend Amy, sitting across the aisle, hopped over to me and we started to laugh. 
After all, it wasn't our kid. 
But I'm pretty sure the director wasn't laughing. The stage was cleaned, ballet shoes were disinfected, and before you knew it, the dance went on.

When my head hit the pillow that night I thought, raising adult children is exactly like that.
For almost 20 years, I've been the stage director. I absolutely take my cues from God, but more or less, I'm in charge of the daily decisions. I've scheduled dentist appointments, trimmed toe nails, flashed biology termed flash cards. The foods they eat, the type of bedding they sleep on, the kind of deodorant they use, and whether or not they have clean socks have largely depended on me. I've given my life to this job of mothering. I've researched everything from allergies to cat litter. I've felt the weight of the responsibility of my choices. I've prayed. And prayed some more.
But now I have two adult children and my role is changing. I've done my job well and they know what they're about. They want to see me in the audience cheering them on, watching with wonder and delight as they dance through their lives. I know there will be moments of vomit on the stage, moments when catastrophe comes and the dance freezes mid move. And I can trust that the director has it under control and that the dance will go on. God is the one who has always been in charge, and now, it's just that much more obvious.
It is a hard transition from backstage to audience, a transition I am still maneuvering. But I have hope and a God who loves to teach me and stretch me in new ways. There are days when the enormity of this change engulfs me and I thrash about in fear. Fear for my children (it's a scary world out there) and fear for myself (will I still exist without children depending on me???) But God reminds me again, what I often forget, I haven't given my life to this job of mothering, I've given my life to HIM. That won't change no matter if I'm sitting behind or in front of the curtain. 
And after all that work, I have every intention of enjoying the show. 

My Pumpkin Baby Turns 14

My belly and the garden squash grew round together. 

Rowan was dubbed "my little pumpkin" and came in October like a good autumn baby should. 

He was a deceitfully quiet and sweet baby, saving up all the talking, debating, and story-telling for later years. 

At 2, he was a terror, the pumpkin became a jack-o-lantern and gave us many scares. He caused me to be on a first name basis with the poison control center. 

To sum up in one word the first few years of his life....SCARY.

 Every year at his birthday, he asks for the implements for his latest obsession. We've been through wood-cutting, hide tanning, carpentry, photography, drones, coin collecting, and so much more. 

This year he asked for a motor to make an air glider or a glass bottom boat.

I.said.no.

I suggested a cupboard for the garage to organize all his past hobby paraphernalia in.

He said no thanks.

He has been in a bee keeping class for a year now and asked if he could have bee keeping accessories instead.

We said yes, because at least we'll be able to eat the honey.

He's still kind of disappointed about the engine. I told him he can get one after he gets married. 

Rowan is the most like me in the sense that he turns everything that happens to him into a story. We can't help it anymore than a spider can help spinning a web. It's just the way we're made. I coach him through it, telling him what to cut out and how to make the most of the climax. I tell him how to be aware of when he's losing his audience, and then I demonstrate, repeatedly.

He sees the humor in everything and gloats over it, finding joy in the people and situations around him. 

He is full of dreams and plans and ideas. The majority of which are extremely expensive. 

Sometimes I'm utterly surprised to realize how much I love him. He exhausts me and delights me and tolerates me by turns.

We will never be bored as long as Rowan lives with us. This summer he raised pumpkins. He planted this field with 100 seeds and then marveled in the drama of raising crops. Who knew a pumpkin field could yield such stories?

Rowan, we love you. You are an original, one-of-a-kind gift from God. We know that whatever you do for the Lord, you will do whole heartedly. And then you'll tell a story about it (making sure that everyone is maintaining eye contact). Because that is just who you are. 

And we love it.
Most of the time.

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.

Pa Jim helped Grant find his car!

Going to a dance together! 

