A Letter to my Aunt

Dear Aunt Karen,

Thank you for coming to visit my mother, your sister. You make her so happy.

She has had a bad couple of weeks of pain. As you know, she fell down my steps and broke her foot.

She was actually using a walker which aged her considerably. I told her to stop using it because when I was with her, it also aged me. I can not possibly be old enough to have a mother who needs a walker.

But when you came, the walker was tossed aside and she walked blithely.

My children loved you because you bought them books and called them "normal" (a word I've certainly never called them).

They also loved you because you called their Grandma "Tootypants".
Which is accurate.
They loved that you showed them pictures of your funny, beautiful grandkids.

I loved that you are an easy laugh. I loved that you probably disagreed with 75% of what I said, but you didn't let on that you did, (except for that slip about the rapture). I loved that you only wear cotton or linen and that you have Hebrew words around your neck.

I loved that before I took this picture you ran off to "put on your lips". Which is something that is apparently only done in your home state of Texas. Mom and I thought you were going to come out with wax lips or maybe a Mr. Potatoehead smile.

Ma Glo and Aunt Karen with her lips
 

My mom finally got her desire for a little sister when she was nine years old. You made her very happy. Except when you wet your pants. I am sorry she made you wash out your panties even though you were only three. It was cruel. She deserves to be called Tootypants. And apparently I deserve (for reasons known only to yourself) to be told that story every time I see you. To quote your favorite movie, "let it go" Aunt Karen.

You still make her very happy. Even though you ran out of my house claiming you were about to wet your pants. I wonder what she would have done if you had. We may never know. Although there will be other visits and your not getting any younger.

Again, thank you for coming Aunt Karen.

Thank you for flirting with the waiter at the pizza place to make my mother laugh.

I'm sorry my tea gave you hot flashes.

Your loving, laughing niece,
Annie

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.

First Gleam

Every morning we meet.

These 4 kids and their weary mommy. We spend an hour or so reading God's Word, memorizing scripture, praying for people, reading a  missionary story. Because years ago, when trying to define the purpose of home schooling my kids, I realized that the most important thing was that they left this house with a strong relationship and consuming love with/for Jesus.

And this morning, again, we met. Again, we opened God's Word and prayed and then we talked about inside obedience vs. outward obedience. And we prayed for our missionary. And today, it happened to be their sister. Avonlea is leaving this week to serve the Lord in the capacity He has called her.

Avonlea and her friend Gabrielle will be gone for two long months.

God has been so good to so faithfully lead our daughter. We are so thankful for the music and laughter and joy that she has blessed our home with. Oh we will miss her!

But we are so excited for this new adventure. For the path that God has called her to walk at this time. Just like all our treasures, we hold her with an open hand, knowing well how capable and trustworthy our God is.

"The path of the righteous is like the first gleam of dawn,

shining ever brighter till the full light of day."

Proverbs 4:18

Light

Lovingly, I watch them grow. Often with sorrow, more often with joy.

In January of this year I had to put Avonlea and Grant in an Algebra 1/2 class. I couldn't figure out the problems, I couldn't help them. They needed what I didn't have, a mathematical brain, to guide them. I found them a class on Wednesday mornings and all was well.
But Tuesday nights were tough. There were problems they couldn't get on the work they had to turn in on the morn.
Finally I told them, "Why don't you show each other the problems you don't get. Your brains are exactly opposite each other's so you can probably help."
Sure enough, every problem Avonlea didn't get, Grant did, and vice versa.

They worked together at the kitchen table. An hour passed and the sun descended.
And I realized that they had both surpassed me. They could help each other because I could no longer help them. They can diagram sentences that I can't fathom the mechanics of. They have both surpassed me in musical ability and can sight read way better than I can. They eat more than I do.
And as I watched them working, I felt as though I had nothing to offer them.
I lit the candle on the table. I lit it as light for them. I lit it just for the sake of beauty.

The paradigm shifted and I saw that this is always all I had to offer them.
Light.
The Light of the world resides in me, shines through my inadequacies, and illuminates the path my family walks.
If I think I have anything more than that to offer, anything higher to live up to, anything necessary that I lack, I am mistaken.
When I doubt myself, I remember the Light, and I aim for transparency.
Because He is always enough.

Prone to Laugh

I felt that maybe we should have been wearing a label.

"Prone to Laugh." At everything.

In January, at a Mission Conference, I discovered that Sue Gilmore, a Capernwray legend, would be speaking at a woman's conference in Canada in May.

I sent out an email, would my Capernwray girls like to go to Canada?

Johannah was having a baby in March, Canada would not be realistic.
Chrissy was going to Disneyworld, in the opposite direction.

But Traci and Sara were up for the adventure. So we went.

Sara picked me up, whisked me out of a mind-bogglingly stressful May, and drove me up to Seattle to Traci's house. Somehow, I shed 20 years in the drive. Life became a thing to be laughed at again.

We left at 5am the next morning and headed for Thetis Island. A journey including 2 ferries and lots of driving and much laughter.

This is Capernwray Harbor. Unbelievably beautiful.

We saw Sue within minutes of arriving. She was surprised and astounded and happy to see us. And she somehow made us feel like we were AMAZING women for braving the journey to visit her, when really, the AMAZING is all on her side.

As a speaker, Sue was hilarious and challenging. She has lived her life for Jesus. Unabashedly. She is full of the joy of the Lord. She is feisty.

This is our little cabin in the woods.

