Thoughts on Funerals: : Why it's important to go to them

It has been a year since I wrote here last.  Nearly to the day.  In one month, it will be a year since my baby brother, just shy of 33, took his own life.  That is a whole other blog post, a long long way off, but after his death,  I retreated into myself, filling journals, but everything was too raw and too private to share with many others.  Even my sweet and beloved family.  We were all suffering in our individual ways and to share my burden with them felt like piling extra weight on them.  I just couldn't do that.  I had my safe people.  My therapist.  My journal.  They got the bulk of my grief.  (They still do.  It has not all gone away.)

Just after my brother died, the last of my grandmother's cousins died and then a friend's husband.  As I got dressed and was driving to my friend's visitation, I realized that I now have my "funeral clothes."  Dark, comfortable, appropriate and I chose them without thought.

I also realized that I have let go of this notion that it is not appropriate or distasteful for me to go to a funeral or visitation.  My friend and I haven't really had much contact beyond Facebook for nearly 10 years. We were co-workers at the job I had before coming home full time with my first child.  And my grandmother's cousin?  The last time we spoke was at my Grandmother's funeral when I was 17.  I thought of her fondly, but we didn't keep up much.  Her funeral was about her friends and her life and I was glad to meet them and know them.

If it were a year ago, I would not have attended either function.  It would have felt awkward and uncomfortable.  I would have been thinking about myself and my little bits of shame that I had not been a better friend or cousin, worried if people thought my blue tunic was too happy a color for funerals and did I look nice enough.  But as I was driving to the visitation I realized more deeply that funerals are about none of that. 

When we had the service for my brother, the church was filled to bursting.  Standing room only.  Aisles filled with fellow police officers, friends of ours from childhood, friends of my parents, other men and women who were officers from other counties who didn't necessarily know my brother that well but stood in solidarity for a fallen brother, and Marine brothers, from his time in the service, who stood stoically in the back.  I never once looked at those faces and thought "They don't deserve to be here."  I thought, "My brother was loved and thought well of.  If only he could see this now.  If only he could know how much he was loved and respected." and also "My family is so well loved."  The faces of the people who came and hugged my neck are a dark blur of tears.  But I look over the register they signed and remember that they were there.  That they cared. 

And it matters that they were there.  It matters.  My friend V looked out over the people in the visitation and saw my face and smiled.  I hugged her neck and she began to comfort ME over my brother.  I accepted her comfort and she accepted mine.  We talked, quietly smiled and she gently, with one finger, caressed the face of the body her husband, smoothing his breast pocket as he lay there.  I wasn't repelled. I was...not glad...that's not exactly the right word, but in some way it was the right word.  Glad that she had this moment with his body, with friends, with remembering him and celebrating him.  And knowing she didn't care that we hadn't kept up for 10 years, but that she was glad I had come.

I was glad to drive 30 minutes for 10 minutes with her.  Glad it brought a smile to her face that we could talk in her time of grief.  Glad that in some way, it uncovered a bit more grief for me so I could tend to that part of me that is still broken and healing.  It was important to go.  And so I will continue to.

Poem : : First day of School Vacation

These little people
who have been
like the walking dead
for months on end
as the school days
droned on and on
Barely able to put
feet on floor
Groaning
in the glare
of the light
when Mama comes
to wake them up,
Are squealing
and bumping
and giggling
and building
and whumping
in the pre-dawn
hours of
the first day
of school vacation.

Poem : : My Feet Use to Be

My Feet Used to Be

My feet used to be
Bare and free
Calloused and agile
Gauging the bark
and strength of the branches
as I climbed.
Sinking into the soft red clay
of the well-worn path around the lake,
in spite of the carpet of pine needles,
gallantly thrown
like a cloak over a puddle.
Expertly avoiding the crabby crawdad
under the rock
who did not appreciate two giant invaders
into his watery domain
Quick stepping
on the hot black tar-top road,
softened by the sun
so my indented footprints
were left behind.
An advance scout
Sent out
test the strength
of some cobbled together invention
made by kids with too much time
and too little building experience
on their hands
Now they are prisoners
of age, injury, fitness goals, work, and propriety
Swathed and suffocating in cotton socks
and always shoes
My feet remember
how it used to be
to breathe

On the Loneliness of Marriage

I have lived for over 13 years with someone who is very unlike me.  He is an introvert in the extreme.  And sometimes his hobbies and job make it exponentially more intense.  But this is not a blog about him or why I think he is the way he is.  It is about me and the loneliness of being married to someone like him.  Let me be clear, I love my husband very much and I work very hard to accept him the way he is, in the place he is, and still gently ask for my needs as a partner in marriage to be met.  But sometimes they just can't be met.  He can't give what he hasn't got.  You can't get oranges from a hardware store.