On top of Mt Adams! 12,300 feet

Our Week: Ducks, Morphine, and Photo Shoots

Rowan is again making the headlines in our home.
He has become the proud possessor of a duckling. He owns a black duck named Swift and Rose has a yellow quacker named Popcorn. Super cute and fun, Until Rowan didn't wash his hands well enough after cleaning the cage and came down with salmonella poisoning.
Our week, consisted of trying to determine why he was so sick and encompassed, one urgent care visit, one doctor visit, two ER visits, and finally hospitalization in a children's hospital. They checked for a huge array of diseases and infections which left us reeling from potential scenarios for our future and Rowan's future. Salmonella poisoning isn't usually hailed with glee, but in our case, it was.

Cutest culprits of infection ever

There were some beautiful gifts given in the process of all of this chaos and confusion.

Prayer. So many texts from so many dear friends telling us they were praying. Rowan recovered so much faster than anyone expected given the seriousness of his case, but I knew it was because he was covered in the prayers of God's people.

Bonds. As Rowan lay writhing in pain on a stretcher he kept calling for his brother. He burst into tears when Dave showed him a recent picture of them together on vacation. He kept repeating over and over, "God's got me. Dad and Mom have got me. Grant's got me." It blessed my heart to see how much he loves his brother.

Education. We had a nurse ask in the ER if Rowan was home schooled. We said yes and then Dave asked what gave it away. The nurse explained that most 11 year olds don't quote the entire Gettysburg Address when in duress. Right. Rowan also quoted the 24th Psalm and discoursed for a bit on his favorite civil war battle (Chickamauga). He was delirious with pain but what came out was what he had worked so hard to put in.

Our very sick little boy waiting for his CAT scan

Faith. Rowan wanted to listen to music in the ER while we waited for the results of a CAT scan. He chose to listen to Bethel's "It is well with my soul". A nurse commented that he doesn't hear that one much in the ER. We met some wonderful nurses and doctors who serve in a really hard setting with really sick people, yet they do so with such compassion and wisdom.

Pleasant surprises. On Friday we were told that our nurse, Jody, had won a nursing award. She was going to be featured in a magazine and have her picture in the lobby of the hospital up on the wall. She would be photographed with a patient and she chose Rowan. Rowan miraculously stopped writhing long enough to smile up at her while she took his temperature and stuff. Cracked.me.up. He's truly my son and photo shoots are not to be passed up NO Matter What.

Drugs. A shot of morphine gave Rowan much needed relief. He really liked the morphine and was later a bit irritated at the nurses who only offered ibuprofen and Tylenol. I woke up in the hospital Friday morning to Rowan's eyes boring into me as he stated, "I want more morphine." It was a good thing we had a lot of time together in the hospital because I was able to tell him every horror story of drug addiction I had ever heard. Pretty sure I got my point across as he refused Tylenol and ibuprofen after our hours long discussion.

Rowan in his hospital room contemplating escape

Home. We had some vague promises that we could go home from the hospital on Friday so when the doctor came in and said  Rowan's levels were too high for her to feel comfortable letting him go, we were both disappointed. But as soon as the doctor left the room, Rowan was more than disappointed. He was crushed. "I want my home. I want my dog. I want my brother. I want my bed. I want to go home." I tried to comfort him but he'd had it. He packed up his stuff and he told the nurse, "I am completely better. I want to go home." She listened to him. She talked to the doctor who agreed to do another blood draw. She found his levels so decreased that she was surprised and allowed him to go home. His face when he got here. His arms around his siblings. His hands on his dog. His smile and happiness and thankfulness filled my heart to overflowing.

So somehow, out of this crazy wild week, I emerged encouraged. Rowan slept 12 hours last night. He woke up weak and scrawny but so happy to be surrounded by the people who love him best. I hope all my kids always feel like that. That they know they have a place in something bigger than themselves and that our family also has a place in a bigger picture. I'm encouraged that even in the midst of all this mess God has got us, and my children know it. Praise the Lord.

Stretching my Borders into China and beyond....

If you were to ask me the top things that I dislike in life (only pertaining to myself and not having to do with slavery, hunger, etc.) I would state the following: hiking uphill, being cold, critical people, competition, and arguing.

