Savage Discourse

As my daughter learns (for what must be the 10th time) about the gecko effect from PBS' Wild Kratts, I wanted to think in print about exchanges. Many articles, inches of print, rants and raves have spent time on technology's effect on communication. I do not intend to go there. Education systems, instructors, and grammar fans have been vocal about tech's effect on syntax. I shall will myself away from this.

I wonder this morning what has happened to our ability to relate to each other.

We pull away from who we are, distancing ourselves from our opinions with "if you know what I mean"s, as Taylor Mali has addressed beautifully. We BIRG and CORF based on sports teams, belief systems, or which side of a political bill we support. Many, many statements and facebook status updates I see are in a context of us vs. them. We support this. Join our team by clicking here. Thwart them by signing this.

We've turned all of life into a competition split into teams, with rosters based on the topic at hand. No one wins, and more importantly, we never leave the field.

G. K. Chesterton addressed this mindless identification in a piece he wrote regarding patriotism:

'My country, right or wrong,' is a thing that no patriot would think of saying except in a desperate case. It is like saying, 'My mother, drunk or sober.' No doubt if a decent man's mother took to drink he would share her troubles to the last; but to talk as if he would be in a state of gay indifference as to whether his mother took to drink or not is certainly not the language of men who know the great mystery.

In deciding my 'I' exists so completely in whatever group, communication and exchange are not about information or wisdom, but about loyalty. Someone's disagreement causes me to become defensive. I am less likely to hear, weigh, or value a conflicting input because it could make me disloyal to my chosen 'us'.

We are losing the art of civil discourse.

In discussions (which are often more debate or disagreement), we sling arrows at enemies instead of spreading ideas out on a communal table. There are topics that will always be high-stakes, with great emotional investment. Not every discussion, from where to build a facility to which translation of the Bible, from a municipal construction decision to a schedule change for a summer program, merits that sort of meaning.

Our first year of marriage, my husband & I fought most over the dishwasher. Never knew it was such a critical pre-marital counseling topic, did you? I remember one conversation in particular where I turned his loading methods into a soapbox about authoritarian parenting and how I self-righteously vowed our children would not live under such a choking state of legalism. Hi, Pot? I'd like to introduce myself: Kettle.

I'm troubled by our tendencies in conversation--my tendencies included--because it means we aren't listening. When we're not talking, we're waiting for the other person to stop talking so we can say the response we thought out while we could have been listening. We get defensive over a word choice or phrase, so a gracious space of helping someone else sort out their thoughts turns into a game of swords and shields. We are more quick to hear hurt or offense than we used to be. Instead of conversation being a casual tennis volley ("This happened at work today." "How'd you respond?"), we attempt ace after ace to triumph over an opponent ("So I said this to her!"). We rarely revisit topics and change our minds or modify a stance. We often speak in decided thoughts and closed ideas, conclusions not just drawn but inked in place--as this sentence itself demonstrates!

I fear that in time, with enough savage discourse, true exchange will cease and only agreement & pitched battles of conversations will remain. In the meantime, I will try to remember some key guidelines of conversation: 1-There is never a reason to be unkind. 2-Seek to understand before seeking to be understood. 3-We have two ears and one mouth to remind us how important it is to listen. 4-Agape love longs for the best interpretation of the facts. 5-Contempt has no place in conversation. Christ himself said calling another person a fool was sufficient to land me in hell. 6-God is never on 'my' side. At best, I have asked him and listened to what his spirit says regarding his heart.

Should-ing

This morning has been a should-ing morning. In Brennan Manning's memorable phrase, many Christians spend a lot of time "should-ing" all over themselves: I should have done that, I should be doing this, etc.

Despite a list of things I have done this morning, my thoughts are full of the voice that annoyingly points out all I still haven't done or the things I didn't do well enough, fast enough, kindly enough, thoroughly enough -- and that voice never runs out of critiques.

I decided this morning that every woman spends significant time trying to get away from that voice. The constant criticism, continual picking, snide internal remarks about how someone else of my acquaintance would have done a better job at such-and-such. There are days I'm able to tell that voice to go take a flying leap.

Today has not been one of those days.

When completing a task doesn't lower the volume or quantity of criticism in my head (and in fact, it seems to increase the criticism when I complete something, usually along the lines of "See what you can do if you just make an effort? Why does it take you so long to muster up the energy to get things done?"), just doing something doesn't chase away the blues.

I finally gave up this morning. I surrendered and agreed with my inner critic that I will never be the sort who keeps a spotless house. I will always have more organizing that could be done. I will never keep up with the dog hair or the dust that coats so many surfaces. Much as I might dream otherwise, I do not hold to planning menus and doing grocery shopping for the week so we have healthy, home-cooked meals that fit snugly in a beautiful budget plan.

I dragged my feet to devotions this morning. If I'm already feeling down and compressed by criticism, there's no appeal in spending time listening to how I need to be a better Christian, after all.

Then I found I Thessalonians 3:3-5:
"Not that the troubles should come as any surprise to you. You've always known that we're in for this kind of thing. It's part of our calling. When we were with you, we made it quite clear that there was trouble ahead. And now that it's happening, you know what it's like. That's why I couldn't quit worrying; I had to know for myself how you were doing in the faith. I didn't want the Tempter getting to you and tearing down everything we had built up together."
And 1 Thess. 3:13:
"May you be infused with strength and purity, filled with confidence in the presence of God our Father..."
And 1 Thess. 4:1:
"We ask you--urge is more like it--that you keep on doing what we told you to do to please God, not in a dogged religious plod, but in a living, spirited dance."

And instead of further criticism, I feel encouraged, like a marathon runner in mile 20 who finally gets to a stand with cups of cold water. I get one to dump over my head and another to gulp quickly as I continue on my way.

The phrase in 3:13 helps me most: "May you be... filled with confidence in the presence of God our Father..." Confidence that I'm not stuck in my shoulds on my own, struggling to extricate myself from commitments I made or tasks still undone, confidence that my Father isn't 'there' but here, with me.

And for a brief window, the inner critic goes away (or I just don't care what it's saying) and I remember it's supposed to be 75 today. Perhaps my daughter, dog and I can take a short walk in that sunshine. And the laundry? I'm thankful it's clean. It can be folded and put away another time.

Vultures

Illness never scared me in the corporate world.

A colleague was ill? I was concerned. I was cautious. I calmly ran down lists in my head of contacts I'd had with them so I could professionally assess my risk. I never felt a sense of eminent dread.

With children, the stakes for all bets go up. With children who are nursery-aged and (especially) school-aged, I found a point of empathy with pioneer women. (I understand you weren't expecting that comparison, but bear with me.) How often did a lone wagon face starvation, dehydration, illness or catastrophe? How often did someone look up, see vultures circling, and know a grim certainty that eventually they'd come for you, too?

One child gets sick, and I know my second will, too. It's reasonable. They play together often and rarely heed constant reminders to "cover your mouth when you cough!" My daughter is distraught if her brother leaves for school without hugging and kissing her good-bye, and dealing with the certainty of her meltdown versus the chance she'll get sick is a no-brainer in my mind.

Sometimes I hope the child/parent barrier will halt infections. I wash my hands numerous times a day. I turn faces away from mine when I see a cough coming. I've tried to keep a clean-but-not-sterile house so they aren't grimy but still have immune systems. We have a dog, so they're exposed to dander. I'm telling you, I've thought this through!

Then we enter my uncalculable realms, the ones where numbers don't work. My feverish son this weekend, who rarely cuddles anymore, who seemed most content when I was next to him on the couch, stroking his strawberry-blond head and quietly asking now and then if he'd like something to drink, getting him acetaminophen -- all the things that still have me wanting MY mom when I'm sick. Being known and anticipated in your needs or your desire to be left alone is among God's greatest relational gifts. The risk I chose willingly was greater exposure to whatever germ had him complaining of leg pain (just above his knees) and limping for two days.

The vultures came closer last night.

An hour after I tumbled into bed, I woke to a small voice next to my bed, tearful because she'd gone to the bathroom in her underwear. I will never again fail to put on my glasses to handle such things. Only after I stumbled out of bed, found clean underwear, a warm sleeper, and picked up her soiled underwear did I realize it was both liquid and semi-solid. Lights on, woke sleeping husband, put on glasses (I'm legally blind without them), ran a bath, scrubbed carpet, husband scrubbed child's bed, started laundry soaking... chaos for minutes to regain comatose state within an hour. (And older child slept through it all; the kid is a ROCK.)

