The Ache of Gratitude

In the last week I have had ample reasons for gratitude. For family and friends who have cared for my kids with very little change at all required for my offspring. My daughter even suggested that she would really just prefer to live at Grandpa & Grandma's house. When I asked if she wouldn't even miss me, she suggested we could come and visit occasionally.

I am thankful for meals so many friends have delivered that have saved my husband the energy of making meals every night after a full day of work. For dedicated, caring medical personnel; for people concerned with how I am doing -- all of these remind me of so much that is incredible about mankind. A female anthropologist (I believe it was Margaret Mead, but I'm not sure) said that the first sign of civilization was not tools or dwellings, but evidence of healing. It meant that despite a person's lack of ability, they were still valued highly enough for another to shoulder a heavier load until the wounded was recovered. My usual responsibilities have been shouldered by so many others this last week and more.

This morning, however, I am thankful for pain and illness, for injury. I have never been so aware of how often my upper arm muscles get used as I am now, when my right arm is having problems. Feeling pain is part of it, but finding with a shock that brushing teeth, putting in contacts, brushing hair, holding a pen, texting, opening jars and so many other things this right-handed person does are now excruciating, if not undoable. I'm in awe of the body's flexibility as I ask my left hand to step out of its understudy role and how well it does so much of the time (if somewhat awkwardly!). I'm suddenly humbled and overwhelmed by how much work these muscles in my right arm have done for more than thirty years without so much as a notice from me. I am so thankful for the pain that makes getting dressed, putting in contacts, putting my hair up, and brushing my teeth such an accomplishment. My pain has narrowed my life so I am more able to rejoice over things I brushed past as nothing for so many, many years.

Pain isn't easy. Ever. I can't possibly explain to you how much this past year has ground me down over the hours and days. You wouldn't be able to understand large sections of where I am now unless you walked close to me for large sections of it as it happened. My husband might argue that even if you have, it's STILL hard to follow my logic!

My hope in writing this is to challenge our default belief that pain is bad and to be avoided. This morning it has been a means of so, so much thankfulness that I wanted to offer that option to you, too.

[Tip for you: lying on your back will make it easier to brush your hair if your shoulder muscles are hurting, but it doesn't help for putting in contacts. Just so you know. : )]

Present Pain

I had major surgery on my neck last Monday. After a couple nights in the hospital, I came home Wednesday. It's good to be home, but nothing about life is the same. Pain is high, and my pride is taking a beating in all areas of my life. I can't lift more than five pounds, I can't drive, and there's a problem with my right arm that makes it nearly impossible to do anything without my left hand helping.

Waking up is hard, since it means facing high pain and no comfortable position (at least, until my medications start to kick in). This morning I was struggling at 1:30, 3:15, and again at 4:20.

We usually think of pain as a nuisance or inconvenience or, at worst, an obstacle to outlast or overcome. This kind of pain isn't like that. This is the kind of pain that makes every aspect of life into 'now.' What am I able to do in this moment? What am I trying to fight through right now? Can I last through what's happening now? What sorts of tasks or activities are possible this minute? Should I ask for help to pick up this cup now, or should I be pushing myself further into pain in order to recover? I'm having to find new ways of doing everything, from putting on a jacket to putting my hair up in a simple ponytail. I never would have considered such things a triumph before this week.

I've received amazing support from family and friends, care packages that have made me cry, and a wonderful phone call today from a long-time friend of the heart. I told her my frustrations about being denied all my usual means of passing time. Pain and lack of energy prevent walks, exercise, gardening, writing, and worst of all, my brain is so distracted by pain that I can't focus enough to read, either. I told her I was having a hard time just sitting in a chair or lying in bed with nothing to do but try to focus past the pain. My good friend encouraged me to picture myself being held in the protective arms of God through all this, and that thought has given me good mulling material the last hour.

If I had a small child with limited understanding who was greatly hurt and in on-going pain, I as a parent would be holding her as often as she'd let me. I'd never let her out of my sight, and every choice I made would be one that allowed me to drop everything if she needed me. I picture a small infant, old enough to sit up, but not old enough to talk, cradled safely in her parent's arms, watching the world in her wounded state from that impenetrable haven.

These thoughts don't change my circumstances. I'm still in pain. I still don't have any clue what anything beyond 'now' looks like. But it makes all the difference in the world to know that so many battles in front of me are not for me to fight. My Abba fights for me, and his arms tighten around me in comfort when he sees my pain increase.

For today, this is grace that is sufficient for me.

Sailing

I love sailing, even though I don't have much experience with it. I like the sounds, the feel of wind scoring my cheeks, and feeling as though I'm in a timeless world. There's just one problem: I get dreadful motion sickness. I start boat trips excitedly, donning my life jacket, ready to soak up sun. But if the water's at all choppy, I'm soon hunkered on a cushion, grimly focusing my gaze on the horizon in an attempt to overwhelm nausea with rigid reason.

Life has had some unexpected curves these last few months. After a deep breath (and maybe a private emotional catharsis or two with God), I search out the horizon so nausea goes away. There have been a few small things in the last couple days that threw me all over again. I thought I understood the day's definition of "normal", only to be upended by seeing more clearly or learning new information -- and I'm back in panicked seasickness.

Gulp. Breathe.

Life narrows for a few seconds to reminding my body what it needs to do, because my unconscious seems to need help (or my conscious brain feels the need to do basic things).

You can do this. It's ok. Everything will be all right.