Seeing how I hail from Alaska and married a mountain climber, the first two are unfortunate, but I've managed to cope and wear long underwear. Critical people, I've learned to spot a mile away and shamelessly run. My family knows that mommy doesn't compete, even when we play games, so we play them nicely. "I'm sorry I had to send you home but that was the only move possible," is commonly heard. As for arguing, a kind answer truly does "turn away wrath".

Unfortunately, my children not only did not inherit my particular set of dislikes but they claim their own. Which makes for an interesting dinner table. They also possess their own particular likes that don't always parallel my own. Take, The Three Stodges for example. But I endure. Rowan, in particular, is passionate about things that I have a hard time getting excited about. He's a huge history buff, he collects instruments (and plays them), he wants to be president so he loves politics, he is constantly asking questions and debating my answers. But I love him. Love every freckle on his little nose. So I try.

Several weeks ago he asked if he could be on a debate team. I told him I'd look into it and contacted someone in charge of our area's speech and debate team for home school students. She said the best way to be introduced to their team was to come to the speech and debate competition, and since I was going, would I judge at it? (!!!) Every freckle, every freckle...so I say yes.

This my friends, is how I end up with so many stories. I say yes with NO INFORMATION.

Thursday morning, Rowan and I go to the school where the competition was being held at 7:15 am. I am told I will judge a debate on US trade policies with China. I will be the only judge and will pick a winner and rate the speakers from best to last. I try not to cry. You may realize that I just entered into a world in which the last three things on my list are first and foremost. I have to criticize people. I have to engage in a competition and listen to people argue (don't tell me debating is different). Not to mention: TRADE WITH CHINA. Which I know nothing about, nor have a any desire to know anything about.

I come in the room and sit at a table with the person who is timing on one side and Rowan on the other. I have a ballot in front of me. Each team has two contestants and they all come and shake my hand. Then one guy speaks up and asks, "We would like to know the extent of your judging experience and what you want to see today."

This my friends, is raw. Everything I've just written here flashes through my brain but all I say is, "I have no experience." Then I answer the second part of his question 'what do you want to see.' I refrain from the truth, which is, I want to see my bed and a cup of tea, and answered, "I want to see clear points with good support." God help me.

The debate is over. Everyone shakes hands. My eyeballs hurt. An hour and ten minutes of my life has passed. Rowan and I go to the judge's room and he tells me how to fill out the ballot and who won. He has clear points with good support. He says, "I love this Mom. I can't wait to do this." Every freckle, every freckle...

I then went on to judge literature interpretation which took two hours. The kids who performed weren't arguing and most of them made me laugh so that wasn't so bad. One of them made me cry, she got first place.

I came home five hours later laughing and thoroughly exhausted. How stuffy and confined I'd be if it weren't for my husband and children. They have stretched the borders of what I think and do until I almost don't recognize my own inheritance. The love I have for them is always growing, and in its expansion, I also expand. This isn't always comfortable but it's so worth it.

And if I'm going to enter the world of debating, I need to find the equivalent of long underwear.
Maybe earplugs?

Family Knots

Night time reading to my children is one of my favorite parts of momhood.

The kids cuddle round and I exert myself to read with expression and clarity. It's kind of like performing a play. And I get all the parts. Rose likes to brush and style my hair while I read. There is usually a boy laying across my lap whose back I get to scratch while performing my play, truly taking multi-tasking to a new level. I wrap up a chapter and there's a moment of stillness as we try to re-enter reality. Last night was a little different.

Rose decided to take the comb to the bottom of my long hair and roll it up all the way to my scalp. She then tried to pull it out. It didn't work.

The family gathered round. Consultations were held. Ideas were tried. Bits of plastic comb went flying through the air as they tried to cut it out. I was told I had two options:1. Wear the remainder of the plastic comb in my hair for the rest of my life or 2. Cut my hair off at the scalp above my ear.

I replied that I would not choose either option (although if pressed, I was leaning towards 1) and that they needed to get the comb out no matter how long it took, and I would read to them while they did it. Rose gave it a try and I proceeded with Little Women.

And something prodded my heart while I was reading. A nudge to remember this. Just this. A family reading together while trying to get out the tangles. A family that cuddles and shares and laughs at the same spots even though there are extenuating circumstances. A family that keeps doing what it knows no matter what.