I don't like circumstances like these, but I do love being my kids' go-to person. When the world takes a turn for the worse, we seek the people who know each next step out of the mess and are willing to walk through it with us. I loved being able to soothe my small girl last night and reassure her that everything would be OK. (God bless husbands who are willing to help in such times!) After she was clean and back in pajamas, I cuddled her on my lap for a while to make sure she was warm -- despite the fever I felt radiating from her.

And I watched the vultures circle closer.

This morning she seems much better -- thank you, sweet LORD, that neither child threw up -- but now my stomach is uneasy. I've felt those aches in my legs my son mentioned (and my daughter this morning). I think today will be a quiet day with my girl. I'm thankful I have the option for it to be quiet!

And no more vultures.

Macerated Heart

We waited until Nathan was on the bus and headed for school before we bundled up in fleece and warmth to walk to Grandma's house. We talked about 'smoke' in the air (frozen clouds of breath), safety crossing streets, and encouraged each other to keep going.

Just a few blocks from Grandma's, Zoe fell. I didn't see it, but somehow she fell with her chin being the one to greet the rough sidewalk first. I picked her up, soothing tones already in action, then realized the gushing wound was beyond any get-better kiss. Shirt, coat, gloves getting stained; my panicked thought that I had absolutely nothing with me to help handle this--

Jehovah Jireh.

The man who opened the door just behind me was a man I've known almost all my life. At my request, he called my mom, who drove to come get us. While waiting, Zoe used the family's bathroom (as I held a quickly sodden crimson paper towel to her chin). A few blocks back to Grandpa & Grandma's, and Zoe watched a favored video while we waited for Grandpa to come home and give his medical assessment on whether stitches were needed.

I love physiology and planned for decades to enter medical school. One of my first dates with Trent involved treating a wounded hand he wasn't up to doctoring himself. I do not usually get light-headed around blood, but it requires great detachment to view your child's serious injury calmly.

Grandpa agreed the cut was too deep and the edges too far apart to join on their own, so to the clinic we went. My brain kept holding tight to the strand of purpose that was mine: Help Zoe. Comfort Zoe. Reassure her. Speak calmly. Use warm, non-grave pitches and tones. Keep her distracted from worry by asking other questions or talking of other things.

We waited a while in the procedure room while the P.A. finished up with another patient. We read books. Judith Viorst's book about Alexander's terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad day was a good fit for the tears that were still there. We spoke about stickers. I covered the upcoming syringe w/ one of the sterile instrument packets. Moms know there's no need to stare at an upcoming fear for all the moments until you absolutely must face it.

The time came for the shot, and my girl, who could hold off two adults on her own while still an infant, did a credible job of keeping three adults from easily putting a needle to her chin.

It's never easy for a mother's heart to hold down her child for the purpose of allowing pain, no matter how good the result will be. This shouldn't be, your heart cries. I'm to fight for her, not against her!

Needle done, but distraction was still needed for the space of three stitches, meticulously tied. Band-aid applied over all, sticker chosen from a counter basket, and we were back home shortly thereafter. Zoe asked me how come we weren't going to walk home from Grandma's house, truly puzzled. I laughed a bit, but was too drained at that point to risk anything else happening that might necessitate a sprint for multiple blocks, bloody trail following us home...

Lunch at home brought tears again, as muscles tugging at stitches made life painful. She pushed her plate away, and my heart hurt again. We snuggled in the living room recliner under warm blankets, her favorite stuffed friends, water cup, and dark chocolate m&ms at hand. After a bit of TV watching, I shut it off and we fell asleep, Zoe-girl snuggled up next to me, a trusting puppy-pile of exhaustion from the morning's events. It was a pocket of grace, rarely experienced with a sprite of perpetual chatter and movement.

Today, Abba, I am thankful your strength never fails. My heart was macerated as much as her chin this morning, and it took a good part of the afternoon to recover my strength from what was spent in care and comfort. She may very well carry memories of this morning for the rest of her life, but without reading my words, she won't know what this morning cost me -- may never know until she is a parent herself what her hurts do to your heart.

Thank you that you are never impatient with my fears. Thank you that even when you know the full purpose of them, you never scoff at my hurts. Thank you that your care and comfort always meet me where I am, whether waiting in 4-yr-old fear for the needle that's coming or trying to remember as an almost 37-yr-old that I shouldn't lock my knees to prevent falling over myself in a faint.

Thank you for letting me be a mom. Thank you for helping me be a mom. Thank you for showing me your heart, any and every time.

More than an Adjective

I have very little time before my kids wake up, but a thought lit a writing fuse this morning. I'll have to see how fast I can type.

Language is one of my very favorite things and something that drives me crazy very often. It still amazes me that making certain sounds in your presence tells you that I'm thinking of something -- and perhaps something that doesn't exist anywhere outside my brain -- but you can understand what I mean. It's using an ephemeral brush to paint a lasting picture in someone else's thoughts, and I love finding new paint colors, techniques, insights and other things that might make more beauty possible!

Years ago, I mused in a notebook that so many words in English are both noun and adjective: lemon, lavender, cinnamon, apple, orange, wood, plastic, water... those are the only words coming to mind just now, but I know there are so many, many more.

I 'get through' more days than I live, I'm sorry to say. Keeping five steps ahead of small children isn't as easy as it looks; I'm usually coaching myself through prep work to handle the next hoop we jump. This morning, it meant talking myself out of bed to get a "make-do" load of laundry started. I have 7+ loads ahead of me today, but doing a small one first will make choosing the kids' clothes more of a no-brainer decision for me (assuming, of course, that neither child takes exception to the outfits I put in this first load). My point is that right now I have to spend a lot of energy just getting through. I've finally started to realize how miniscule an amount I can control and how quickly my entire day gets reorganized in a matter of moments. Child throwing up? It doesn't matter how carefully I've planned my day full of errands, the original plans are pretty much out the window. (Can I get an 'amen', fellow parents?)

I'm trying to find ways to escape the "do the next thing" mindset, if only because "look up and notice the sunrise" will never be the next thing on a to-do list. Being in this mindset gives me an adjective-view, not a noun-view.

Suppose you ask someone about something, and they reply that it's lemon. Interpretation options mean it's yellow, it's sour or astringent, or it's a dud (if the person says, 'a lemon'). 'Lemon' as a noun as a lot more characteristics to consider than it does as an adjective. Smell, taste, touch, and many other aspects come into play where the noun is concerned...

I'm trying to listen this morning, trying to wrap my head around the idea that defaulting to an adjective life is simplified, more straightforward; lots of gut response and almost no nuance or depth or anything worth savoring. I want to recognize more nouns today. I want to remember that things have dimension, personality, unpredictability, qualities that require me to do more than glance at them to truly know them.

Maybe this is what doesn't work for me where reading through the Bible in a year is concerned. Seeing a list of 3-4 chapters to read in a morning (which I haven't done yet; I was starting laundry instead and may regret that later) puts God on my to-do list. I read through Genesis 29 or 30, check off the box (yes, there is an actual box to check) and try to feel that I've spent time relating to God. It usually doesn't work for me. I never thought about it in this way before.

-At any rate, I'm now 10 minutes late and the kids still aren't up (which means a risk of being late for school)! I'm off and running, but I will try to see depth in my day instead of quick, easily-categorized and crossed off adjectives. I promise.

Parenting

I just finished a conversation with my eldest, home sick from school, that illustrates a problem of parenting. I wanted to change his behavior toward his sister. He was so lost in what he thought and how he felt about what I might do to him that I feel sure he won't remember anything I said.

This -- trying to teach another human being how to be mature, balanced, educated, effective, etc. -- is hard. Especially so when I'm still learning it for myself. Doubly-especially when the student isn't a willing participant in the learning process!

Being a parent is being perpetual -- perpetual meals, perpetual laundry, perpetual cleaning, perpetual training, perpetual vigilance, perpetual persistence, perpetual reinforcement. It's exhausting. I don't know whether the tenth time I tell my child not to interrupt or the one thousandth time will actually impact future behavior. I don't know, but I still have to bring the same level of commitment and consistency to the table time after time after time after time.

Jokes, venting, breaks from battle scenes, and tag team parenting with a partner can all help.

Just now, though, all I can think about is my thread of resentment that my 4-yr-old threw a book my direction, wanting me to read it to her, but she just gently patted our dog and crooned to him that he was such a good dog and had such good hearing. The dog literally gets better treatment than I do some days.

I won't be a total Eeyore. There are wonderful moments that I savor long after. Right now... right now I think I owe my mom another phone call to thank her for letting me live.

Immanuel - Even Today

To those who believe Jesus is the son of God, the alternate name of 'Immanuel' barely registers. At Christmas, we sing "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" and never linger on the staggering implications.