I don't think I believe my platitudes, but the words keep my thoughts occupied while the ship of my understanding rocks underfoot. When my heart calms a bit, I remember my ballast again, the weight of truth I believe: God is sovereign. Though I'm surprised, this hasn't rocked his world in the slightest. If he needs me to do something, he'll let me know. My job is to find him, my travel buddy, and hold hands.

Breathe again, deeper this time.

I don't like my life being rocked, and I have even bigger issues with those who rock my boat without my permission. I don't even want to think what kind of refining work the latter will take.

For now, I'll keep working on looking for my horizon, the place in my life where heaven meets earth and my off-beat heart finds its truest rhythm. I'm certainly getting a lot of practice these days.

Autumn Leaves

I learned long ago that food is most enjoyable when it uses multiple senses. Not just taste, but sight, smell, sound and even texture. Think of the shock through your teeth as you crack off a shard of peanut brittle or toffee. Remove the 'snap' of the fracture, and the experience changes a lot.

Truth tends to seep from one area of my life into the others, and being outside for me means using all of my senses. I just spent a wonderful half hour outside, doing nothing but sitting. Looking, listening, smelling, feeling... I let the wind and November chill and decaying crackle of autumn sink deeper than skin. I use such time to look for God; I believe he is present and his character is scrawled in bold letters in the world around me.

Trees have taught me a lot about truth. Just today, crunching through the leaves hiding out in my garage, I saw leaves in a new way. Leaves are trees' means of trapping and using light. Different trees have different shapes and colors for leaves, but their purpose is the same. Every year, though, a tree gives up its light and hunkers down in hibernation, enduring death until spring. Every fostered method of trapping light becomes nothing more than noise, a rustling heap of refuse to rake. Hearing the crispness of leaves underfoot, I have to ask honestly: how many habits do I have that no longer catch spiritual light for me? They may look pretty, or even fill the air in a tempest and make fascinating noise, but they no longer serve a purpose.

I'm not saying that every spiritual practice should eventually be discarded. Rather, I want to make sure that my ways of looking for light, of working it into the roots of my life, ARE still seeking and finding light. If the habits are only habits, then I want to sever connection with them in preparation for growing new leaves.

Desperate

Today, Abba, I was desperate for your voice.

My mind made it a hard day. I mulled over circumstances that bothered me, ways I might help people I love, and the day's list of must-do/have-tos. I didn't feel like I made headway in any direction. It started to feel like I was circling the inside of a brick-walled space, pushing on the walls here and there to no effect, but helplessly continuing to pace my space.

I wanted to hear you.

I kept asking questions. I asked for wisdom. I asked what I should be doing instead. I tried to listen until I heard your answer, but... nothing came back.

Why don't you answer, when I honestly, sincerely, need you? I understand why you don't when my requests are selfish ones, or I'm really just trying to tell you how to do your job, or prove to anyone listening how close we are... then your silence makes sense.

But on a day like today, why do you feel so far away?

In a moment, you showed me a memory of mine.

My child, lost in a game (or book or program or activity), asking me (for the fifth time) what we were going to have for supper.

I didn't answer them, either.

In my silence, I locked eyes on them. I wasn't angry, but calmly, patiently, waiting for them to look at me. I knew the question mattered to them; I knew my answer mattered, too. I knew they wouldn't hear me respond that 5th time--and they'd keep on asking, believing that I wasn't answering.

I wanted to have their attention and their eyes on my face when I answered. I didn't want my answer to be more background noise.

I think sometimes you wait to answer me until you have my attention, until I've made space in my life for your answer. So often I try to cram my exchanges with you into available time. I know you understand that, but thank you for today.

Thank you for allowing me to become desperate.

Asking

I could see the process drop through the toggled channels of his brain as he turned to me, appropriate doors and forms sliding into place to meet the understood requirements from past experience.

"Mom, could you please maybe get me some Lego sets for my birthday?"

I have to admire the craft that went into this one sentence. We've talked with our kids about asking for what they want instead of hinting. (Much of this, I'm sure, is my stubbornness in not wanting to become someone who jumps when my child says, "Breakfast!") We've talked about passive-aggressive behavior, the way we try to protect ourselves from hurt and rejection while putting the other person in a manipulated, impossible place. We've talked about manipulation not being real relationship but desire to control. We talk a lot in our family, come to think of it...

Not only did my adored son remember this, he also managed to work in direct address (Mom), courtesy (please), slight distancing so I'd know he was prepared for refusal (maybe), and specific request without being too specific so the gift wasn't a foregone conclusion (Lego sets).

I notice all that, and I'm glad to see that some of the 34,592 reminders have made an impression. I knew, just listening to him, that he was trying to hit that bull's-eye of communication, hitting all the requirements to increase his odds of getting what his heart wants. He wanted me to hear him. He tried to contort his heart into the shape most likely to be heard and accepted (and yes, to get what he wants).

This is so often how I ask God for things. It's less a request and more a convoluted voodoo theology of trying to hit the right format so I won't get hurt even if I don't get what I want. I don't remember the last time I just asked for what I want, without explanations and caveats. I wish we had a bigger house. I wish the yard was bigger. I wish I had more time for X. I wish we had the money to do Y. The requests are there, but they're followed by watery phrases like, but help me to be thankful for what I have or but I want what you want or but only if it's your will. None of these is bad, by the way. They're heart attitudes I want to have. But I believe God knows that without my saying anything. -I believe he knows my heart's desires better than I do, too! When I ask for them, it's not so he'll know what they are, but so I will. If I surround my asking with hedges of protection, I'm the one who ends up muddy in understanding what I think I want.