Most nights I put the kids to bed and then he retreats to his man cave and I putter around.  Alone.  In fact, for one reason or another, I do most things alone, or with just me and the kids who are still young enough that I am constantly parenting and not always just enjoying their company.  Trips, church, chores, most meals, holiday preparation, parties, cookouts, camping, hiking, concerts, household projects and repairs, shopping of any kind (and lots more) are, for the most part, done solo or sometimes I can recruit a friend.

You would think I'd enjoy it after a full day of being with three rambunctious, hyper kids.  But I don't.  I recharge by being around people.  Grown people.  My brain wakes up and thinks and connects thought to thought and laughter with laughter.  I enjoy being around people.

The other day as I was driving to a class alone, I began to cry and pray.  "Lord, this feels like the same crushing loneliness I felt as a single person.  The loneliness I cried out to be released from by joining with a spouse.  I really thought that marriage was the answer (even though everyone said it wasn't.  I didn't believe them).  If I could just find a partner to share life with.  If I just had someone beside me to see what I am seeing and enjoy it."

But here I am, the other side of it, and I am just as lonely.  Some days it feels like I might not be ok, because I am so lonely and in that loneliness, feel intensely unloved.  And then I get angry.  I AM OWED COMPANIONSHIP, right?  I AM OWED A PRESENT PARTNER, right?  Usually this ends with me yelling at my hubs and telling him all the things he is doing wrong.  Perfect for making someone want to spend time with me, no?

As I cried and prayed, the thought came to me, if I am the same kind of lonely inside or outside of a marriage, maybe the answer was never marriage.  No brainer, for anyone with therapy experience, but knowing something and KNOWING something are different.  Know what I mean?

I drove to my class and on the way back home, I took a "vitamin" from the Y.  (It is a little slip of paper you can grab on the way out of the door and it has a scripture on it.)  It said ""As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. John 15:9"

Remain in my love.  Remain.  I am already there.  I just can't see it.  Or feel it.  Because I am focused on what my flawed (and we all are) husband can or can't give me in relationship.

It's not all peaches and roses from here on out.  I know that.  A bible verse doesn't fix me.  Self knowledge doesn't fix me.  I need to be reminded multiple times to remain.  Just stay here.  Present.  And be loved.

As the Day Ends

In the click of the lock as the day ends
In the hum of the a.c. outside
In the thrum of the mower that the neighbor uses at 9pm as if that is the perfect time for firefly lit yardwork
In the woosh and spin and click of the hookup of the dishwasher that is
An anachronism in this kitchen made for the 50's
In this house made for the 20's
In the stones that hold 100 years of time in the history
of earth and death and grass and Hackberry star seeds
To the rhythm of the breath of sleeping babes
Who dream and become old men and old mothers
In the passing of the sun and the moon as it grows fat and lean
In the seasons and the years and the lifetimes that this place
Held and lost and held and lost until this moment.
My bare feet on these creaking boards, once trees, once seedlings, once acorns,
Once one hundred feet high on the limbs of their mother
Carried here.  To now. Where the mint takes root in the glass on the sill
And the van beeps as I double check
And the lock clicks as the day ends.

An Invitation to Beckon the Lovely - the passing of Amy Krouse Rosenthol

I am typically not a fangirl, but I was and will always be a fan of Amy Krouse Rosenthal. She died today. Amy was a writer, an essayist, a film maker, a mother, a wife, a finder of magical and beautiful things, an encourager of others to find their magic and beauty. I watched her film, read her books and like a total nerd, wrote her a letter. 

She wrote me back. We didn't agree on where bowls should be racked up in the dishwasher, but in all things serendipitous, beautiful, and so unexpected they seemed magical, we each found joy. Me, because she pointed it out for me (and many others) and got my head out of my own crazy, lost in baby-land, navel gazing and her because she was a perpetual optimist who had her eyes wide open and searching for it. I strive to be like that. She made things. She did things. She gathered other makers and doers to her side without fear or comparison (or the paralyzing self doubt I am plagued with) and I watched her in wonder. They made things together. 