In ancient times, a name was everything. This crossed cultures, continents, and centuries. Native American tribes often gave naming privileges only to elders of the tribe who had lived long and dreamed specific dreams. Nebuchadnezzar took the younger members of Israelite nobility, then changed their names to reflect Babylonian religious beliefs. Daniel ("GOD is my judge") became Belteshazzar ("prince of Bel" or "Bel, protect the king!"). Hadassah was crowned as Esther in ancient Persia. Song of Solomon speaks of a lover's name being as a sachet of perfume against his beloved's chest. Murders were carried out (then and still today) to maintain the honor of a family's name. Do not confuse 'name' with 'nickname'. It is more appropriate to read 'name' as 'character,' 'heritage,' and 'legacy.'

Immanuel means "God with us." It first occurs in the book of Isaiah, when God foretold through the prophet a young girl then a virgin would give birth to a son, and she would name him, Immanuel.

In the history of the world, empires have risen, thrived, died, and been buried. I know of no culture with gods that lived among the people. Greek and Roman pantheons interacted with humans, but mostly out of sudden whim or desire for mischief, revenge, or other ulterior motive. I believe we are more comfortable with gods that live away from us; we cannot conceive of a deity who can live with us day after day, yet still be noticeably different from us. When Nebuchadnezzar asked his soothsayers to tell him his dream before telling him the interpretation (nice little check and balance, there, wasn't it?), the astrologers told him, "No one can reveal it to the king except the gods, and they do not live among men." [emphasis mine]

Keep all this in mind as we think of Immanuel. I believe Jesus died on a Roman cross, rose from the dead on the third day, and ascended into heaven more than a month after that. I don't think he has set physical foot on earth since then, but the name hasn't changed: God with us. Not "God was with us, but not anymore" or "God will only be with us if we're good enough" or "God can't possibly be with 7 billion people at one time." No. "God with us."

He lived among us, breathed oxygen (and carbon dioxide and airborne impurities and germs, just as we do), got blisters, knew long-term exhaustion, was hungry, thirsty, devastated, and probably even had digestive problems a time or two. Yet somehow, in the muddiness and messiness of life, looking no different at a casual glance from any other Nazarene (remember they didn't have that convenient glowing circlet over his head to identify him to strangers), he was still completely 'other.' He wasn't a pious, uncomfortable-to-be-around person who always has the Sunday-school answer, who only has prayer requests about needing to pray more on behalf of those who "don't yet know the love of Jesus." He was real. He irritated others, questioned, frustrated people, baffled them, got angry, begged to do something other than what God was asking him to do, broke rules, got dusty, was told by the spiritual heavies in his day that he was a heretic, and was eventually tried on an invented charge so that Rome would execute him. (Those who really wanted him gone didn't have the legal right to do it.)

I'd love to believe that I would recognize Jesus in person, but my life choices more often reflect a heart that seeks to be away from tense times and situations. I like to think I know best, and I don't particularly like my viewpoint being challenged. How would I feel if Bible knowledge I had from my great-grandfather (passed down through my grandfather, uncles, and father) was suddenly dismissed as incorrect? Nichole Nordeman's song, "Wide-Eyed" has a powerful lyric in the bridge of the song: "Not so long ago/ A man from Galilee/ Fed thousands with his bread/ And his theology/ And the truth he spoke/ Quickly became a joke to educated, self-inflated Pharisees like me?"

In all this, Jesus is still -- through the offices of the Holy Spirit -- God with us. Paul writes that from him (meaning Christ) and by him and through him were all things created. There is nothing that exists that came into existence without him. Consider the created world to be the largest one-artist show we will ever see. Study his works; learn to identify his brushstrokes. I believe with all my heart that Immanuel always gives me what is needed to find him -- hear him, see him, recognize him -- in every moment of my life. There is always enough of what I need, no matter where I am or what circumstances I am in, to get home. I just need to be still long enough to find Immanuel.

A Medicated Life

I'm in the process of changing a medication I've taken for years. The side effects were starting to cause problems, so my doctor is having me try a different drug. I thought that meant the side effects would go away.

I was wrong.

As near as I can tell, I get the side effects not just from the presence of whatever drug path the first med was, but also from any change in those levels or pathway. Persistent headaches, slight nausea, and other things beside. It may be I'll have these until all of the first drug are out of my system.

This morning I'm thinking about changes and a quote from Anais Nin: "And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

This quote doesn't apply well to my change in meds, but I am more aware this morning that everything entails cost. I often push change away because I don't want to sacrifice. This morning is the first time my heart (and not just my head) acknowledge that remaining unchanged involves cost, too.

A habit of turning to food for comfort? At some point the cost of continuing that can be higher than the cost of effort to exercise and change habits. Staying up later than common sense suggests to read a book (which isn't going anywhere) or play a computer game (which doesn't really accomplish anything but helping me 'level up')? Sooner or later (I hope sooner for my own sake) I will decide sleep means more than giving my competitive traits free rein at 2 a.m.

And here's hoping the cost of changing one of my habits doesn't extend days to weeks into my future while my physiology adjusts!

Snowflakes in Sight

Yesterday I spied a snowflake book on a bargain shelf of books; the book looked like something right up my alley, so I bought it. Book purchase decisions don't usually take me long -- and often end in my spending money!

CalTech physicist Kenneth Libbrecht writes with excited enthusiasm about many things concerning snowflakes in The Snowflake: Winter's Secret Beauty; his words are accompanied by Patricia Rasmussen's gorgeous photographs of crystal creation.

I picked the book up just now and read about about Japanese physicist Ukichiro Nakaya, who was the first to grow synthetic snowflakes in his refrigerated lab at the University of Hokkaido back in the 1930s. This is not as easy as it may sound. Snowflakes are not simply frozen water. They do not form unless temperature, pressure, and humidity fall within a narrow range. Snowflakes are an example of truly sublime work -- sublime in the scientific sense. A snowflake was never liquid water: it froze as ice directly from water vapor, skipping the liquid phase completely. Nakaya's major contribution to the field of ice crystal formation was discovering what the relationship was between weather conditions and what the snowflake looked like.

Between -5 and 0 degrees Celsius (~18-32 degrees Fahrenheit) the snow looks like small plates. From -10 to -5, it forms hexagonal columns. From -20 to -10, the snowflakes become large, fat, plate-like flakes; and colder than that (down to -35 degrees Celsius) it goes back to small forms.

No two snowflakes have been found that are exactly the same, and here is why: a snowflake forms when water vapor in a cloud meets the right conditions to be sublime. As the water molecules form their traditional crystal shape, that crystal gets moved by wind and pressure to different parts of the cloud, changing how the crystal grows as it is being formed. The conditions for one snowflake are the same, so each of the six branches of its developing crystal match -- in every minute detail and etching. Each arm of the snowflake went through the same process. No two snowflakes were in exactly the same place at the same time for the same duration on the same path, though, so each snowflake is a representation of its path. Higher levels of humidity (presence of more water vapor) result in more and more complicated snowflake shapes in larger and larger sizes.

It wasn't even 8 in the morning, and there was God and his character, emblazoned in front of me. Do you see  him, too?

It takes specific environments and conditions to grow faith, to nurture a vibrant relationship with God. If I am too comfortable, it won't happen. I am thankful that when the conditions are too harsh, it won't happen, either! God does set limits on what we endure in order to see him. I've read that faith isn't belief without understanding, but trust without reservation. It sometimes skips over what seems like a logical next step: we somehow get from vapor to solid ice without ever seeing water. As circumstances get harder, the growth of our faith becomes more complicated, more amazing, more beautiful. No two lives are exactly alike, and neither are any two relationships with God. We never travel exactly the same path as someone else, so our development is never the same. This does not lessen beauty. If you're a 12-sided snowflake and I'm a 6-sided snowflake, that's fine: hexagonal shapes can still be breathtaking.

The truth that nearly left me gasping this morning was what it is that makes a snowflake reach its most complex form: increasing levels of humidity. The presence of more water vapor. Faith can develop almost anywhere, but it is only when lived in the community of others that the unique life surpasses beautiful and leaves people speechless. Snowflakes don't form and grow in solitude, and neither do we.

Take courage and comfort. Though our lives are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away (James 4:14), we matter. There is still time and care taken that the snowflake of my life will exhibit beauty and be a potential source of wonder to those around me.

Hansen's of the Heart

Of the many books on my shelf (or truthfully, bookcases' worth of shelves), I prize highly the collaborations of physician Paul Brand and writer Phillip Yancey: Fearfully & Wonderfully Made, In His Image, and The Problem of Pain. Each delves deeply into the mine of human physiology for deep veins of  spiritual wisdom. Brand began as a physician missionary in India, and worked for decades with leprosy patients. It was he who finally determined that leprosy (or Hansen's disease, as it's also called) attacks the nerves and simply destroys the ability to feel.