As he twisted and crafted his words to ask an acceptable question, my son has no way of knowing that we already have a Lego set that joins with one he already has. It was purchased months ago. Long before he ever thought to ask me this morning if I might possibly, maybe (please) get him one.

I'm pretty sure God has done the same for me.

Toddler Time

Before my husband & I got engaged, he set us each an assignment: go find someone who is married or has been married, and ask them for one thing they didn't expect from marriage. When I spoke with a friend who had been married and was divorced, she said the joy of tasks like laundry and meals became a chore. She said she was surprised by how quickly the fun became frustrating.

More than a decade later, and I'm still wrestling with that very thing.

Others may be luckier than I in passing through the toddler years; my toddler self never went away. When I see there's laundry to be done, another meal to make, another round of house cleaning to do, I know what's coming. In my head, grown-up meets toddler--and the toddler is frighteningly well-armed with arguments.

I've tried so many methods to MAKE myself do what ought to be done. Force (though no, I haven't tried to spank myself), threats, consequences, pleading, cajoling, and promises of reward don't work or (despite working) leave deeper scars. Please believe me when I say that making yourself feel guilty or ashamed enough to do something causes more damage than you want in the years ahead.

I tried to tell myself that clean laundry was needed or that my children needed to eat--then sneakily dragged my heels, just to see if I meant what I said. When we survived one more day in twice-worn outfits or made do with a thrown-together lunch of crackers, cold cuts, and carrots, my inner toddler took notes. I don't believe that voice in my head that says these "have" to be done a certain way. I have chapter and verse of the proof that they don't.

This morning I talked with God after a few weeks of silence. I've wrestled with teaching my small daughter that manipulating someone to get what you want isn't relationship. I realized this morning that all my interactions with my inner toddler are that: manipulation. What I need is not a fail-safe way to MAKE myself do what is needed in the moment. I need to listen to figure out what motivates my heart to relate to those I love in loving ways.

No, I don't know what this means when it comes time to make supper and empty that dishwasher behind me. I do know the more I think about doing it, the more I see myself as something to control. I know that emptying each dish from the racks will be done better if I'm not scolding myself all the while ("Why did you let these sit here so long? See how little time that took? Why were you whining about it for so long?"). Above all, I know it means I need to stop treating my inner rebel as a toddler, if only because that approach keeps me acting like one.

Yes, But

I'm fascinated by learning. We just got back from the library this morning, and among our plastic bin's worth of books, I checked out a few on Mexico's history. I read a chapter of Norton Juster's The Phantom Tollbooth to my kids, then picked up the Mexican history volume about the Spanish Conquest.

The Aztecs have intrigued me before. I've been to Mexico City and climbed a few pyramids. I've read of their amazing engineering (aqueducts, floating agricultural islands called 'chinampas' [right], military schools) and their religious ceremonies. It was a new experience to feel a pang when I started reading about them this morning.

Aztec legends told that once upon a time, their people lived in a garden paradise. They angered a great and powerful god, and were exiled from the garden. They wandered in deserts in northern Mexico, eventually migrating south to the Valley of Mexico. Hated by other tribes, they became fiercely loyal to each other and hired out as mercenary soldiers to warring tribes. They believed all of life was war: the sun didn't rise; light fought the forces of darkness every morning. Rain gods fought foes to water crops. Intervention by the gods was heavily dependent on human choice and action. The gods wanted human hearts, and so entered human sacrifice.

I see again and again that (as Solomon is supposed to have written) there isn't anything new under the sun. I used to feel comfortable reading things like this and thinking them far removed from me. I don't believe in a rain god; I don't cut open prisoners' chests to remove still-beating hearts. Today I read this and saw the our society, our culture, in the Aztecs.

Many of us believe perfection used to exist for the human race and that choices we made created all the bad things around us. Many of us live as though we could get back to perfection again, if only we find the right combination of choices and actions. Many of us believe that each day is a struggle, a fight in which the good or the bad (whether in me or those around me) triumphs.

I feel like we're so close to truth, but miss it. Yes, but... Yes, Paradise is lost, but I need to quit telling myself I can bring it back by my actions and effort. Yes, my choices matter, but I cannot manipulate God into giving me rain, a roof, or a raise by appeasing him. Yes, God wants human hearts, but not the physical tissue of one; he wants the outflow of my thoughts and feelings and impulses directed first toward him. I don't like my selfishness and pride, but I am not able to stop these by trying. They only change as I direct those feelings toward God and listen for his response once I've emptied myself of self.

I didn't expect reading about the Aztecs to make me feel homesick for heaven, but this Aztec poem did just that:
We only came to sleep/ we only came to dream
It is not true, no it is not true/ that we came to live on earth

It has me thinking of my own "yes, but" thin slices of half-truth that I believe, things that lead me to charge forward bravely to capture human hearts. My "yes, but" beliefs that end life instead.

Knowledgeable is Not Omniscient

I woke this morning at 4:30. Never mind why. While pondering other things, I decided to take advantage of some quiet in the house and read some of Galatians. This book of the Bible, particularly in the Message rendering (contemporary language) helps me greatly during devotional reading.

While reading in Galatians 4, I had the shock of seeing Adam & Eve's fruit snacking in an entirely different way. It has nothing to do with old earth vs. new earth, allegory vs. literal tale, or anything along those lines. No Lilith, I promise.