When I read her post in the NYTimes about her husband (a dating profile of sorts in hopes that he'd find love after she was gone), that was when I realized she was passing out of this world and I sobbed like it was news of my best friend dying. I had to go to bed early. I was a wreck. For a virtual stranger. But that was the way she invited people in. To know her through her writing. To make them laugh, and think, and wonder. I am grateful that she was here as long as she was. I am grateful that she shared so much of herself and encouraged others to beckon lovely. 

In honor of her, I will do as she asked and beckon the lovely into my life.  To look for the magical, romantic, serendipitous, silly and beautiful.  To open my eyes and live more deeply in gratitude.  And when I forget, as inevitably I will, I hope that you, my community of lovelies, will walk beside me and lift my head up to see the sun rise.  I will do the same thing when it is you who cannot look up from putting one foot in front of the other.

Thank you, Amy, for all that you brought to this world.  You will be sorely missed.








Her movie
Her Books
thebeckoningoflovely website has been taken over by some insanity.  Don't go there. 
whoisamy.com is much better.

Lack

I didn't know we were poor until it was pointed out to me, with sneer and disdainfully curled lip, topped with perfect blond curls and giant grosgrain bow, that I always wore the same dress to church. 

I didn't know we didn't have what others thought we needed because I had the wild woods, the endless Texas sky, a creek to dig toes in mud, and a library so full of everything I could ever want to read, (I wanted to make it so no one else could check out books and I would go A to Z and read them all.  If others checked out books, how would I know what I missed?), 6 playmates, logs and leaves and forts and trees, a lake and a flat bottom skiff and shiny brass hooks to catch those 'sucker fish' with, with the night crawlers dug from the leaf beds, where the long, tar-top driveway curved and ran to grandma's house.

I learned while my sister worked her first job to buy nicer things than my parents could afford so she would feel like she fit in.  And she permed her hair and her eye lids turned a shimmery blue to be like those other 90's teenagers.  I learned when the kids around me asked if I had worn those jeans yesterday.  I had.

I learned when I saw your house and realized that mine was different.  That there was a hole in the floor, where the only thing between me and the chickens underneath the trailer was a green shag carpet.  It bowed there and we jumped over that spot between the living room and the kitchen.  And the thought of you coming over and knowing that about me, made my insides roil like a nest of rattlesnakes. 
 
My three haven't learned.  And we haven't lacked.  Until now.  When the job goes and the money dwindles and the roil comes back.
.
I am gloriously grateful today that a trip to buy new Storm Trooper shoes for a gift is all the birthday he needs.  He hasn't discovered it yet.  The Lack.

And this I know to be true, even if I don't manage to live there, The Lack, no matter how much we have or buy or give or fill up with 'things' and people, it will never go away.  There will always be someone with more and will I compare or will I be content?  Will I envy Disney and nicer, bigger houses and vacations and fancy mini-vans?  Have I given the illusion that I have transcended the envy of 'stuff' but still envy bodies, and beauty and youth, and relationships and compare my inside to your outsides (and Facebook feed)?
Or will I close my eyes and find quiet in the lack?
Can I find quiet in the din of this noise in my head and this twisting roil of rattlesnakes, that's true name is Fear of being known and rejected?
Can I get by with filling my eyes with envy instead of the peace brought by the lack thereof?
Or can I live here? In the Lack?  And hand over my worries and fear and just be content?
Sweet Lord, I hope I can.

Dust if you Must - Poetry I like today

Dust If You Must

by Rose Milligan

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better To paint a picture, or write a letter, Bake a cake, or plant a seed; Ponder the difference between want and need? Dust if you must, but there's not much time, With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb; Music to hear, and books to read; Friends to cherish, and life to lead. Dust if you must, but the world's out there With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair; A flutter of snow, a shower of rain, This day will not come around again. Dust if you must, but bear in mind, Old age will come and it's not kind. And when you go (and go you must) You, yourself, will make more dust.