This is a stunning realization. It means every single deformity of leprosy is traceable to an injury or negative contact that was never felt. If I do not feel the surface of my eye drying out, I do not blink; the eye dries out, and blindness eventually results. If I walk too far in poor shoes and get a blister, but do not feel it, it can ulcerate and become infected. Infection eventually takes the whole toe or even whole foot, and I never felt a thing.

Running errands yesterday, I pondered leprosy and its effects. Thoughts about the heart, surrendered or self-protected, meshed strains in fugue with thoughts about leprosy and pain. While steering, I was suddenly stunned with what spiritual leprosy must look like to God...

We live in a manipulative world that excels at abuse of the emotional appeal. Our solution to this is to numb ourselves to appeal, grow calluses so we are not so easily taken advantage of. We cultivate loss of sensation and think it a good thing. I have not weighed all possible options, but it seems to me that every deformity of character, as with leprosy, is traceable to a lack of sense or perception. When life crosses my path in its muddy, messy hallmarks, I steel myself to look away or rise above it. I fail to feel. Over time, that lack of feeling leads to blindness.

Brennan Manning wrote of standing in Times Square years ago, talking with friends. He was approached by a prostitute who recognized him. The woman kept trying to get his attention, regularly interrupting his conversation. Pent up with frustration, he finally whirled on her and heatedly told her to stop bothering them. She withdrew, and her softly-spoken response left him stunned to sensibility: "Jesus wouldn't have said that to Mary Magdalene." He was so caught up in the image of who he was, assured of his celebrity, he forgot to see the life in front of him.

I wonder what it would look like to see the spiritual realm in physical terms. I wonder how many people around me (and the image in the mirror, too) would reveal grotesque contortions of soul. How many times in my life have I pushed through an inconvenient interruption by telling myself to walk right past? How many limbs have I lost, how many perceptive faculties have I forfeited, by choosing to believe that not feeling is somehow better, because pain is intolerable? I don't know anyone with Hansen's disease, but I can guarantee that not a single one would agree with that lie.

Under the Harrow

Writing is hard today.

No grand piano fell out of my sky; no elephant showed up in my living room. It would be easier to write if something specific was present. Today it's simply low-grade depression, a sudden migraine (with nausea, light sensitivity and dizziness accompanying it), and an increased volume of my internal critic.

When you write, you live for the moments when passion burns hot, words tumble down through your fingers, and perfect phrasing leaps to mind. I am told 'tis best to write what we know. I also believe that when I am most incapable that I have to rely on something outside myself, on God, to accomplish things. Right now, I am beyond myself and outside my strength.

Writing often comes from a higher perspective or speaks of past experiences. Presented problems have an answer or purpose with a neat bow. Words are aimed to teach or share wisdom, not confess lack of any of these things.

And yet...

I trust most what has cost the most to produce. I identify as another person says the refining fire went several notches hotter than they wanted; I understand the fog someone else describes in tired tones. I value those words, that experience, more than a person's host of words on a shelf full of books.

We all have hard days. We all have grim moments when we concede it's a day of meeting less than 10% of your expectations for what you say, say you'll do, and do. Storm or sudden calm catches us unaware, our sails set for a different wind.

We fight by giving of our best, even when it feels like less than a better day's best. I felt the need to write from today's furnace, to share that today is hard. It's hard to avoid dreading tomorrow's tempering heat or halt questions of how long it will last this time around. It's grim to have no clear-cut questions, let alone answers to them. Making myself write despite it all was the only thin path I thought I could walk today. I write without knowing whether my fall will be heard or make a sound in the forest at all, but...

I needed to write from under the harrow, despite it being hard to write today.

Clutching Crochet

I learned to crochet chains at a young age, but it wasn't until college that I taught myself the rest of it. Those first few afghans were functional at best! I recently began making an afghan just for me, and as a treat I'm making it out of baby alpaca yarn. Working with it is wonderful. I mentioned to my mate that I may never go back to basic yarn, and he asked if I was planning on crocheting a lot less. Baby alpacas have expensive hair, particularly Peruvian baby alpacas!

Crocheting is a very devotional experience for me. I see spiritual analogies every time I work. The yarn is a single strand that ends up making an utterly unique product, as God's love does in and through my life. Rhythmic motions of a single hook that doesn't change in position remind me of God's consistent, unchanging character. Crochet pieces in progress are patient: if I set aside a project, it will remain at that state until I pick it up again; there is no urgency or need to prevent decay. God is patient with me and meets me wherever I am, however long it has been since I last turned to him.

Tasks like crochet teach me to listen constantly. I work steadily and stay inwardly alert. Yesterday I felt an internal nudge to stop what I was doing. I stopped, then asked myself what the yarn felt like. When working, I'm focused on stitches or counts, not sensory input. I gently squeezed the growing pile of looped yarn and held it in a clenched fist. I thought about its softness and how much I could compress it, then felt my hand start to cramp.

Insights for me are often a mental guillotine, slicing through my threads of thought and narrowing focus to a singularity. I realized I have been clutching parts of my life, holding it in clenched fists. There's a large difference between holding something and holding onto it. Holding something, I can appreciate it and experience it, but not be injured or tried by letting it go. Holding on to it means I'm actually less aware of it; I'm focused on keeping it, determined that my effort, my grasp, will not fail. I make myself and my efforts the focus, not seeing life or what life gives me.

By this time my fingers were close to screaming at me. I slowly straightened my cramping left hand, then thought how much softer the yarn felt when I wasn't holding it tightly.

Write Now

Though technically mature, I yet retain this immaturity: many internal plans are preceded by asking myself how I feel about doing this or that. If I don't like it -- and don't like it strongly enough -- I often don't do it. This internal 3-yr-old is extremely unruly, especially in the areas of accountability.

Writing, to this point, has been mine. My outlet, my topics, my schedule. Today this changed. Our writing group met for the first time (informally) this morning. I have mixed emotions, which is actually a good thing. If I were completely gung-ho, I'd feel more depressed later on; if I were completely against it, I'd feel bad down the road that I was so negative. -For those playing along at home, I'm fully aware that I over-analyze things. Since I'm the one who has chosen this change, I hope to yank the inner 3-yr-old in line as regards accountability in my writing.

Now to figure out what to write that's more than just stream of consciousness... compiling short devotional pieces along a chosen theme, perhaps. I've thought often of such a collection about natural/spiritual analogies, to be titled, "Without Excuse".

For now, I must handle the situation of my 3-yr-old asking how to be a turtle when she doesn't have a shell on her back. She didn't like my idea of using her backpack. Priorities, you know.

Emptying

I guess a cup is only useful/ For the hollow of its shape
The brokenness in me/ Is the need that holds your grace  
         --"Standing in His Place", c. 2000, Five Foot Six and a Half Music

This lyric from a Justin McRoberts song has often crossed my mind; the images it calls up are ones to ponder. Too often I'm impatient that God isn't using me or having me do what I want to do, only to find out that all of me must be emptied first.

For various reasons, this has been a season of emptying. God scrapes away parts of me I consider essential, I reach a raw state of surrender, then find that all he removed was actually dead weight and not part of his creation. I've added bits here and there over the years... time-tested ideas about myself and about life that are actually lies when I examine them directly.

I begin to see that complete emptying has to happen before a vessel can be filled to serve its true purpose. There is no room for any volume of good if it happens to get mixed with the mud of my pride here, controlling over there, etc.

Emptying the pot is only the first step. Once emptied, the pot must be examined for cracks that I've repaired with wax -- injuries and hurts I tried to mend myself so that my life would appear to be whole. When heat comes, those clumsy repairs will quickly dissolve and reveal the underlying brokenness. Only the potter can mend a shattered vessel, because only he builds with truth. His mending is visible; shattering turns into scars -- but the pot is at least useful again. Once the pot is sincere (from the Latin sin cera, or "without wax"), it can be filled to the brim and put through incredible heat without being damaged or even marred.

I dislike the emptying. I loathe the heat that reveals my waxy mends. It isn't fun to find that patches you put in years ago are actually worthless. I'm beginning to see, though, that it isn't a matter of me liking the painful process, but wanting -- truly wanting -- to be filled at some point and serve my purpose.

One Body, Many Moms

I have become that which I swore I would not (younger readers, take note: be very careful of saying you will never -- God takes pretty good notes!). I drive a minivan, I don't get a shower in as often as I would like to, I don't have a wardrobe that majors in purchases from Talbot's, and the people I see most often outside family are the clerks at the grocery store and Wal-Mart. Seriously. I'm on a first-name basis with the clerks.