I thought about how they ate fruit from the tree of Knowledge of Good & Evil. They were drawn in by the ability to be like God, "knowing good and evil," as the snake promised.

When I'm willing to listen (which happens less often than I would like), I believe my conscience nudges me in identifying good vs. evil. If I feel uneasy about something, I don't do it. Simple enough.

The problem comes in thinking that my 'sense' of what's good and what's bad is the correct interpretation. It's pretty universal that we consider some things good (getting a raise) and some bad (losing a home in a fire). What if that isn't what things look like from God's perspective? What if winning the lottery is actually a bad thing because of the stresses and strains it puts on relationships in the years to come? What if losing that job is actually what frees me up to pursue my abiding passion, the thing I was born to do?

I started thinking along these lines because of some pretty big instances of this in my own life. It seems normal to say that falling 30 feet onto concrete is universally bad. But for our family, it brought many good things into our relationship, increased our time together, and was filled with gratitude throughout. Isn't that backwards? What about King Hezekiah, who was told by a prophet of God that he was going to die? Hezekiah pleaded with God for life, and God gave it to him. But it was after Hezekiah was healed that visitors from Babylon came, and Hezekiah bragged about all he had--paving the way for Babylon to come back and invade Israel when Hezekiah's son was on the throne. If Hezekiah had died initially, the envoys might have considered Jerusalem worth a miss. So... was it good or bad that Hezekiah lived through his illness?

Please don't misunderstand me: I do not ever think it's appropriate to go to someone diagnosed with cancer and tell them that it's a blessing. I wouldn't ever tell someone wrestling with tragedy that they have it wrong and should be rejoicing. I am saying I want room in my life for even my default definitions of what spells 'good' in my life and what is 'bad' to have longer definitions. I've been able to see some long-term harvests that have me wondering. Some of the hardest times for me have brought the greatest benefit, and I say without hesitation that I would go through it again.

Thinking I know what something will do in my life (knowledge of good & evil) is not nearly the same thing as knowing fully what will happen (omniscience).

My Son is Crying Because...

As I type wails emanate from my child's bedroom down the hall.

Why? For the simple reason that when he was told to put away some CDs a few days ago, he didn't put papers & discs back in boxes, just unloaded the stack of flotsam on top of the toy workbench in our living room. I decided to put them out of reach for a while. He's not allowed to listen to those particular CDs for today.

This is, apparently, worthy of bewailed "Nooo..... noooo....." laments interspersed with sobs.

If you haven't visited Reasons My Son is Crying on Tumblr, I strongly encourage you to. It is a breathtakingly honest window into parenting. Makes you rethink critiques about parents who "make" or "let" their children cry in public, doesn't it?

The last few days have been rough ones. Some private, difficult news for the grown-ups that wasn't appropriate to dump on the kids means split-personality sorts of days. Trying to sort through thoughts and emotions privately, but not let it change the kids' routine or more interactions with them than I can help.

Parenting means being the grown-up, even when everyone around you gets to be immature. Consider it the grad school of peer group interactions.

It means being patient and self-sacrificing without pointing out how good you are at being patient and self-sacrificing.

It means deciding in a split second what the wise response is, whether your small son exposes himself in public or your daughter accosts an elderly man about how she "could hear you better if you take those things out of your ears!" Intervene, enforce kindness, modesty, courtesy, generosity--and do it calmly, patiently, and generously yourself.

Speaking of which, I need a bit of a time-out myself. In my current frame of mind, I'm having a hard time feeling any sort of sympathy for my son, still crying because he only gets to listen to one Glee CD instead of four.

Before I try to restore my son's sense of proportion, I need to restore some of my own.

In Defense of Depression

This afternoon has not been an easy one, and the voices in my head would like me to believe that it's my own fault. If I had done all the laundry, run the dishwasher, cleaned the house, washed the floors, spent more time playing with my kids or taken them on an educational outing, then I wouldn't feel a desperate need to do something, ANYTHING to get away from the accusations in my head that I am less than, worse than, not enough.

Since depression is hard enough to comprehend when you have it, I'm sure it's even more baffling if you don't. Shouldn't a bad mood pass quickly? Why can't the person just choose to think about something else -- or just take one of those medications that are always advertised on TV with line-drawn dark clouds of monsters clinging to the victim? Those commercials baffle me. My monsters have never been cartoons. They are more like the watchers that attach to characters in Babylon 5, invisible but able to strangle its host. The days I dread are the ones when I feel more like Miracle Max in The Princess Bride as his wife Valerie is chasing him around the house chanting, "Humperdinck! Humperdinck! Humperdinck! Humperdinck! Humperdinck!" Though the image is funny, I assure you the reality is not. There is no escape from my thoughts and no door I can close so I'm insulated from hurt inflicted inside.

Starting in middle school, I began writing to myself in the third person. Scolding about things I'd said or done, ways I should have been better. No matter the behavior, I didn't measure up and I made sure I knew that to my core. I thought if I made myself feel bad enough, I'd do what I was supposed to do to avoid feeling bad. I know now what I didn't know then: shame and guilt are never motivational.

One night in high school, harassed internally and wanting anything in that moment that would make the pain stop, I opened the bathroom closet, grabbed a bottle at random, opened it and downed the handful of pills I found inside. Suicide may be selfish to the observer, but in that moment I was fully convinced I was doing my family a favor. Someone as incapable, unintelligent, unattractive and valueless as I was better off gone.