We finished the chapter and Rose triumphantly showed me the freed hair, most of it laying on the couch, some of it still attached to my scalp. I said, "Yay! Good job Rose!" We buzzed into PJ/teeth-brushing mode, and I smiled. These are good days. We encounter glitches, snarls, mistakes, and we consult, with each other and God, and then we stay true to the path we know. We continue to move forward into what comes next. We may not come through any given situation unscathed, but I believe we will come through.

I believe in family.
I believe the bond created between these 6 people is strong.
I believe the foundation for our family is unshakable; Christ the Cornerstone.
I believe that unconditional love is molded right here in our home.
I believe that every hug, every smile, every washed dish, matters.

So tonight, I will hand Rose the comb with a grin just for her. She will style my hair while I read. There will be a boy stretched across my lap and an older daughter drawing. There will be dogs sprawled on the carpet when they're supposed to be in their beds. I will navigate the octaves trying to make the characters real.

Because we're family, and this is what we do.

On The Edge

When you are teetering on the edge of sanity it only takes a small thing to tip you right on over.

Last Wednesday, that small thing came in the form of a dead hamster. Now the hamster itself wasn't the tipper. Actually, I have been known to complain over the longevity of this very hamster. The thing that brought the tears, was the memory of getting the hamster.

I quote from 2014: "We all worked together to set up the cage and then the four of them sat down around the cage and stared that poor hamster down. Grant looked up at me, love radiating out of his sweet face and said, "This is the best day of my life."

The hard part to read there is that last sentence about Grant. Since that hamster moment, my son has turned 13. Radiant and sweet are not exactly the best adjectives used to describe him right now.

I recently brought him with me to North Dakota to visit our friends. As we walked toward our gate at the airport I said, "Grant, we get the whole day together." (Traveling to North Dakota is not for the faint of heart traveler). He replied, "I wish I had some kind of electronic device. Anything would do."
Alrighty.

So I went weary to North Dakota, knowing that my friend Dayna would prop my feet up, make me some tea, and feed me yummy things. So I was a little surprised the first day to have Dayna say, "Let's go to the Badlands for a hike!" All instincts told me to STAY AWAY from anywhere called the badlands. Obviously the person who named the place was trying to tell us something. We spent the afternoon there hiking and waiting (while our kids looked for a rattlesnake nest) and it was lovely and a little creepy.

The next morning we ran a 5K. Dayna had asked me before I came if I wanted to and I said "sure!". However...1. I didn't know what a 5K was....2. I was in my jammies drinking tea when I replied.
So we ran/walked it. I enjoyed being with Dayna.

The next day we walked around at a lake. Monday before I left for the airport she made me take a brisk walk before taking me to a tea shop. Something of the carrot there.

When we got on the plane to go home, Grant looked at me and said, "I can't move." Dayna's boys played as hard as she did.

However....I did have plenty of rest and tea and Dayna's good, good cooking...she just made me work for it.

I'm sorry, that had nothing to do with the dead hamster.

I went upstairs as my boys prepared the body for burial and I mourned. Not the rodent, but the era when a hamster was enough to make my boy beam. For the days past, when hugs and kisses were the common currency between us. When we spoke the same language, laughed at the same things, and ate gluten together in secret.
I know this stretching, this change, has to happen. I know it's good. But I miss him.

After I got upstairs, I did fall over the edge. But it wasn't the edge of sanity, merely the edge of control. I have to get over myself, over the fact that he is now making his own choices, over the idea that change is bad and that growth means distance. I'm going to remember that Peter Pan needs to be allowed to leave Neverland.

I want to rejoice in this. To honor my son and my God as I help Grant transition into adulthood. But in all honesty, I'm struggling right now.

Discouragement brings with it so many voices. Exhaustion invites rude guests.

Today I fought the good fight, yesterday I didn't.

I don't know what tomorrow will bring.

But I know truth. So I strive to live it. To let my burden fall when I realize it's too heavy. To laugh upon slightest provocation. To turn a cold shoulder on self-pity. To take a nap. To spend time with Jesus and ask for His eyes and heart. To throw myself over the edge without waiting for something to propel me.