Text Source

Poems I like today

I am grateful for the internet.  The eternal source of poems that may have been forgotten, lost in obscure books long out of print.  Instead they are fresh and real as the day they were written, there in front of me.  I may need to look up the obscure verbiage or antiquated language, but I CAN do that.  So here are a few.  Found (in part) in the introduction of The Inquisitor's Tale Or, The Three Magical Children and their Holy Dog by Adam Gidwitz (Illuminated by Hatem Aly)

Pied Beauty

By Gerard Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things –

   For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

      For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

   Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;

      And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

   Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

      With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

                                Praise him.

 Text Source and to hear it read aloud

 

As I Walked Out One Evening

W. H. Auden, 1907 - 1973

As I walked out one evening,
   Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
   Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
   I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
   ‘Love has no ending.

‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
   Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
   And the salmon sing in the street,

‘I’ll love you till the ocean
   Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
   Like geese about the sky.

‘The years shall run like rabbits,
   For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
   And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city
   Began to whirr and chime:
‘O let not Time deceive you,
   You cannot conquer Time.

‘In the burrows of the Nightmare
   Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
   And coughs when you would kiss.

‘In headaches and in worry
   Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
   To-morrow or to-day.

‘Into many a green valley
   Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
   And the diver’s brilliant bow.

‘O plunge your hands in water,
   Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
   And wonder what you’ve missed.

‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
   The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
   A lane to the land of the dead.

‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
   And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
   And Jill goes down on her back.

‘O look, look in the mirror,
   O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
   Although you cannot bless.

‘O stand, stand at the window
   As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour - (Love this line!)
   With your crooked heart.'

It was late, late in the evening,
   The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
   And the deep river ran on. 

Text Source

Breakfast Adventures: Poached Egg on Toast with Mushrooms in Garlic and Butter Sauce (aka , how to gross out almost all your kids)

It's summer.  Glorious summer.  When time is loose and the world doesn't end if I don't get breakfast made and everyone out of the door by 7:30am.  Heck, it is currently 7:21am and only one kid is even awake!  Now if only I could sleep in, I would.

Recently I took advantage of this extra time to return to making different things for breakfast besides the same old same old eggs, toast and fruit that has been our school day staple.  And by that I at least I mean cooking the eggs in a different way, right?  Right.

I had leftover baby Portabella mushrooms I needed to use up and some garlic and butter, so I sauteed the mushrooms and garlic in butter, poached some eggs, toasted some toast and there I had it!  A delicious breakfast.  I even went so far as to serve in season, deliciously ripe, in season strawberries with freshly whipped cream. (As kids we called it "whup cream".  I did grow up in Texas, after all!)

The butter has all run off and soaked into the toast.  Mmmm.

Matt's comments were, "Man this is good!"  and "I feel like I am dining at a cafe in Paris." (where he has never been and wouldn't know that breakfast in Paris mostly consists of cafe au lait and a croissant) but I know what he meant and I liked the compliment.

Cora gave it a big thumbs up and ate every scrap.

The youngest two gave me these faces and these tears.

Guess what kids?  Mama is never gonna stop making weird food for you to cry about!  Ha!  We folks with a more sophisticated fake French palate are going to continue to eat this stuff from time to time and I know you think you don't like it, but your mouth is going to catch up with the rest of us some day.  Until then cry on, my loves, cry on.

Happy Summer!

The Deep Places

I notice in my life there are seasons when I fall silent.  As a lifelong journaler, this is strange to look back on. I used to wonder why and try to remember what was going on in my life then.  Now, as an adult, I have figured it out.  These are the times when the things that are going on inside me become too complex, too deep, too painful or angry for me to figure it all out, much less write about it.  I fell silent here too.  Life still went on.  The kids did funny things, we celebrated birthdays and holidays. I laughed and took photos, traveled with my family and wrote funny blurbs on facebook, where my life looks shiny and mostly happy.

But here I have to get still.  I have to get quiet.  And here is where I find what is underneath all of that surface life.  And I have been trying to ignore it.

In the deep places, I don't find rest, or contentment, understanding or faith.  Right now, in the deep places, I find longing like a deep dark well.  I find anger so strong that it threatens like a wildfire to consume the rest of my life.  I find sadness like an endless grey sea and lack of faith.  These things disturb me and I don't understand them, so I don't visit the deep places for very long.

Thankfully there are those around me who help me walk through the deep places, help me talk about these things.  To help me be present in my life instead of wander through my life as a documentary journalist, taking photos of life around me and never being in the photos.