The minute I swallowed the pills, clarity returned. I was in terror that I might die without my family knowing why. I wrote a feverish letter explaining it wasn't their fault, but mine. I was terrified to sleep, not knowing if I would wake up or not. I did eventually fall asleep, exhausted physically and emotionally, and woke with only a stomachache as a consequence. I called the poison control hotline in private, and though the woman told me I would be OK, she also said I needed to tell someone what I'd done. My mom happened to be gone, and telling my dad was one of the hardest things I've ever done. It is rare to see my dad cry, but he did that day. I promised him I would never attempt suicide again, and I have never thought of breaking that promise.

It doesn't mean the negative thoughts and feelings are gone.

I still dread late nights when my brain is wide-awake. It is so quick to start cycling through unproductive, accusatory thoughts. I have a habit of trying to distract it with mindless computer games, familiar books, or anything that will tire it out enough so that I fall asleep the instant I climb into bed. I am afraid of wakefulness.

People I know with depression are some of the most courageous people I know. They fight through a host of enemies inside themselves more brutal than they will ever meet in the real world, and they know that a minute can feel longer and more bruising than a month of physical training. Getting anything done at all that they 'should' is a tremendous victory--yet they will be unable to celebrate it, because getting something done so often makes the internal attacks even worse.

Please honor those you know with internal demons. No, they won't reel off a list of what they've accomplished that day, but standing to face the day so often takes everything they have. Make no mistake, though, they are strong and determined.

They wouldn't be breathing if they weren't.

Real Simple

I love magazines and organization ideas. I relax when I see order, method, color-coordinated bins and labels, or (joy!) white boards with neat to-do lists.

This is not my reality.

Reality is finding a recipe for corn cakes (how historic! how representative of colonial America! how educational for my children!), 'making' them, [half]baking them, then eating them. I had no idea corn meal + water was so incredibly, inedibly bland. Really. I cannot overstate this fact. Drowning it in syrup was the only way to get the kids to take more than a single bite.

Reality is having my elder child leave the table, then throw up the tiniest bit of historical culinary America. Not on the floor. Not on one of our books. His stomach expressed its opinion of corn cakes on a library book.

Why doesn't Real Simple or Martha Stewart or Pinterest have articles and photos of things like that? Tumblr's "Reasons My Son is Crying" comes closer to my reality. There are so many times in a parent's day when the parent thinks wildly, "Really?! Of all possible responses to this set of circumstances, my child chose THIS? Should I be worried about their mental function? Should I be worried about mine?"

Memory is a funny thing, y'know. I have no memory from childhood of supper being late, thrown-together, or procrastinated. I don't remember a house with toys strewn about, dust collecting, or pet hair accumulating under beds. When I shared this with my mom, though, she gave me a look of deep disbelief and told me that my memory was flawed. My childhood, she assured me, most definitely had all of the above.

This helps me adjust my expectations. Such updates help me fix a skewed perception of 'normal'. These touch points with reality help me understand that though an IKEA spread is great, my kitchen will never, never, never, ever resemble it for longer than 5 minutes together. And that's OK.

The reality is my life contains mess and disorder and unpredictable hiccups--sometimes several times in the course of a single hour. If it comes down to having an air-brushed magazine spread or having life, I choose the unsimple life.

A Wrestling

I just finished reading a blog post by a friend, a friend who chose to lay thin-sliced pieces of her heart on the page. In the reading, I realized: writing is a wrestling.

There are many skills and activities that involve striving and attaining. I don't think there are nearly as many that are only a communicated form working out the wrestling inside me. Kneading dough or prepping vegetables with a razor-edged knife (the pleasurable 'snick' of briskly cutting carrot); pounding out a passage of Mendelssohn's "Agitation" or getting into a soothing rhythm of loop and tug, loop and tug, as I crochet -- all of these help me process my thoughts and emotions.

They are never the wrestling for me that writing is.

When I write, and in particular when I sit down with my journal and pen, I bring my internal hairball. Don't know what I'm thinking, don't know exactly what I'm feeling or why, but I know spreading the threads of thought on the page will help me gain clarity.

It is wrestling because I have to find the correct words to trap unknowns, get something unseen onto blank space so that I know what I felt and thought, and perhaps even someone else might understand and identify with my entry, even if I am not there to explain or expound.

Any writer is brave, and this friend is braver than many. Writing on a blog gives the option of editing, of making the words nice and neat, of tying off untidy ends of unfruitful feeling. The best translations of the heart tend to be the ones that leave me more raw in the writing. I'm drained enough after such a piece that I don't have the energy to edit or critique or correct, too close to the feeling to be OK with "making it bleed" with red ink.

I'm proud of my friend. In writing tussles, what counts is getting the words on the page, not pinning the idea neatly to the mat so it can no longer breathe. She succeeded.

Collapsed

The bills are piled, high & deep
But I have promises to keep
And words to write before tackling that heap
And words to write before tackling that heap
[with my apologies to Robert Frost]

I'm feeling in a lyric mood. The movie October Sky is a favorite, but I never read the memoir that inspired it until today. Homer Hickam's writing voice is a wonderful one for me. It's very easy for me to get lost in story with that sonorous writing playing in my head.

His father died of black lung, earned from years of coal mining. Homer's relation of a hospital orderly's description of Homer's father's deathbed has caught at me. The imagery holds mesmerizing truth. The orderly described Homer's dad as a small man, which Homer says he wasn't (small, that is) until his father shriveled physically around his lungs, a body shrunk to the size of that which became his primary focus.

Sometimes a thought is powerful enough to stop reading, even reading a story you enjoy.