Another "not me!" item was that I didn't see myself attending MOPS. MOPS made me think of, well, mops. Women managing to take an hour off drudgery, so desperate to get out of the house that they would pay people to take their kids, yet still be wearing knit drawstring pants and no make-up. Now that I'm a mom, I understand paying people to take your kids for a little while, and as I type I'm wearing knit drawstring pants and no make-up. Budgeting money is important, but not as important to a mom as budgeting her time and energy. If I know a day's schedule is hectic, then I want a few other things (like make-up and photo-ready outfits) off my to-do list.

SO... at the MOPS meeting I attended today our speaker compared lives to apples: if there is rot at the core, it impacts the seeds that are planted later. In order to plant healthy seeds, I need to identify areas of decay or rot in my defaults and behaviors. This idea, though new in form, was not a new concept for me. The side note that falls into what Mac would call a "beam-knocker" (like when you whack your head resoundingly against an overhead beam) was this: if there's a girl friend I admire (and even resent a bit) for doing something well, I could ask for her help or suggestions instead of comparing myself to her and feeling depressed about my assumed failures.

I've thought of this where the church (as in, body of believers, not just one building) is concerned, and I'm comfortable knowing that hospitality is not something that comes naturally to me. I'd never thought of if where being a mom or wife was concerned. Case in point? I have a girlfriend whose house always seems to be freshly decorated and neat as a pin. There are many things I do well, but housecleaning is not my forte. Our house is presentable, but it's very obvious someone lives here -- lives here with a large, black dog, as a matter of fact. Rather than mentally smacking myself because I haven't vacuumed in over a week or only just got around to changing bed sheets (sheets taken from the basket of laundry that's been sitting in the living room for a week) -- I am better off recognizing that there are probably things my girl friend wishes she did better, even (dare I say it?) that she did as well as I do.

This morning had a relieving measure of grace added to my shoulders. Because of it, it's OK with me that the laundry is still sitting in the living room. --All right, it's almost OK with me, but I'm working on it!

Language as Portmanteau

In the midst of several gray, rainy days, I've been reading more than usual. My tastes have been more sober of late: back issues of American Heritage, a bit of Seamus Heaney poetry, listening to an interview with Columm McCann -- all material that places a high value on language.

Portmanteau words are those that combine more than one word to encompass a new meaning. 'Brunch', 'smog', and even 'Tanzania' are portmanteau words that exist because someone somewhere decided to combine words and capture both meanings in one (smoke + fog = smog, for instance). How is it that all language itself is not considered a cultural portmanteau? It truly is a marvel that a concept can move from one mind to another through nothing more than a selection of sounds. I admire those who are able to use language correctly, but my deepest respect is for those who see language as a creative medium of its own.

Madeleine L'Engle, Mark Twain, Emily Dickinson, Emma Lazarus, Francis Thompson, and scores of others know how to stow emotion and evoke memory with the words they choose. They do not write: they paint for the ear and the thought. In Wilder's play, "Our Town," the narrator tells Emily that sometimes the poets and great artists are aware of the greatness of life as they're living it. Columm McCann and even Brett Butler (which might surprise you) carry a flavor and rhythm in their words that strikes me internally and makes something within ring, like the resonance of a great bell that you feel as well as hear. I carry the notes of their phrases long after I've turned the page. Time, for that moment, slows and I am lost in savoring. "I fled him down the labyrinthine years... and shot precipitated adown titanic glooms of chasmed fears" -- don't just see these words, HEAR them in your head, the staccato and rubato of syllables that play their own sort of music.

If walking through a Barnes & Noble is any indication, almost anyone with any degree (or lack) of ability can be published. Far fewer of those published can paint with words. I am convinced that any writer worth their salt can list off a ream of writers they themselves read, savor and are inspired by. Writers are interesting for what they write, but more interesting for what they read. For those authors you admire, find out who THEY admire--see some of their story source for yourself. In seeing what inspired a favorite book, you can marvel anew at how uniquely someone was inspired by the vulnerable act of committing passion to the page.

In trying to find your own list of syllabic artists, here are some I treasure: Maya Angelou, Davis Bunn, Josephine Tey, Jasper Fforde, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Rudyard Kipling, Frances Mayes and Emmuska Orczy

The Power of the Internet

When television came on the scene, there were many who decried the time it would take from family and other such negatives. Fred Rogers was one of those who saw its potential. He spoke passionately about the possibilities for using television to reach many and educate them.


Society has a love/hate relationship with the media. We resent its intrusive, gossip-mongering aspects but rely on the information we get from it. The internet in particular has begun to impact daily life. Never before could people on opposite sides of the globe receive information seconds after it happened. This possibility (like television) is a two-sided sword. We all have seen negative aspects: misleading information and rumor that (in Chesterton's memorable phrase) goes 'round the world before the truth puts on its boots. It's harder to see the phenomenal possibilities of the internet bear fruit.


Then I read an article with a beautiful example.


Two male fans started a web site last January in hopes of getting a hug from Taylor Swift. She learned about it in March, and she issued some challenges to the two guys. Rather than ask for displays of slavish affection, she asked them to do good deeds (helping a little old lady across the street as the first one). The two collegiates responded with a video montage of them (and many others from around the world) helping people across the street as a result of Taylor's request. She challenged them to do some creative deeds involving the number thirteen (her lucky number). They responded on April 13 with a video of deeds like giving 13 roses to the woman they helped across the street, submitting 13 items each to a food pantry, picking up trash on 13th street, paying for $13 of gas for a stranger, and helping a small boy meet his favorite Auburn baseball player (who wears jersey #13). Two days ago Taylor Swift showed up at a karaoke session the guys were having in an auditorium on Auburn's campus to give each of the guys a hug--and gave each a kiss on the cheek plus a front-row ticket to one of her concerts. She capped it off by giving a short impromptu concert with the help of her band, who had come along with her.


Although I appreciate the kindness, integrity and positive character shown, what riveted me was the seized positive impact the internet had. Two friends had a wish, and out of that wish a number of people (many of them strangers to each other, since the guys requested viewers to submit videos of their own) were inspired to impact the world in many positive ways, without any expectation of reward or reimbursement other than a hug.


I marvel at the difference in generations, and the mobilization potential of the millennial generation (those born in early 1980s to early 2000s). They are not fazed by odds against outstanding success, and they intuitively grasp the power inherent in large groups of people. If only there were a consistent method of motivating the masses to such heights on a regular basis!

Repetition

There are parts of being a mom that are delightful. I love hearing the random questions: "Mommy, do you like street hustling?" I love seeing the new lessons they learn about the world around them: books will not stick to the wall like magnets do to the fridge. I love experiencing the language development and translating their attempts: bah-bah means "bottle", a hand waggled side to side means "ball", etc. I love the hugs, the unself-conscious dancing to music, the unapologetic perspectives, and the full-bore enjoyment of living.

It's all of the repetitive tasks that drain me. Getting breakfast once (or even twice) is fun. Making it every morning for three people is not. By the time supper rolls around, I loathe the prospect of making any more decisions: what will we eat? What nutrients have we been lacking lately? Who will eat or can eat what I have in the house? Do I have time to make X or should I go with Y? Will it make enough for leftovers? Do I start before nap time ends, or do I wait and hope they'll play and keep each other occupied? Do I need to make a run to the store before supper (please, please, please let this be "no")? Do I aim for the family to eat all together, or do I plan on the kids eating before their dad gets home so they have time to play before bedtime?

Children do not add difficulty and confusion to daily tasks; they multiply it, and multiply it on an exponential scale. Doing laundry with a toddler's "help" adds physical obstacles, interrupting questions, instruction for how they might help, un-doing of incorrectly-done "help", increased restraint in the midst of rising frustration and impatience, and a greater supply of determination to see the task through to the end. My creativity gives out after finding five different ways to say, "Please bring the toy to me." My ears are tired after hearing some rendition of, "Mommy, is that a ____?" for the twelfth time. My patience gives out after a boundary is drawn and reinforced four times in as many minutes.

Motherhood often means needing space away from your kids, but being worried about what havoc they might create in your absence. Sometimes the child can be isolated (stuck in a crib, closeted in their room with toys and a closed door) and sometimes the mom needs to be isolated (locking herself in the bathroom or out in the car, for instance). Days immediately after a vacation or a visit from grandparents or a sleepover w/ a friend will always be more draining.

The number of times you will be interrupted are proportional to the importance of the task and inversely proportional to the available timeline. --And speaking of timelines, I should peel my child away from the computer and get him some lunch (more decision-making!). It's already 2 o'clock.

On Writing

I've kept a journal since grade school. If ever I want to know who I was then, I can dip back into words that the 13-yr-old wrote and be her and my present self in the same moment. Words can be a time machine.