Rowan turned 10 this week. He is a wonderful boy. Sweet and loving and helpful and full of questions. I tell him I will never have all the answers to his questions, but I will always love him, and that will just have to be good enough!

And that's kinda that, my faulty love and God's perfect love, is all I have to offer them.
May love be what pushes them over every edge.

A Risk Worth Taking

Rose wasn't supposed to be Rose.
I had my mind made up that my next little girl was going to be Quinn.
Quinn Anne to be exact and she was going to have dark hair and eyes and live the siren legacy I was bequeathing to her.
And then...years before I'd gotten pregnant with Quinn...Avonlea said, "I'm praying to God for baby Rose." I've never gotten to the bottom of where it came from. Did she like the flower? The carousal horse that she liked to ride whose name was Rose? Laura Ingalls' little daughter? I will never know.
By the time I did get pregnant again Rose was a reality that I couldn't shake. Avonlea had to live through another brother first (she broke down in the ultra-sound lamenting Rose). But finally, soon after Rowan (might I add EXTREMELY soon after) little Rose made her entrance.
Dave and I decided on a middle name and added with our last name, her initials were RSK. One letter away from a risk. That made us laugh and it felt vaguely naughty so we liked it because we never are really naughty so anything that even comes close has appeal.

We had no idea.

Rose is naughty enough for all of us and lives up to her initials.

I laughed out loud today at a memory. Rose was 2 and I was praying for her before she went to bed. My prayer was more a whine than a prayer as I was lifting up before the Lord all the terrifically terrible things my daughter had done that day with the intention of asking Him to FIX the child when I was interrupted by little hands across my mouth and big green eyes inches from my own and a little indignant mouth that said, "STOP TELLING DOD ON ME!"

So I have. I've stopped telling God about what was wrong with my daughter and started thanking Him for the little Rose she is.

I see a beautiful young woman emerging. She is loving and thoughtful and happy. She is loyal and scandalous and dramatic. She is a ballerina. She is an animal lover. She asks good questions and isn't afraid to let us know when our answers are unsatisfactory. She loves Joshua but rolls her eyes at Samson. She wants to be just like her mommy.

Summer is winding down and I will never live this particular one again. That's okay, because I've lived it fully, enjoying this family, my God, the beautiful world.... I let it go and look forward to the next season...

 Rose brought me out into the yard today to watch her throw up the soccer ball and kick it mid-air. She tried about 10 times, missed, and apologized for missing. Finally she said, "I know you don't have time for this Mommy, you can go."
I answered in all sincerity, "Rose I have all the time in the world for you."

Because this whole life is one big risk. Children, the greatest risk of them all. And since I decided to risk it I'm going to do so whole heartedly and love them with everything in me. I'm going to put my arms around them every chance I get. I'm going to make them laugh at every opportunity. I'm going to tuck them into bed and pray with them and share my heart with them. I'm going to listen hard. I'm going to say I'm sorry often. I'm going to kiss their daddy. And I'm going to do some serious talking with God about them (without tattling (much)).

All the time in the world is for right now, for these days.
I'm risking all I've got on them.



Please note, before you put me in league with Samson and roll your eyes at me, that school starts next week. We'll see how I'm feeling about all of this once I start trying to pound math facts in Rose's brain again.  Please remind me then of how much I like her right now.

Growing Closer

I have been coping extremely well with Grant being gone.
The absence of his hugs and laughter is augmented by the absence of his whistling.
He is on a great team, with great leaders. He is working hard and eating shark. The only letter I've gotten from him was to inform me that I sent him with the wrong kind of clothespins and he had to (horrors) go and buy new clothespins at the camp store. Obviously this was worth a letter. I didn't really shed any tears over that correspondence. And did I mention...no whistling?

I have had great bulks of quiet (as in no whistling) time up at the cottage. Resting my soul and body but challenging my mind through the Bible, prayer, and good books. This is a beautiful combination.