I've wrestled with (fought with, tried to ignore, tried to analyze, over-analyzed) my internal state. I hate the thought that life might pass by while I'm caught up in navel-gazing, but my organization-oriented mind insists that things going wrong on the surface means that something's awry in the details of the underlying machinery. So I delve. What did I mean by this? Why do I feel like that? Whose responses am I monitoring?

Reading the description of Homer Hickam, Sr. brought a water-splash of reality to all my ponderings. Knowing the who, what, and why can matter. I feel strongly that we are becoming a race of people uncomfortable with waiting and honing wisdom. For all that, I don't want my life to be collapsed around the singular focus of my thoughts and feelings. Not everything that is a focus deserves to be one, after all. I desire to be sociocentric, not egocentric.

I want a life that animates, inspires, or encourages others. A collapsed life waits to be animated or is so consumed with its chosen focus there is no room for others.

I don't want to have a collapsed life. I thought perhaps my mulling might (in sociocentric fashion) help you, too.

Ways to Help Moms of Small Children

I'm currently on a high. Why, you ask? For the simple reason that after soccer, my darling bolt of lightning went to go play at a teammate's house until lunchtime. In a move that calls to mind the verse about "cup running over with blessings", the teammate's mom AGREED to this without any hint of hesitation and is even dropping my child off for me around noon!

Which brings me to my point on this post: if you are a mom, you've mostly likely been a mom of small children at some time or another. Even if you didn't journal every detail of the experience or scrapbook it in multi-layered, bejeweled and bestickered splendor, you remember.

You remember that feeling of understanding some days why animals crawl off into the woods to die alone. You remember when whatever food you ate was dictated by what food your children didn't finish. You remember uttering some of your most fervent prayers for just 2 hours -- less than 150 minutes! -- of uninterrupted sleep, when even your mom-dar doesn't have to be turned on for a baby monitor. The memory of changing three diapers in quick succession on the same child, only to have them vomit their hard-fought latest meal all over your shoulder (the day you still, decades later, think of as That Day) -- that memory is still present in your conscious mind.

SO. Instead of giving another mom the stink-eye because her child is acting out at the store in a such a way that the tri-state area hears what's going on, instead of "encouraging" a mom to enjoy every moment because they're over so quickly (which Steve Wiens addresses marvelously here), here are some ways to truly help a mom who has small kids:

1. 1 hour of your time: whether you come to her house or she drops them off at yours (and trust me, she won't mind dropping them off and picking them up), getting time by herself is nirvana. In just 30 minutes, most moms I know could run several errands and possibly even make a grocery run! We're frighteningly efficient when we're operating solo. 'Vacation' means getting groceries alone. Truly.

2. If you know her family's dietary restrictions (depending on allergies, etc.), call her some morning around 10 and ask if she has plans for supper yet; if not, tell her you're taking her supper to her. Better yet, make it something she could use or freeze for later. I nearly weep tears of joy when I know what supper is going to be and it isn't noon yet.

3. In a busy check-out area if you have the time (and no groceries of your own that might melt), offer to hold her baby or watch her kids in the family fun area so she doesn't have to try remembering her PIN number in the midst of questions, tantrums, and pleading. Caveat: this is best reserved for families you know who also know you. It's a little freaky from a stranger.

4. If you have kids who are similar ages, work out a swap with another mom. You both get a time once a week, and no one has to pay a babysitter. Win-win!

5. If hands-on feels more uncomfortable for you (introverts are godly, too), get her a gift card to a local coffee place or non-fast food restaurant (though a gift certificate to a pizza place would certainly work nicely for #2!). She will almost always appreciate more caffeine or a fresh fruit smoothie. Trust me. If the business has a drive-through window, so much the better.

6. If time and money are both tight for you (which I understand and she does, too), seize that moment you see her and say, "You're doing a great job; you really are." Know why you can say this and have it be true? Her kids are likely with her, and she, more than any other person in their little lives, has kept them alive (and allowed them to live) to this point. She's doing a good job. Most moms I've said this to look at me in disbelief, and I see in their eyes the protests that, "You didn't see how loud I yelled this morning over breakfast!" or "I've never made ANYTHING off pinterest for ANY of my kids!" That's another reason you can know that she's doing a great job: she beats herself up regularly most days, worried that she's not doing enough or could be doing more to give each kid their best shot. Many moms I've said this to start crying. God has a way of crossing your path with someone in desperate need of that word you chose to say just that day.

God bless my friend who casually took my hurricane off my hands this morning. I, too, want to train my eyes to see more of these opportunities around me.

A Stiff Upper Lip

With the original Antiques Roadshow on the "telly", I end my day as it began, with British accents.

My daughter started soccer camp this morning. As we stood in the group to register her, she informed the coach (unasked) that her name started with a Z. "Zed," he corrected. "No, Z!" she insisted. I intervened to tell her it was called zed in England.

Once she got her size 3 ball (over her protests that she should have a size 4 ball since she is 4), she ran off with a friend and began running, kicking, hollering and having a grand time that had nothing to do with the coaches and group of older kids who were doing warming up routines.

I wondered if I ought to clue in the coaches that she had gone rogue. I kept an eye on the time and tried to tamp down on rising bubbles of angst that rules were being ignored. I told myself that others would need to forge their own relationships with my daughter, for good or for ill. I reasoned with my emotion that we signed her up for the camp to burn energy; playing with a friend was still accomplishing that purpose.