My memories are strongly rooted in physical sensations: sight, sound, smell, feel and taste. When I record the sensations, the memories spring up of their own accord. Just the words 'Jovan musk' conjure up a hug from my grandmother. Words can recreate experience and make the dead live again.

Find the right word can be a struggle. "The difference between the right word and its second cousin," said Mark Twain, "is the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug." It can physically hurt to find that right word. Sometimes a word is used to hold the place until you find the right word, but any writer can tell you which words fit their vision exactly and which ones still bother them. Words can be as finicky as finding the exact shade of oil for a portrait.

Words and language are a gift. No other method in our world allows one person to describe an idea, no matter how esoteric and ephemeral, to a person centuries later. The writer will never know the reader; the reader will never see the writer. Only the words exist -- and in all likelihood, the writer will never know that those particular words are what changed the reader's life for all time.

The realization of these things could effectively stifle any perfectionist from ever putting text to page. Who can live up to that sort of burden and expectation? Writers can write for the market, to sell copy and make money. Writers can write for the public, to stroke pleasurable spots and affirm people where they are. Writers can also write for the most difficult audience of all: their own muse, their passions.

I write to fill an ache, a question inside me that seeks an answer. When I see a lack in my life or lives around me, I try to meet some of that need with words. To solve a problem, any good diagnostician knows that correct identification of the problem is necessary.

For now, life is busy. Chores must be done and meals must be made. Parenting requires a lot of hands-on discipline and damage control. Sometimes words simmer inside until they escape in a rush, inarticulate in their need to be said or written. Sometimes I procrastinate because I don't have anything to say that feels necessary. As my mom used to say, "If you can't say something in seven words, for heaven's sake don't say it in fifteen." Obfuscation and wordiness are not writing.

In words of one syllable: I have not been good at word craft as a job. I am not -- I must go. The word smith must give way to the mom. Once more.

Tired

Moms often get through a day, look at the list of things they intended to do (perhaps were even looking forward to doing, though cleaning my floors just doesn't do it for me), and wonder how on earth they could be so tired. Today? Today I already know why I'm tired.

1-Woke up and left bed ~7:50 a.m., almost an hour later than usual

2-Changed diaper and got milk for the 16 mo. old, who is teething (and not happy about it)

3-Got kids (and self) dressed, which necessitated digging through some laundry baskets & the dryer

4-Got breakfast for kids and self, the fed 16 mo. old and self

5-Let dog outside

6-Assemble needed paraphanalia for MOPS meeting this morning

7-Load kids into the car

8-Let the dog back inside, then closed him in the laundry room (thanks to his muddy paws)

9-Load tub of items into the back of the van

10-Drive to the next town for the meeting

11-Drop kids off at their respective places for childcare during the meeting

12-Return to van and retrieve my books and materials (in the rain)

13-Race to meeting room

14-Return to the rain outside to get tub of cloth diapers from another mom, then place the tub in our van

15-Meeting time (eat, watch video, dismiss for discussion time)

16-Lead/facilitate discussion

17-Hear familiar crying across the hall, and go to investigate--yes, it's my child.

18-Realize it's close to time to leave, so change child's diaper, pack up 16 mo. old's things, and return to meeting room

19-Explain that I need to leave early and arrange for my materials to be gathered together so I can get them some other time

20-Pick up second child from care site

21-Load children into the van

22-Running late, race home in ~10 minutes to pick up the dog

23-Load the dog into the van

24-Take the dog to his grooming appointment, 10 minutes late (just a bath, but most necessary!)

25-Return home to pick up parents' tool that we borrowed

26-Go to parents' house to return tool

27-Drive to store to pick up groceries

28-Return home to unload groceries
[aside from coming into the store itself, yes, the kids have been in the van since #21]

29-Return to groomer's to retrieve dog

30-Return home to unload dog, children, and various things from the morning

31-Put away groceries, feed kids lunch, unload dishwasher, put away dishes and reload dishwasher

32-Sit down and (gasp!) eat lunch myself

I may not have gotten things done on my mental list (fold laundry, put away clean clothes, organize/file paperwork, clean the floors, clean up toys, shower, work on afghan, put tub of scrap-booking supplies away), but I'll extend grace.

Today, I know why I'm tired and my to-do list is undone.

Writer's Blockheadedness

Writing.
I love language, and somewhere around freshman year I had a teacher ask to submit a writing piece to a lit magazine. I took a lit course as an extracurricular in college and got reamed for my writing style; such is the result of getting reamed earlier in college for being 'too literary' on engineering lab reports, I suppose.

What I'm trying to say is that I don't ever remember dreaming of being an author. It's only as I've been writing and submitting a piece here and there that I look back over my shoulder and see earlier things scattered along the path that led me here: the book I wrote that took me to a Young Authors convention; the poems I wrote for sports seasons, family birthdays, and just because. The persistent (though sporadic) journal entries. I think I have writings/journal entries for every year going back 20+ years.

In spite of writing being a long-standing way in which I express myself, I often dread it. Sitting at a keyboard means facing down internal daemons.

"Just look at how long it's been since you wrote anything of importance."
"Why do you keep putting this off when others have told you this is a gift?"
"What kind of a writer are you, that you can't even sit down for 10 minutes a day to write about your kids and keep regular updates in a file for them?"

When I do sit down, I can type in stream-of-consciousness (like now), and it feels like a release of pressure. Whether I write a publishable piece or not, framing my thoughts/struggles on the page has always helped me. When it comes to making words say what I want them to, though, they become unwieldy and my lexicon is suddenly insufficient.

Communication has the possibility of telling someone what you're thinking, but also how you feel about what you're thinking and perhaps a shade of how others have felt about your thoughts. I'm all for denotation (the technical definition of a word), but it's connotation (the social perception and mood surrounding a particular word) that drives me. 'Dark' and 'inky' could be interchangeable, but the latter sounds and feels more image-oriented and poetic. A person can lecture or berate someone about a poor choice, but a berating implies more scorn and contempt. It is possible to paint with words; their colors just aren't visual.

I think most, if not all, writers have a vision of what a finished piece could say; most, if not all, will feel deflated after finishing something because it falls short of that vision. Sometimes by rewriting, sometimes by editing, that vision is reached, but rarely.

I promised God several years ago that if I got a solicitation for a written piece, I would submit at least one writing to it. I have not succeeded in keeping that promise, since I didn't write or submit a piece for this last request. Now I have another request from the same individual; the deadline is May, but the earlier I submit, the better. I think I know of something I could write, but words cannot express how I dread facing a blank page to start writing it out. Once written, I'll have to leave it alone for at least a week or two before I attempt editing. I rarely like anything I've written right after I write it. It seems to take somewhere around 2 years before I can read a writing and not feel like I dropped the ball somewhere.

So... I'm off to spend some time with my journal, then hopefully to shower. The writing piece will hang over my head for a while longer, I think.

Nothings

Any time I sit down to write anything (particularly if I know it will be seen by others), I rack my brain for thought-provoking, witty, or hilarious things to write or ways to write uninteresting topics. I'm a ham. Have been my whole life.
    Tonight, all I can think of is how mundane my life suddenly seems. --Not bad, you understand, just mundane. The topics that come easily to mind concern my kids, complaints about something in society, or my latest addiction (whatever that is).
    Tonight I don't feel like I'm capable of being entertaining or thought-provoking. Writing a blog, by its very nature, is self-centered. It assumes that 1-I'm worth writing about regularly, and 2-Others want to read that writing.
    I'm usually an open book. I don't cringe away from telling much about myself; getting married has meant re-evaluating that for DH's sake. Some things should remain private, after all! I'm now hampered with the voice in my head that recites a continual litany of how ineffective I am in anything I do (I'm pretty sure other people have these voices, too, but if you don't just smile and nod along) and the lack of anything meaningful to write about. [Note: One of my great-grandfathers would have a problem with the preposition end to that sentence, but I'll leave it--it's in recognition of my inescapable imperfection and brokenness. The poor man would probably die of a stroke -- if he wasn't already dead -- if he saw the deteriorated forms of grammar used for texting.]
    For now... I'll head downstairs and play some more video games. If it's Little Big Planet, I get to make a sack person jump over electrified rods (or onto them, if I'm suicidal); if it's Burnout, I get prizes for running other cars off the road. Right now either sounds kind of fun. : )

Attn: Snow Plow Driver

To the driver of the municipal snow plow that drove past our house this morning:

I understand you have a job to do. When my 4-yr-old and I went out to shovel snow off the driveway, I was already dreading the pile of snow and ice chunks that had accumulated at the end of the driveway from your prior visits. 20 minutes into the job (and after being hit by snow wildly thrown by the 4-yr-old and said 4-yr-old's shovel), you drove past--and deposited the first round of snow under my nose.