Now, family members and friends who like to worry about me/love me, this is not an invitation to fix me.  That's not your job.  Thanks for the love you give and I understand that you want me to not hurt or be angry, but no one can take that away.  It is only God who can heal us in the deep places and I am seriously considering letting Him.  I've held Him at arm's length for a long time about this place, dancing around faith and surrender like a child throwing a tantrum at the end of his mother's arm, taking back the steering wheel of the ambulance when I need to be in the back on life support.  Don't worry.  He's got me.  He is never going to let me go.  Even when I go to the deep places.

Weightless and Waiting

I am floating in space.
The earth is no longer
beneath my feet.
The gravity turned
off in my world and
I let loose
of everything that holds me there.
The sounds of
everything I know and love
grow distant
and distorted as through a tunnel or through the glass.
The things that cross my mind
are like mini-movies that play on the screen
of the back of my eyes.
The laughter sounds like it is imprisoned in a can.
All goes on without me or
with the ghost of me but no one seems to notice.
I feel your touch but as on a phantom limb, long amputated.
I smile.
I put on my best shoes and
I walk
from time
to time
and back
to time again,
but I am weightless and floating.
I am no longer here.

The Glorious Unfolding - and I don't mean the laundry

The summer days are ending and quite often (almost daily), in the heat of the day, we find ourselves once again on the playground after school trying to undo the wonderful, but kind of sedentary ways of long days at a desk for my 6 yr old.  Fairy houses and wild amounts of dirt and strangely cool August days that always tease of Autumn for a week or two and then go back to the swelter until Halloween. 

The children are getting bigger and we have, quite without my knowledge or realizing, have left the baby years behind.  Our decision to stop at three was a little sad, but understandable.  Forty is looming large and these babies have stressed my health and wellness to the limit.  I had hopes for more, perhaps an even four, but we agreed it was time for us to settle into what our family meant and concentrate on what we have, and who these little people are becoming. 

The up side of that is that our little guy, who is the age that each of our other children were unceremoniously usurped from the role of baby by a new baby, is gloriously 2 and I can see him, really see him, not pregnancy weary or sleep deprived or loving on a tiny new soft little one, while he has to become a "big boy".  My middle guy's 4 yr old brain is in full production, full of fantasy, adventure and instant backstory, no matter what we encounter.  He has ideas and plans and heaven help the fool who gets in his way.  I am reveling in his last year at home, setting aside my plans bigger for his and loving it.  My big girl is fully a school girl and it hurts less this time to see her love someone else as much as she loves us.  Letting kind and lovely people speak into her heart and mind are a painfully wonderful part of letting go of the before-school years home with me and watching her blossom.

And something grows in me too.  From time to time I can see farther ahead than my own two feet, where it seems my vision has been firmly planted for the last 6 years, watching the little ones around me grow, tending to their needs and struggling to just keep awake some days.  Things seem to be unfolding in my heart too.  We are leaving the survival mode! 

Bit by bit and day by day, I get my head up and we walk a little further afield.  I had a conversation with a friend that more than three kids, for me has been the Great Letting Go.  Before, I was keeping it together, getting it done, holding tight to each of the two children I had and then #3 came and I was out of hands.  And the little ones let go of mine like fledgling baby birds and flew, flopping and floundering and learning.  The things that didn't matter fell away and I found it easier to survey the mess that is my life and not judge myself too harshly, most of the time.  I still struggle.  I still see the mess and long for a tidy life, but that won't change overnight and I know it. 

In this mess is gratitude.  In this mess is new songs (I know!).  In this mess is art and making and realizing that taking time to do something and not focusing all of my being on the children next to me is not neglect (and the fact that I did that with my oldest probably contributed to the hard time she had transitioning from only to 1st, but I have forgiving myself for that too), but teaching.  They want my every moment, but my every moment is partly theirs and mostly mine to give if I can and to care for myself and ask for help if I can't.  It's kinda crazy.  It feels a bit remedial to just come to this conclusion, but that's OK too.  My journey is my own right?  And it is all unfolding. 

Let's hope that doesn't also apply to laundry mountain that I just finished folding downstairs.  AmIright?

Edited to add:
And then this came on the radio.  Have a little listen.