Once all kids were registered, all shirts and balls handed out, the program began. My girl did have a coach who worked wonderfully with her, despite her asking right off the bat why he was wearing jewelry in his nose. Her interest waned right around the one hour end time, which was perfect. We'll go back every morning this week, and I have hopes she might even use her feet more than her hands in handling the ball. The world didn't end because I didn't intervene.

I'm trying to apply that same lesson in my own life right now. Following soccer camp was a consult meeting so I could gain needed information. In the next two weeks, I need to expand a written article (on the oh-so-approachable topic of electrical & construction documentation) by 200-400%.

The feeling of "I have no idea how I'm going to do this" is becoming familiar.

I'm trying to remind myself that many things I worry about never happen. When I question whether I should step in to control or direct things, more often than not the answer is "no". When I grasp for hard facts and figures, I'm trying to predict or ensure a certain outcome.

I'm trying to remember that the whole reason I began freelancing was to become a better writer. No matter how the article turns out (or how long it takes me to write a piece), that goal is being met.

The world won't end when I don't have all the answers.

Too Much Manna

I realized something this morning as I was lying in bed, trying to wake my brain up so it could keep pace with my kids, who were up at 7.

I get tired of manna.

In Exodus, the Israelites finally leave Egypt with a bang (Ten Commandments and all that, though I don't think Moses had a voice like Charlton Heston). They get out in the desert--and start worrying about how they'll be fed. Food for thousands of people isn't easily come by on the Sinai peninsula. God's response was to send manna. The Hebrew is manhu, which means "What is it?" That's a word picture that makes me smile, just thinking of someone exiting their tent in the morning, seeing a nearby bush or the ground, a puzzled expression, and: "Manhu?" God provided food out of nowhere, and he did it for forty years. Initial gratitude turned to discontent and complaining, and manna wasn't enough anymore.

Things I have longed for and delighted in become monotonous.

The never-ending nature of so much of being at home full time can be draining. Though you finish all laundry (perhaps even get it all folded and put away), there will be more laundry to do by bedtime--and something "done" turns back into a "to do". It can be hard to motivate yourself to give your best when your investment has little to no bearing on how it's received, such as spending hours in the kitchen to make a new meal--and most family members turn up their noses, leave food on their plates, and leave to go play. I have news for you: telling myself that God loves a cheerful spirit doesn't make me feel better about clearing everything off the table, wrapping up leftovers, and cleaning the kitchen from the meal preparation. A few friends have had kid-free days this week because of summer camp or grandparent visits, and they've remarked on how CLEAN the house remains without kids in the mix.

Too often I look at my daily struggles, the bread of my existence, and tell God I want something different.

I'm tired of manna.

I won't go into the exchange God and the Israelites had about meat, which got heated, but I do want to think about abiding in this situation. Abiding, remaining, being present.

In so many other areas of life, staying in something until it gets boring is actually where the meat begins. Anyone can be pleasant in a relationship for a day or two here or there; the meat of knowing another person is enough time and enough overlap for their foibles to run into yours. Parenting a baby or small child is usually easy for an hour here or there. That's not where I learn the most about myself and my kids. I learn the most during mile 12 of 26: waking at 3 a.m. to hear sounds of throwing up and knowing you're the one on-call; grasping at relaxation techniques as we enter hour 2 of the stand-off at the dinner table, knowing I can't cave and I can't kill my child, either!

The biggest return on investment in life comes when the investment starts to go south, because that's when MY character is revealed. Do I pick something shiny and new and exciting, abandoning a path that's gotten hard? Or do I choose to stay present, sincerely believing that the view from the summit will only get better as the incline gets steeper?

I've thought this morning that I'm tired of manna, but maybe that manna is actually the meat I've wanted all along.

Reading Choices

Almost every time I visit a library, I emerge with an armful of books. Books I saw and felt I 'should' read, books that seduced me from an end cap stance, books by authors friends vowed I would love... I feel at home with books.

At the same time, I do not become friends with all books I encounter. In high school, I started reading Grisham's A Time to Kill. The opening scene revolted me enough that I put the book down and didn't pick it up again for 6 months. I had never done that before: chose to sever my relationship with a story and resume it (or not) when I chose.

My senior year in high school I decided so calmly, so naively, to work my way through a typed list of "Classics Every College-Bound Senior Should Read". Not even half-way through the list, I hit Voltaire's Candide. Mid-story, I thought to myself how stupid and irritating the main character was, then had a bedrock thought: Just because someone else considers a book a classic doesn't mean I have to read it. This thought was wonderfully freeing, and I have referenced it again and again.

When my husband came to bed shortly after we married and found me bawling over an inspirational fiction work, he asked me what was wrong. Between sobs, I explained the character's arc that caused my tears. I'll never forget his expression of incredulity as he asked, "All of that happened in one book?!" It pulled my emotions to a screeching halt, and I haven't been able to read that author since, because my mate was right. So much tragedy in such a short time is only credible if you're telling the story of Job.

The book I'm reading right now is another in my list of "I may not finish this" books. I liked the author's prior book (both are memoir-style), but this one is describing choices and character plunges that are hard to read. I don't feel pity or condescension for her, since some choices I've made are of similar shades. I think it's more that calmly reading such choices and continuing on makes me feel complicit or enabling of those choices. I haven't decided whether to finish the story, skim it to get just the gist without all the gritty mess (my psyche feels dragged through others' gutters when I read through too much; it's why I don't ever see myself reading Room, etc.), or return it to the library unread.