My shoulders slumped and I gazed in frustration after you, but I tried to cheer myself with the thought that it could have been so much worse, and after all, you had a job to do, too. You didn't know I have no snow blower, my husband's out of town, or that I have only 2-3 times in a day I even have the possibility of shoveling: morning nap, afternoon naps, or after offspring bedtime. I can't get to the grocery store until I shovel without risking getting stranded in our own driveway. I tried to apply grace.

When you passed the 2nd time--closer to our driveway, of course--and deposited another 6" of ice clods at my feet, the only thing that kept me from making obscene gestures or yelling profane things your direction was the presence of that 4-yr-old.

An hour after all this, and I'm still wondering if I could contact the city and reason with them.
"Dear City of _________:
   "While I appreciate your efforts to keep our town streets clear of winter precipitation, I view my resulting increased workload with increasing displeasure. Please know that you are capable of rendering single parents housebound because of your actions.
"Sincerely, An Irked Citizen"

Hmph.

Big Numbers

Big numbers seem to be popping up a lot lately. One million, billion, trillion, even quadrillion. A lot of the words just sound like the childish term 'bajillion'. I don't have any more concept of a quadrillion than I do a jillion or a bajillion.

The one thing that has helped was a time comparison.

One million seconds ago? That's 12 days ago.
One billion seconds? More than 31 years ago.
One trillion seconds? More than 32,000 years ago. Uh-huh. That's 30,000 B.C. or earlier.
One quadrillion seconds? 32.8 million years ago.

I can't casually read articles about the national debt ceiling being raised by another 1.9 trillion. I keep seeing it as 32,000 years' worth of seconds.

Please excuse me while I go contemplate the fewer than 1.122 billion seconds I've been alive. At a penny a second, I'd already be a multi-millionaire. Oy.

In the last 24 hours I've:
-- cleaned offal from the bathroom floor (the 4yo didn't get on the toilet fast enough)
-- said good-bye to my DH, who will be gone until Saturday or Sunday
-- located sundry screws and nuts for a toy construction set before the 14mo could think to swallow them
-- thought of, procured and prepared nine meals
-- fed two kids a sit-down supper, bathed them, and got them to bed in an hour and a half
--finally completed the castle level on the islands in Little Big Planet

None of it was easy, all of it involved some effort, but (sadly enough) the last one took the most time and caused the most frustration!

Maybe I should play more video games so parenting seems easier.

Little Big Problem

I'm ready to sack out. It's been a draining day, and there's an annoyingly repetitive song that's stuck in my head. I can't even blame my kids. It's really DH's fault. If he didn't have a certain person as a friend, we never would have thought of purchasing his older PS3 around Christmas-time. No PS3, no Little Big Planet. No Little Big Planet, no problem.

There are sack people you control in this video game to run through various worlds, collecting bubbles (I'm suddenly struck by the irony of collecting bubbles while I seclude myself in a video game bubble world) and prizes. A TV character once remarked that she never knew hell would be catered. Well, I never thought it would have a soundtrack.

It does.

The song is what plays during the Metropolis world on the Construction Site level. And I, silly shmuck that I am, find it difficult to walk away from something and leave it unfinished. -I'm fine with turning off the game while there are levels and worlds still to conquer; but if I took some aspect of a level personally and keep getting killed at one particular point, you better believe I'll play it until I figure out how to pass the obstacle.

Hmph.

Don't mind me. I'm just the one secluded in the cave of the basement until I get just one... last... bubble!

Argh.

I died.

Guess I'll have to give it another try.

Parenting Insider Knowledge

Every new endeavor has its own batch of unknowns, "gotcha" bits of information that only the group members know. Parenting, it seems, has a whole host of these things.

All these have become part of my compendium of parenting insider knowledge:

- If pregnant and ill, expect suggestions of ginger root, B vitamins, peppermint tea, prescription drugs, and perfected diet plans. If they work for you, great, but focus on finding what works for you--I would recommend standing over the sink instead of the toilet: less kneeling/rising and potential use of the garbage disposal to boot!
- If nursing, you will not regret purchasing a breast pump. Period.
- With each kid you will be paranoid you'll screw this one up and They will revoke your parenting license. Every child takes time to know, and as the parent, you'll know them best the soonest. Give yourself grace and time to get to know them. Having a person inside your body for 9 months does not (unfortunately) give you immediate and complete knowledge.
- Buy multiples of the kid's special blanket/toy/security item. If you only have one, it will quickly become filthy (you'll never get it away long enough to wash it) and losing it is a catastrophe in the making.
- Even if the child is no longer napping, having them spend 30-60 minutes in "alone time" (not punishment; play time by themselves) during the day can be a sanity-saver for you and teach them the valuable skill of being able to amuse themselves.
- Potty training happens when it happens. If the kid is 18 mo and ready, great; if (s)he is 4 and only just starting to be interested, push off the perceived disapproval and go with the kid's timetable. After upwards of five attempts over the course of a year and a half that didn't work (with a LOT of accompanying frustration), it finally happened.
- Used clothing places are great places to find clothing items for kids, who always outgrow things quickly. I highly recommend using Resale Shopping as a starting point.
- Caveat to the above: it is unlikely in the extreme that you will find used clothing (pants in particular) for preschool and elementary school-age boys. They're hard enough on their clothing that it doesn't survive more than one kid. Either make it yourself (and make it to last) or buy several cheap items that you know will wear out.
- Teaching your kids that next developmental step is a two-edged sword. If they know how to walk before 12 months, you'll be chasing them a lot longer. If they know how to read, it's that much earlier you have to be sneaky about what you're reading/writing/consuming in hopes they won't recognize the label.

*Blink*blink*

Wow. Getting on to a year and half, and I'm writing a new post.

Finally.

-In my defense, we only just (as in this morning) got internet connectivity at home. Yes, we've chosen the dark side until now. They had cookies. I like cookies.

Anyway, I've wasted almost no time in reconnecting via blog.

Life now is... chaotic. DH was on the road M-F for October, November, much of December and half of January. He's been at home (at night; he does still work during the day) the last two weeks. Until he came home, it was all I could do to survive the solo parenting of a 4yo and a 14mo. The 4yo is very talkative (and tech-inclined, meaning he likes buttons) and the 14mo is my doppelganger [sidenote: how is one supposed to put in umlauts on a blog?]. The 14mo scares me. I haven't finished a book since she started walking--I kid you not. Before then, I could still read 3-5 books a week. A week.

I'm also up to my ears in genealogy shtuff. Geeked out on Ancestry.com and delving into Ontario censuses from 1871 and such. Great fun, very time-consuming and prone to activate my addictive proclivities. "Yes, yes, I know the kids haven't eaten today and it's 5:30 p.m., but I just found a 12th cousin!"

Speaking of kids, it's approaching lunchtime. I should make sure we're actually dressed to meet the day--or what's left of it. I'm sure I'll be back later (and sooner than my last 'later').

I thought I'd emerge from this pregnancy unscathed, cold-wise, but Trent brought one home with him last week and I picked it up from him. Hence, several days of severe congestion, nose-blowing (we should buy stock in Kleenex) and general yuckiness. Now I'm in the "hacking so hard I might bring up a lung" phase.

There's an added aspect of advanced pregnancy when it comes to coughing during a cold. The abdominal muscles are already under some strain; my dad explained it by telling me to picture a paper towel tube with a hole cut out of one side to illustrate what happens with pregnancy. The growing uterus pushes abdominal muscles to the sides that usually run the full width of the abdomen.

Now imagine coughing like that. Fun, eh? I usually end up holding my stomach at some point in the process just because it aches more than coughing usually does.

-On a brighter note, I have an end date in sight! The c-section is scheduled for 8 a.m. on November 6th, so I know that by noon on that day (assuming I don't go into labor or something before then) Trent & I will have our daughter in hand. YAY!!!!!!!!!

I can handle thinking of 48 days a whole heckuva lot easier than the ambiguity of sometime in early November. It's part of being a concrete-sequential sort of person. : )

Uncivil Impatience

I have a tremendous dearth of patience when I want something.

Right now my impatience is with the government--specifically, the U.S. Postal Service. I ordered two DVD series by Ken Burns (The Civil War, and his most recent about WWII) last week Thursday. Amazon told me they thought I'd have the two series by September 3.

They're still not here.

-As of last night, I couldn't even get updated tracking information about the package. All I knew was that the supplier had shipped them from Indiana on August 29th.

The last two days, I have waited with baited breath for the mailman, feeling the eager anticipation of, "Maybe today..." only to have the morning pass and 3rd party fliers occupy the space in my mailbox.