Dave is absent this summer. He was forced to move out of the warehouse his business has been in for over 25 years. God provided a new warehouse right across the street. Literally. So he's been busy moving and I've had to reason and debate and process information with/by myself.

One of the thinks I've been thinking has to do with motives. Take this morning for example.

I woke up at 4am. I put on my robe and went downstairs. I was up for an hour. I couldn't sleep. Why? Was there something specific God wanted me to pray for? Or was it because I had on a new nightgown and bathrobe that I had just gotten in the mail from April Cornell. When I examined my motives in walking the floor in the middle of the night, and realized that I really liked the way my robe swished against the hardwoods, I went back to bed. It's easy to unthinkingly apply righteous motives to our movements. I've been surprised by the "swish" on a number of issues that I've examined. It's humbling.

picking blueberries with Rowan

Avonlea went to camp for a week in July and I had so much fun with just the "R's". They have gotten to be such fun companions. They play together really well too, and with Grant gone, Rowan has let Rose work with him in the shop. She proudly showed me the hammer he gave her and he smiled and nodded saying, "You keep working hard and next year I'll give you a screw driver set Rose." Ahhhh incentives. And later he asked, "Rose what time do you plan on working in the shop tomorrow?" Rose replied, "I'll be there at nine." He shook his head and replied, "The shop opens at eight Rose." He's already got her number. I love it.

Other times they barter over their time and it goes something like this, "Okay Rowan I'll work in the shop for 15 minutes if you play Barbies for 15 minutes first." They have a diverse life at the cottage.

Now we head into a few weeks of company and then Grant comes home and all introspection will grind to a halt. Because I'll be listening with all my heart to my boy's stories about stepping out of his comfort zone to serve the Lord. We will fill him in on what we've done in his absence and life will again flow towards the end of summer as a complete family unit. But we will all be a little bit bigger and different. Rose will know how to hammer. Rowan will have learned compromise. Avonlea will have gleaned from her 26 hours of lectures at WorldView camp. Grant will have served a church body in Trinidad and made countless new friends. Dave will be in a new warehouse and he will have a deeper faith in the Lord's provision. I will be more aware of my motives and will go to bed every night feeling lovely in my new nightgown.

We all grow and deepen into Him knowing we will never reach the bottom of His love no matter how many seasons roll by. But also knowing that each season brings us a little closer to Him and therefore a little closer to each other, even when we're apart.

Turning Outward

The candle in the middle of our table was purchased on one of our family trips to San Diego. I found it in a shop and loved the symbolism of it. Three boys and three girls, arms around each other, facing inward toward the light. Our family. I have kept it on our table always. Even...when friends told me it did not match my Victorian décor. Even...when friends told me it was ugly. Even...when friends told me it was pagan.
I simply don't care. I love it.

 When my children were little, I worked hard to make that candle a reality. I taught them as much as I could about the Light of the world. I homeschooled them and made our day revolve around the Bible and Jesus. We lived life together, arms around each other, facing the Light.

And then Avonlea went on her two month mission trip and my world and my heart felt cracked, severed, damaged. I struggled to understand and articulate WHY I felt like that, but last week I finally understood.

I was asked to participate in a survey about teenage homeschoolers. A man called to interview me and I was glad to glibly answer his questions. Some of them, were critical of home schooling and called for a defense of what I did. This too, I gladly answered, but some of my responses surprised me.

He asked me if I thought homeschooling was non-democratic because it only catered to the good of one family as opposed to the good of the community. I responded, "Oh it's what we learn at home that enables us to better serve our community and our world!" I proceeded to list the ways we interact as a family and individuals with the world around us. And as I described these things to this man on the phone, I suddenly had a vision of our family, facing outward.

It hit me why Avonlea's going on her mission trip had been so traumatic. She had broken the circle. She had turned outward. It was what I had prayed and hoped she would do, but it was a difficult transition, and it precipitated a general coup. Avonlea started public high school. Dave and I went to Haiti last month. Grant goes to Trinidad in July. We have a second Haiti trip planned with the kids. We are engaging the people God brings into our lives on a regular basis, not just in our home, and not just as a single unit.

