An Open Drawer

I do book work with Dave tonight. Compute numbers and scratch my pencil down a page of percentages that I only vaguely comprehend. This kind of work benumbs me. My fingers switch to automatic and my mind roams free. Out of the corner of my eye I see a drawer open. There are pictures spilling out of it. Ancient pictures that were not taken with digital cameras. Pictures we actually got developed.
My pencil suspends. Should I?
Urge indulged.
I cease my work and pick up a stack.
Oh my babies! The first picture is of Grant and I. My belly big as I stand sideways, and a little Grant puts his hand on the bulge of brother.
The next is a little Rowan in a snow cap grinning so big you can make out tonsils. I'm holding him on the porch. My pink lipstick is very pink and my eyes seem full of the wonder of three.
Ouch. My dad holding Grant. He's gone now and to my kids he's only the memory of hearty laughter.
Ouch. Great Grandma and Grandpa with a pretty little Avonlea between them. Grandpa's gone now also and Grandma comes to birthday celebrations with Ma and Pa.
Four little ballerinas in my living room. My first ballet class nine years ago. Two of those four are now in Jr. High. The other two, the two wearing diapers in the picture, will be in Jr. High next year. I take this one to Dave and show him these girls that we've watched grow up. He looks at me in wonder, was it really that long ago? Yes, it was.
Dave on the floor wrestling with a four year old boy.
Visits with Page.
Visits with my Capernwray girls.
Decades and death and devotion all tucked away in a random drawer. All laid out of sight while we pursue our busy lives and lively schedules, living in the vortex of now.
One of the last pictures is of Avonlea and Grant and I on the beach. They look like they were about to sprint forward and I grabbed them around the waist and pulled them back for a quick picture. They smiled, movement suspended, and I caught the moment before they bolted. I caught it.
I go back to my calculations sobered. I thank God for every moment that I have with these sprinting children, this wrestling husband, these cherished friends, this loving circle of family. I take no gathering lightly, for time is precious. So precious.
Time races off if we don't grab it firmly round the middle and hold on.
God give me the grace to catch this day, this hour, this minute.
To catch it and to let it go. To watch it sprint away, with gratitude, for the memory.

Relentless Rowan

Rowan's God-father came up to me in church one Sunday, three long years ago. He asked me, "How can we pray for Rowan?" I looked at him with weary, dreary eyes and replied, "We call him Relentless Rowan." He, being a father, understood this answer.



 I admit, my prayers back then, were merely begging God to allow Rowan to STOP being Relentless. He was up 4-5 times a night until he was 3 1/2.  His daytime hours were filled with naughtiness that no threats or pleading would subdue. At this point, I thought I was going to crack wide open. I was morbidly tired. I did the only thing I could under those circumstances, I prayed, hard.

Fast forward several years. Rowan turned 6 this week. I'm happy to say that he's still Relentless. He's Relentlessly sweet. He's Relentlessly helpful. He's Relentlessly loving. How did this change take place?

When Rowan was almost 4, he came down from a nap and told me that he wanted to go to Heaven when he died. I went over salvation with him, made sure he understood everything; he did. He wanted to pray. So Rowan and I, we prayed right there in the kitchen. When we finished, he looked up bright eyed, and yelled, "I can die now!" Blessed Assurance.

But there was more assurance to come. He began slowly, to change. He began to think of others before he thought of himself. He learned to say, "I'm sorry." And he learned to forgive. Dave and I watched this metamorphis with joy, with thanksgiving. And while Jesus changed his heart, He didn't change his personality. He's still Relentless Rowan.

But he came face to face with a God who beats even Rowan for being Relentless.
And now....he's learning from the best!


*So many thanks to the family, friends, and God-parents who prayed for our little man. God alone knows the impact you've had on his life. Bless you.

This Is How We Know

The song has been singing through my brain since May.
"This is how we know, this is how we know what love is, just one look at the cross."

Day in and day out, like a 24 hour breath, I try to live this song, live this kind of love. The kind of love that sacrifices simply because it loves.

Today I sat down to Romans 5 and read, "But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: while we were still sinners Christ died for us." This is how we know, this is how we know what love is...
Everywhere I turn in the Bible, I see it, the love of God....giving.

The truth is, when I look at the cross, my love in comparison is a faint reflection. It's the difference between the moon in the sky and the moon mirrored on a lake prone to pebbled interruptions.
Weak tea.
Carob.
But as an artist looks intently at what he draws, I look deliberately at the cross. I read and note and try to feel the holes where the nails pierced His love. And I try to reproduce what I see.