Subversive Stitching

This bit of embroidery was for a fellow MOMS Club board member's gift at our lovely end of year banquet.  It was fun to make and I think there will be more silly/subversive stitching coming your way.

A few quotes I'm hoping come up soon are
"If you are going to be a turd, go lay in the yard" - thanks to my friend Jaime for that
And
"You get what you get and you don't pitch a fit (at least at Mama's house)" because I say that all the time in the face of my complainers.

True here, but not true in life.

Really it should read: "You stand up for yourself and speak your needs.  Just not during dinner, please.  You take a "No Thank you bite" of everything on your plate and IF ASKED, you say, "I don't prefer it, but thank you".  Other than that, you may talk about the weather or something that happened to you today."

but I digress...

Here's the finished project.

I forgot to take photos of the finished back, but I used this lovely tutorial as a nice finish with brown felt. It came out so well! I am always surprised by the sharing community of crafty bloggers, helping others learn how to do things too.  It makes me so happy.

In the spirit of that, I made this pattern into a little pdf, image reversed and everything, so you can print it yourself and make your own wall hanging.
** DISCLAIMER** The border was a free pattern I found on the web by searching, but I can't seem to find the same link back to give credit to the little daisy stitch vintage border.  So I am not claiming it as mine, just assembled by me.  If you know who's border it is, please leave me a note in the comments and I will give credit where credit is due.

Click here for the free pdf

Also, if you make this, or are inspired by it to make something of your own, comment in the posts with a link to your project.  I'd love to see your work!

p.s. For reasons I haven't figured out yet, I noticed a sharp uptick in my traffic from France these last few months, so if you are here from over there, Bienvenue!

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Update!! I found where the little border came from.  It's a little pretty rose garland I found here and edited the center out.  Source of theirs unknown, but it seems very vintage.  Found here.

We Are All the Misfit Toys

This morning was rough.  A spat between Hubs and I left me going to church alone with our kids to work in the church nursery, to serve others when I wanted to sing songs and hear a good word.  I just threw my (newly purple and very unwashed) hair in a bun and put on clean clothes.  I held crying babies and shushed the loud play of my own kids whose voices echoed down the shiny hallways of the summer-empty school we use as a place to gather.  I was crabby.  I was tired from being up too late the night before, for the Independence Day fireworks.  I was looking for connection.

After packing up the nursery early (all the sobbing babies left early with their daddies) and heading to the auditorium hoping to hear one last song before the service ended, I walked in just as the Benediction finished and all of the clean and shiny folks in the auditorium turned to gather their stuff and go.  Disappointed again, I searched for friendly faces while my kids ran to grab a piece of the leftover flatbread that serves as The Body during communion.  Amidst the constant wrangling of the three children (currently ages 2, 4 and 6) I was able to grab snatches of conversation.  A phone number of a new friend.  A hug or three.  Between hugs and brief conversations I had to once again go rescue my youngest from sure disaster or give out one more admonition to my older ones to not be so wild.  I felt the pull of the work of motherhood on my heart and mind when what I wanted was the freedom to talk and connect.

And then I see sweet M across the room and go to hug her neck.  We talk briefly of music and our conversation dips into the shallower pools of life while I am barely able to make eye contact with her because of having to constantly track the two year old who seems determined to leave the building without me and run to the main road.  (at least that is my fear)  She is on the edge of a group of mixed younger people, all shades of dewy youthful skin, a beautiful diversity of hearts, minds, abilities, occupations, and gender.  I feel the tinge of green-eyed envy of their beautiful young lives creep in a bit as I once again remind my 4 yr old to not leap from the stage onto the drum set.  I say with a smile, "Are these The Singles?"
"Yes," M replies. "The island of misfit toys."
And I pause and with all I can muster to gather my scattered brain and speak clearly I say, "I think we all are misfit toys.  Just because I'm married and older doesn't mean I'm not lonely.  We all have our stuff to figure out."  I wish I had had my head on straight or didn't have to chase down my youngest little guy who once again was set to exit the building, because I wanted to say so much more.