We will still have times when we turn inward as a family. But more and more, our focus is outside these Victorian walls.
I want to live a turned out life.
I want to sit on the front porch instead of hiding in the fenced back yard.

I want to turn to the world with the light of God shining on our faces, arms around each other, three girls and three boys.

 

A Time to Say Yes

I'll admit. There were times when the concept of "18 years" overwhelmed me.
Not at first. Not when I held their soft, wet bodies for the first time.
But later. Around one and a half.
Eighteen years stretched out before me as a vast uncharted sea inhabited by diapers, Prom dates, pink eye, shaving, hide-and-seek, bubble baths, Algebra, and Barbie.

There were nights I remember falling to sleep with one prayer repeating itself over and over in my mind, "Oh Lord, tomorrow, let me be nice."
Because sometimes I felt that I had reached the summit of insanity by having four young children and attempting to educate them. And feed them. And keep their bodies sanitary. (Note I didn't say clean).
And the number kept me numb, eighteen years, eighteen years with each of them, on this uncharted, unpredictable sea.

I survived.
I learned to use a compass. I learned to notice trade winds. I became the essence of "nautical".
And I loved it.

Then Avonlea left for her 2 month mission trip.
It felt as if I had gone to bed 7 months pregnant and woke up not pregnant anymore. I knew my daughter existed, that she still was, but I had no tangible proof of it.
I felt like I had taken my 14 year old daughter, who legally I had until 18, and prematurely sent her off in a life boat alone.
I panicked.
What in the world was I thinking?

 My preemie was adrift.
Were her lungs developed enough; could she breathe on her own?
What if a storm came up and she was alone?
Her skin, was it ready to protect her little body?
Could she manage her oars, she only weighed 93 pounds?
Her eyes, were they ready for light?
And I couldn't know. Not for sure.
I got several letters and they only served to increase my doubt.
"Joel is so hilarious mom. He makes the funniest faces."
How do I interpret that? Is Joel a cute boy or an orangutan?

Then there was the letter who's back was covered only with the words to the whole song of "I love you a bushel and a peck." which I haven't sung to her since she was approximately four.
Was she telling me that she too, remembers. Was she letting me know her life jacket was on, that she was coping with the sea on her own?
The hardest part about all this was that I shouldn't be whiny or bitter (this is not saying that I'm not, just that I shouldn't be).
These babes watched me as I floundered in the sea of "many little lives". They saw my failures. My sea sickness. My dismay at being caught by storms I should have seen coming. They heard my prayers. They met Jesus through their Daddy and I. And they fell in love. With us first, and then with Him.
Because the Love of Christ compels.
So when my daughter said, "Can I go serve the Lord?" it would have been rather inconsistent to plead eighteen years.
There were times for "no". But I knew it was time for "yes".

So she left, went forward to tell people about Jesus, to help those in physical and spiritual need.
And I felt the vastness of silence.
I learned that the most terrifying sea is not always the sea in storm, but the sea in silence. Vast and lonely and stagnant. No shore in sight.
But there is a shore, I just don't know what it will look like, I can't see it.
She'll come home in a little over a week.
She'll have sailed alone, on her own. Without me.
She'll describe to me her experiences and I will employ every ounce of my imagination trying to experience them, too.
The same baby that metamorphosed to missionary in my arms, I will hold again. But differently.
Loosely.
Giving her space to splash about with her oars. Space to learn adulthood like I learned motherhood.
Space to grow up.

Grant told me recently that he's praying about going on a mission trip next summer.
"Would you be okay with that?" he asks me timidly. He's watched me all summer. Praying for Avonlea. Missing Avonlea.
"Absolutely Grant. Always go when God asks."
Because whatever boat He puts you in, He will teach you to maneuver.
Because whether the sea is stormy or stagnant, He is faithful.
Because I trust Him with this life's most precious cargo, my children.

Many years ago I stopped falling to sleep praying, "Oh Lord, tomorrow, let me be nice."
It has altered to, "Oh Lord, may they all love You, may they all love You, may they all love You..." It's the lullaby of faith, the splay of water on the hull, the heartbeat of new life; soft and wet.