These thoughts evolve into a goal, a heart-frame. More than anything, I want to know what love is, this wonderful love that God demonstrates.
So there are words that need to be spoken and actions that need to wake up, because these are the 24 hour breath of love.
The cross is a verb.
I look at it and I imitate love.

Tunnel of Faith

There are analogies that pursue me. They slide through mundane situations with a determination to make me open my eyes to the deeper meaning of life.

There are stories that weave themselves out of the plain cotton fabric of normalcy. I discover an elaborate garment of rich color and texture where I expected to see a coarse cut cotton covering.

I discover this, because I pick the thing up and examine it. I see the analogy, because I look for it, note it's shadow on the wall.

Life is lived on these varying levels of comprehension. There are days when I simply forget to put on my glasses and I am near-sighted and the shadows and fabrics are lost on me.

Then there are days when my perceptions are sharpened to a degree of intensity that is almost painful. That is painful.

Tonight my eyes were dim with tears. Sorrow dripping slowly. As I traced the circuit in my mind of this sorrow, I could only see it's beginning and middle, the end was shrouded and undefinable. But I saw the shadow lope beside it. An impression of something I once knew. Lived.

A tunnel in Alaska. A long, dark, tunnel that ended above the ocean. This tunnel was my personal analogy of faith. I would stand alone at the front of it, doubtful, and leery of bats. And then I would run, and run, until it ended and I caught myself before I went headlong into the sea. I called it my "tunnel of faith" because I had to believe, even in the darkest, scariest middle, I had to believe it would end. I had to believe that the end would be worth it.

A few years ago when we went up to visit Page, I took Avonlea and Grant with me to the tunnel. They were scared as they looked into it's darkness. I started to run and they joined with shrieks. When we came to the end, into the eye-blinking blue of sky and sea, we saw a truly spectacular sight. A beluga whale breached right in front of us. Mere yards away. We stood breathless. That's faith.

So tonight, while I'm still somewhere in the middle of darkness, fearing bats, I remember that the tunnel will end. That the end will be worth the frustration, the doubt, even the tears. That the tunnel will end in awe and praise to God. That's faith, or what I can see of it tonight.

Harvest

The fall season has hit. Work wise, Dave is running busy, running fast.
I get left in the dust as he charges ahead.
I gear myself up for labor. The birthing of another school year, another round of seasons and growing kids.
I stay home with them all day every day and I wage a war to keep my focus on the Lord, and on these kids.
Busyness beckons and I say no. I want to be here. This home that God has given us for this space of time. Here, as much as possible.

So on Saturday when the urge to escape to the zoo, or the mall, or OMSI yells, when the mouth of mundane yawns and the tonsils of boredom wiggle, I pray.
Not audibly, just a soul yearning upward, as only a soul that has just played hide and seek, Uno, Skippo, and puzzles in quick succession, can do.

I get up and sit at the piano. Fingers move over keys I once knew intimately, mind reaches backward to remember songs I once sang. I start to play. There are some songs that I knew well, and they assert themselves. And I remember that there is joy in creating music. There is joy in creating.
Posy wriggled onto my lap and sat content. And then she did it.
She took her hands and placed them on top of mine. Her little voice blended, followed my pitch.

Again, and again, I'm reminded, they will do what I do. They feel life by putting their hands on top of mine.
There are enough busy people in the world.
The world does not need me or mine to boost it's numbers.
We mamas and daddies are doing something so much more than entertaining.
We are creating.

"Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." Galatians 6:9

Girls just want to have fun...

I've never had any desire to be blond.

 Because I really didn't believe they had more fun.

 But Rosy makes holding a fruit basket look like the epitome of joy.

 Posing for a picture a sort of euphoric Disneyland.

 Because she's just happy,

 And silly,

 And naughty,

And delightful.

She is a tough argument to beat, because she definitely has more fun than I do.

And that's saying quite a bit.

Moments

I think I'm in denial.
Denial that it's September.
Denial that school starts in two days.
Denial that a full arsenal of lessons and co-ops are aiming straight at us.

Last week I pulled my comfy outdoor recliner into the sun and laid down. The neighborhood was quiet, except for my own kids, and I took a moment to listen to their sounds. The boys hammered on a boat of their own creation. Rosy, clad in her hot pink swimsuit, talked to the frogs of bugs and beetles and the summer sun. Avonlea, whizzed by on her bike, stopping every other minute to pet a cat.

I was deeply appreciative of the moment.
The mundane moments of living life that are truly not mundane at all.
But I only saw it for what it was because I stopped and looked and listened.

I need to face the fact that it is September.
Acknowledge that school starts in two days.
Thank God for the opportunities my kids have to learn from others.

I need to stop and look, because when I do, gratitude claims me.