Here's something not many bibliophiles discuss: it's OK not to like books. I don't admire someone who loves every single book they encounter without discrimination, any more than I would admire someone who eats every bit of food they find and insists it all tastes good. Lack of discernment is never a positive thing. Despite rave reviews from many people I trust, I have never read any Steinbeck, Hemingway, Faulkner, Cather, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Plato, Euripides, Salinger, or many other 'classic' authors. (Please note that my life has, amazingly, not ceased to exist on account of this.)

In Louisa May Alcott's book Rose in Bloom, Uncle Alex tells his teen-aged ward, Rose, "Finish [the book] if you choose--only remember, my girl, that one may read at forty what is unsafe at twenty, and that we never can be too careful what food we give that precious yet perilous thing called imagination." Though closer to forty now than twenty, I still try to weigh the food I give my mind. Not all of what's available is good for it. I still carry within me struggles that are legacies of unwise choices I made in reading decades ago. There are books I might like to read (like GRRM's massive Fire & Ice series) that I know are unsafe for me. There are some I can read that are perhaps unsafe for another person.

I hope you've been lucky enough to find a book (or books) that you love, that help you hear the siren song of who you are meant to be more clearly. If you do read, one way to know where your heart resides is to look at what you re-read. Most writers speak more about what they read (and re-read and re-read) than they do about what they write.

I've resisted setting aside my current book because it's teaching me something I don't already know (who doesn't want to learn the fine art of butchering?); my heart, though, is anxious about what relational messes it could be dragged through to gain that knowledge. Just writing this out, getting the words on the page, helps me see that for now, finishing the book isn't worth it.

Maybe I'll finish it when I'm sixty.

Let Him Dream

We signed up for our local summer reading program yesterday. The library was a melee of kids, books, herds of eager desire surrounding the iPads (our library has a few of these for patrons to use), and understanding smiles from adults.

Our family is comprised of readers. When I was expecting our first child, I worried what I would do if he or she didn't like to read. I shared my fear tentatively with a co-worker, and he reassured me with a smile that our kids would tend to be interested in what they saw their parents doing. Were time travel in my power, Nick, I'd come back and agree with you! Particularly since that child's first word was 'book'.

One child is in the grade school reading program, one in the preschool program, and mom in the adult reading program. Three methods of record-keeping and three systems of getting 'prizes' for reading. I don't know how non-administrative moms do this, frankly. It could drive ME nuts. The grand prizes in the grade school program are an American Girl Doll (for the girls) and a Star Wars Lego set (for the boys).

A fire has been ignited in my son's soul.

Because he, too, is an ordered soul, he has taken a timer to the couch in the living room and times how long he reads his various books to himself. He logged 3 hours, 15 minutes and 14 seconds yesterday, went to bed, and went back at it at 6:30 this morning. He stops after every 15 minute chunk of time and colors in another space on his reading log sheet. He told me last night that he wants to turn in 38 sheets by the end of the reading program, which would represent 190 hours of reading.

I adore him for attacking reading so thoroughly, but my maternal instinct is tingling. I don't think he's ever been part of a drawing before. We explained that each completed sheet means he can put a slip with his name in for the drawing, but that only ONE person out of all those names will win the set. Despite the explanations, I still think there might be tears if the one name isn't his. -His odds will certainly be higher if his name is in the drawing 38 times; I just wonder if I should be doing more to press the understanding of probability in this.

Then I remember my baby brother.

My senior year of high school as I pondered colleges and majors, I asked my 6th grade brother what he wanted to be when he grew up. "A professional football player," he replied.
"No, Dan, seriously; what do you want to be?"
"A professional football player."
"Dan, you know the odds against that happening, of having the skill and ability to succeed at even a college level, let alone a professional level! There really isn't a chance of you playing professional football."

I've never forgotten his response: "I'm a sixth-grader, Suze. Let me dream."

So often I seek to protect my kids from the
unkind bumps and bruises of life. If I'm not careful, I will also strip them of chances to soar, to hope, to dream, just because I don't want them to risk falling. Does my boy look statistically likely to win a Lego set for reading? No. Will life continue if he doesn't win it? Yes. Will he have a good summer of excitement and anticipation for reading, even if he doesn't win the set? I think so, yes.

I need to let him dream.

Head Above Water

We had a downpour last weekend, and our basement subsequently took on water. This doesn't happen often, and there's usually a good reason: a sump pump died, the city storm drains filled and backed up, or the ground water level is high enough that water wells up through any crack in the floor.

After a trip to the home improvement store, my husband returned with rolls of drainage tile, landscape fabric, and specialty plastic-y things. This weekend was going to be several days of breaking up concrete around the basement's perimeter, laying in drainage tile and gravel, then pouring new concrete. The jackhammer and concrete saw were arranged, we were ready to buy 40 bags of quik-crete (which would only be half of what's needed, we think)--then we saw the forecast for the weekend. 50-60% of rain for last night and much of today.

So... no basement tiling this weekend. My husband is disappointed. He was looking forward to the constructive work, solving the problem, and getting closer to using our basement space for our ever-more-energetic kids.

I like that we're willing to undertake something substantial in a short time frame. What I like more is that, even when moving forward at full speed, we can still decide the wiser choice is to wait a bit longer. Frustrating, yes, but it also means we aren't willfully blind about problems.

The basement needs to be fixed, and we have most of the supplies to do it; we're even willing and able to do it. We just need to wait a few weeks for the ground to dry out more.

I'm sorry you're stuck waiting, though, love of my life; I know the hurry up and wait is frustrating.