If I had a dress or a pair of pants that I wore 20 years ago at Capernwray, I wouldn't be able to fit into them. Life has changed the shape of me. I was immensely relieved that I could still fit into the psyche of a young girl laughing at life. That with Sara and Traci, the core of who I still was rose up and asserted itself....even though Traci and I were asked how many grandchildren we had, by an obviously seeing-impaired elderly person. Even though I was asked if I home-schooled because, "you just look like a home-school mom." (Good to know. I obviously wasn't showing my tattoos and body piercings off enough. Probably because I don't have any.)

Trying to escape "Grandma"

And when we told people that we had been to Capernwray together 20 years ago and they replied that we had just given away our age. Traci piped up, "Oh we were very young!" and I backed her with, "We changed each other's diapers." Sara had to think hard about this comment, because we did so many wild things at Capernwray, she wasn't sure if I was joking or not. I was, but the three of us were laughing....laughing.....laughing.

I was glad to get home. Glad to see the faces of my kids.

But I also felt, that in a sense, I had left home behind me. That those girls, that place, that sound of laughter, was my home. That snuggled next to my friends, telling the stories of our lives, singing around the campfire, downing dessert, laying on the dock, worshipping God, listening to Sue and her English accent, were as familiar to me as my daughter's face. And just as dear.

Artistic Therapy

I know I am an artist because I like to make smoothies that match my outfit.

Today I coordinated with cherries, vanilla yogurt, and a banana.

I sat in the sun on a reclining chair sipping my hot pink drink (out of a straw) that matched my light-weight hot pink sweater, and I was comforted.

I needed comfort because hot pink is a trying color for my complexion. It brings out the bags under my eyes, and in general, my face is not perky enough to compete with hot pink.

This last month has been a harrowing kind of month. An analogy may be helpful. Today, on my way to pick up the oldest two from Algebra 1/2, I noticed a flowering tree that I particularly enjoy the scent of. I got excited, for a moment my face matched my sweater in general cheerfulness, I inhaled deeply. I inhaled again. Then I realized that I was in a car, going 60 mph, and the windows were up. The tree was about 1/2 mile behind me when this realization hit.
Ah yes, I am going too fast to appreciate anything!

May is a wild, bronco bucking kind of month. I find I hold on best by indulging in artistic vents.

I have recently put in a large order for tablecloths from April Cornell. Tablecloths which will go on the outside table next to the reclining chairs. Tablecloths which are smattered with large hot pink roses. If you drive by my house in May, you will probably see me sitting there in my hot pink sweater, with my matching drink and tablecloth and sunglasses (did I mention the sunglasses?). Please look the other direction, I will be normal again soon.
Relatively speaking.

Sacrifice

I teach her to braid. Three colored strings tied to a desk leg.
Red. Yellow. Green. Red. Yellow. Green.
She murmurs the pattern, her full concentration on the twisting rhythm of the strings.

The table downstairs is covered in brightly colored eggs. A messy tradition that dates back to my little girl days in Alaska. My dad loved to celebrate. He pushed Halloween and Christmas and Birthdays and made them fun and exciting. Easter was no exception. He boiled eggs and mixed dyes and we stained our fingers making artistic eggs. And afterwards, we'd throw the dye colors off the deck into the snow. And the snow would be stained bright.

Children need to know how to make good choices when they leave the house. Preferably before they leave the house. So we teach them, methodically, how to make good choices. But the tricky thing about making good choices is the knowledge that God trumps all human reasoning. So good choices are really God choices. The best yes, is the yes to His leading.

I read Mark 8:18 earlier this week, "Therefore consider carefully how you listen." Listening is a verb. It's important. There have been many times in my life when I made good, moral choices and God said, "No." There have been times God has asked something of me that.made.no.sense. The times I chose wisely in those situations were the times I yielded to God's voice. The times I listened. So listening is the key factor to making good choices. I am learning.

Grandma's funeral is Saturday. On Sunday Dave's parents and his Aunt and Uncle will lead the Easter service at the nursing home where she died. They've been faithfully bringing God's Word there for years. They asked us to come and bring the kids to minister with their music. I said no. Every year, for 12 years, we've gone to the egg hunt at our park. It's tradition. Avonlea is too old for it now and this will be Grant's last year. I love it. I love the laughter and excitement and a park filled with beautiful children in beautiful clothes. It's what we do every year. Red. Yellow. Green. The pattern of our life.

But I start to get that twinge in my conscience. God wants us to go to the nursing home. I see it clearly, bright colors on white snow.

So I sit the kids down and I tell them. Let's go to the nursing home on Sunday and minister and afterwards I will give you an egg hunt. I'll give you better candy than they do at the park. They agree. They know how to make good choices.

That night I sit long in front of the computer processing checks for the business. And suddenly, impressed upon my heart like bright colors on white snow, You didn't let them sacrifice. I wasn't praying. I was working, I was braiding the pattern of my day. But I recognized God's voice in my heart and so I listened. You padded their sacrifice. When I ask for sacrifice I don't pad it.

And I realized afresh, what Easter is. It's blatant sacrifice.
The cross was never candy-coated for Jesus.

When approached, the kids joyfully sacrificed any kind of egg hunt.
"That's really not what Easter's about anyway, Mom."
"I'd much rather play my violin at the home than have an egg hunt."

It's a small sacrifice.
Just a little step toward Jesus.
But it's the little that prepares us for the big.

I forget sometimes, that it's not just a family God has asked me to braid together.
It's a kingdom.
The pattern is His.
So is the Glory.
Amen.