I read through Doris Goodwin Kearns' phenomenal book about Abraham Lincoln, Team of Rivals, and my brain has been cogitating on Civil War data... humming "Ashoken Farewell," the violin solo piece that is the theme of Burns' Civil War documentary... checking other Civil War books out from the library...

As if I didn't know already: I'm a geek.

I hope they come tomorrow. It'd be nice to have something to watch while I fold laundry. : )

Overheard

Conversation between Nathan and Grandma, in Grandma's sun room:

"I really like the sparkles, don't you, Nathan?"

"It's a SPARKLY!"

"That's right! -Actually, it's a Swarovski crystal. Can you say 'Swarovski'?"

"Yeah."



Not quite 3, and he already knows how to punt.

Breathe

Right now it is beyond my ability to obey the lyrics of Faith Hill's song, "Breathe".

There's something about a small child shoving all internal organs out of the way that kinda' hampers any and all other body systems from functioning normally. I know my gallbladder is crammed up into my rib cage with my lungs, so who knows where my poor diaphragm is these days.

I remember dissecting frogs in 8th grade science lab. My group happened to have a male frog, but other groups had females. At least a couple of those female frogs were pregnant--ovaries extremely pronounced, abdominal cavities packed full of eggs, all other organs crammed into any available space... It made it difficult to find, let alone identify, which formaldehyde-soaked bit was a stomach, which were kidneys, etc. There are days of late that have me feeling like one of those pregnant frogs--without the formaldehyde, I hasten to add.

Abdominal discomfort sliding into pain is pretty standard these days. The uncertainty comes in trying to pin down the what or why of the discomfort. Have I not eaten recently enough? Did I not eat enough? Did I eat the wrong thing? (Greasy foods are guaranteed to make the next day a miserable one.) Did I eat too much? Am I lacking sleep? (This answer is almost always "yes".) Would a different position of sitting/standing/lying down help at all? (This answer is often "no".)

There is a picture I have of me holding Nathan in my hospital room within a day after he was born. Just looking at the picture conjures up the detailed memories: the soft weight of him draped against my shoulder, the heart-full knowledge of being able to cradle my son as closely as I wanted to after nine months of being kept at a distance, and the expression on my face... I can't think of a way to describe it except as feeling like I finally came home. All of me, every cell and fiber, was fully present in that moment, not wanting to be anywhere but where I was.

I know that there are future moments like that ahead of me with our baby girl; I know that the nine months' discomfort fades into acceptable memory.

It's just the present that's hard.

The last trimester of pregnancy is one of those times of life when most (if not all) women will fail to feel attractive--enough so that being complimented on how cute I look causes me to look closely at the person to see if they're in possession of their mental faculties. Elephants are not "cute". Whales ought never be described as "cute". I consider it a measure of my parents' training that I'm usually able to stretch a smile on my lips and bite my tongue from saying strongly negative things about the complimenter's eyesight. Despite being pregnant, I have retained my civility--most of the time. : )

IV Adventures

Not a whole lot of time to post--I just prevented Nathan from unloading the entire bin of plastic food here at Grandma's because "I'm almost done, and then we'll need to clean up so we can go bye-bye."

I think the crash I just heard from the vicinity of the living room had the unmistakable sound of lots of toys (be it food or toy kitchen pans, etc.) cascading onto the floor... It amazes me how finely-tuned one's hearing can become as a result of motherhood.

Anyway... I wanted to share this weekend's frustration. Sunday morning began with abdominal pain when I woke up, and it only increased over the next several hours. The three of us traipsed into the urgent care clinic so I could be poked and prodded. The gallstones I have were giving me problems. Since the pain continued and I didn't have the energy to care for Nathan on my own, I was admitted to the hospital and stayed overnight Sunday night in order to talk with the surgeon the following day. Silly me: I took only one book with me, which I (of course) finished Sunday night. All day Monday I felt extremely bored. TV... sleep... wander the halls (because of course I didn't sleep well on Sunday night due to restless legs syndrome kicking in)... feel frustrated with the hassles of having an IV in my left arm. By the time I talked with the surgeon around 4, I either wanted to head into surgery to have my gallbladder taken out or just go home. Argh.

On the humor front, I managed to create some problems for myself, even alone in the hospital. I went to get ready for bed Sunday night, casually assured the nurse that I would be fine and didn't need help, and started to undress.

Only after I started removing my top did it occur to me: the IV in my left arm would effectively prevent me from removing anything on top.

I ran down my list of options:
1- Sleep in the clothes I'd worn all day
2- Remove clothing as best I could and just let it hang on the IV line for the night
3- Try to detach the IV line from the machine myself so I could get undressed

If you know me, you can guess which option I chose! I examined the machine first, to see if it would be easier to detach the line there, but quickly decided just to unscrew the port from the line in my arm. No problem; it came off without any problem. I removed the necessary clothing, got ready for bed, went to reattach the IV line... and ran into my brick wall.

Trying to attach a bracelet one-handed is simplistic compared to trying to screw an IV line back onto a port inserted in your arm with just one hand. My shoulders slumped as I realized I would have to call a nurse in to "confess" what I had done.

Anna, the nurse, was gracious enough to laugh with me about my predicament once she came in and I explained what I'd done. She asked me what I do for a living; I told her I had a degree in biomed engineering, and she said, "Oh, so you must know how these machines work."

"Um, no..." I said, "I just lack all appropriate sense of fear when it comes to trying something new."

"Apparently you do; most patients are hesitant to do anything involving an IV machine!"

Well, I don't fall into that category. I'm more the sort whose husband tells her before leaving for the night that she isn't allowed to take a screwdriver and remove the back of the IV machine (which, I must say, is exactly what Trent did that night before leaving for home).

So... the moral of the story is that one should not attempt to attach (or insert, for that matter) IVs one-handed. Got it?

The really sad part in all of this is that I don't know if I'd choose differently if presented with the same choice today! God certainly does protect the stupid--I'm living proof!

Coming to Life

I finally have a reason for the nausea and general malaise that has plagued me throughout this pregnancy: an ultrasound revealed I have gallstones. How odd that such news would provide some relief... it's nice to have a reason for feeling so cruddy--even though there's nothing they'll do about it now. Usually they would remove the gallbladder, but they're understandably hesitant to perform any surgery that isn't absolutely necessary during pregnancy! I'll probably go in six weeks or so after our baby girl is delivered via c-section so they can remove my gallbladder using a laparoscopic procedure. The relief of at least knowing what's wrong means I can focus on other things, like dragging myself through the personal struggles of writing again! I received notice of another devotional collection that's soliciting manuscripts. My bargain with God is that I'll submit at least one piece for every solicitation that comes my way. There have been times I regret promising that. What is it about writing--about doing anything that is a true offering--that brings all negative internal criticism, every self-doubt you've ever had, and every negative memory of things not working out to the surface? I wrote one piece that fell short of the minimum length, then procrastinated for a month. Through force of will, I made myself finish the first piece and write a second one yesterday. I did some final polishing and sent them off just now--with a dreary voice in my head saying it's just a pointless exercise and I'm sure I'll receive a "thanks, but it didn't quite fit with what we wanted" in response. Argh. Why is it that something you're passionate about (language, writing, expressing thought and emotion) can become something you face with intense dread?

If you'll permit me some shameless self-promotion, at least I know I've been published twice already! Yay... Maybe there's more somewhere in the future.

More Surrender

My internet access is now sporadic at best (witness the near year between posts), but reading a friend's blog lit the desire to write a bit again.

Baby #2 is on the way--I'm 27 weeks, due November 12th. This pregnancy was difficult verging on impossible in the first trimester, but things were helped a couple weeks ago by learning that I apparently have gallstones. I no longer feel bad about feeling bad. Even people who aren't pregnant would agree that gallstones can leave you feeling miserable.

For now, I'm in the stage of, "I just want to feel like me again." I know my body will continue to resemble a stranger's and show me (yet again) that I cannot predict what it will do; I'd settle for feeling like myself a bit internally--energy-wise, attitude-wise, something me-wise.

It's easy as a stay-at-home mom to feel like you exist as nothing more than a response to the lives around you: take care of laundry, meals, daily discipline, cleaning, pet care and a motley host of other tasks. Somewhere in the midst of the melee, it's harder to care for yourself. I accept that, but what's harder is sometimes not even knowing what my dreams or fears are anymore. Dreams and fears for your family edge their way in until it's easy to discount yourself as a valued person with a unique worth in God's eyes--just as valued as any of your family members.

I guess it's another opportunity to think of the verse that talks about Christ "entrusting himself to the one who judges justly"--I need to trust that even when I forget who I am, God has not. He'll remind me when the time is right. Surrendering means confronting the fear that you'll never get back what was surrendered, after all.