I think this is the disease of humanity; to look on another and suppose that their life is somehow better than ours.  To compare our insides to their outsides and come up lacking.  To feel lonely and excluded because we aren't married and have a companion, or to feel lonely and excluded because we are married and don't have the freedom to run around and be social whenever we want.  To long for babies or to long for a break from the hard work of babies.  To see a group of women or men and suppose that they are all the best of friends and no one will ever truly know me.  That no one sees or cares how we are hurting.  That if they knew how we were hurting or the messiness of our lives, that they would turn their backs because it is too hard.  Too overwhelming.  Too much.  These are the lies that we buy into that keep us from pressing in and finding connection.  These are the false truths we wrap our hearts around as a consolation. 

And I still do it.  Even though I know better.  For example: I still choose to suppose that those awesome girls I work out with are all really best friends and I am the odd one out.  That so and so over there has the best marriage ever and they never fight so I must be defective somehow and I shouldn't call her because she will think I am too unhealthy of a human being to associate with.

And the truth is this:  We are all broken and beautiful.  We are all the misfit toys.  We are called into fellowship with one another and it might be messy and ugly.  So I hope today I can press in to true connection and be real and open and honest and broken with others.  To go deeper places in life with people who love Jesus and people who don't.  To follow the path that has been set before me, even if it doesn't look like the (seemingly much cooler) path that others are on.  To release the comparison and the envy and grow in grace and love for those around me.  And I hope you can too.  I'd like to do that with you.

Two - the third

Dear PIE,
I wrote in your journal, but not here, when your 2nd birthday came around.  I will date this on your birthday so it can be found, but today is July the 10th and you have been solidly in 2 for several months.  I think you are just getting better with every day.

You told me your first joke.  It involved poop.  You find funny words and voices to use in your ever expanding vocabulary and when you get us to laugh, in true baby of the family form, you use that joke often and well.  It's lovely.  You give the best smooches and hugs, say I love you without thinking, cradle my old Pépe bear in your arms wherever you go.  You play hard.  You stomp your foot and yell "NO!!" at the top of your tiny voice.  We have learned the hard way that to meet you head on is to meet with defeat and sobbing.  I take the back way and lead you where we need to go, and you go joyfully and willingly.

You and your brother wrestle in wild ways that make my heart thump, worried a head will get knocked or someone is going to fall off the bed or lose a tooth.  I've worried that you have knocked my own tooth loose, but when something does happen, you say in your little voice. "I SO sorry, Mama" (or Cora, or Papa, or Judah) and you mean it. 

You LOVE (I can't emphasize that enough) your Papa and some part of you has wormed into his heart even deeper that the other kids managed to get.  Maybe it is your stubbornness that won't let him go and he gives in and softens and takes the extra time.  And then gives the extra time to the rest of us too.  It's wonderful to watch.  You sing and make up songs, and when your favorite song comes on the kitchen radio, you RUN in and dance your heart out.  It's infectious.  As is your joy.  But look out if we should cross you.  I love you more with every passing day.  I am glad you were born, sweet boy.

Love always,
Mama

Four - the second

Dear sweet Judah,
    I wrote in your journal on your birthday, but not here.  I'm thinking back on your birthday and you today, far away from the snow that you loved so much this winter. 

Four years old has hit you like a ton of bricks.  I don't know what it is that brings with this age such strong feelings (and tears), both high and lown.  I noticed it with your sister in her 3rd year, but you seemed immune.  Glad to just be alive and as we used to say when you were a baby, you Ate Life!  Happy to just take it all in.  But hard things happen sometimes.  You got a new brother just the year before that took the focus off of you for awhile while we adjusted and recovered from not one, but two pregnancies, one that was rough, didn't last and made Mama and Papa very sad.  You had a scary experience in a pool where you got away from me and spent a few seconds alone under water and it hung over you for a long time.    Little fears crept in and for a little while squashed down your natural tenacity and vivaciousness.  You knew how you felt, but not how to say it, or say what it was you really needed.

Thankfully with much love and care and time, that seemed to pass and your old joy reappeared.  Papa and I understand what it is to be a middle child.  We both were once.  We know you need extra time and love to be seen and heard and we try to take that time where ever we can.  A snuggle here, a story there, a walk, a conversation, a shared chore (not your favorite, but you do it with me).  You hardly ever ask, just happy to be here and with us all, but we know you need it too.  The squeaky wheel may get the grease, but we know you need attention even if you don't complain.

You learned to ride a bike with all of your stubborn strength and will, in spite of it being too small for you now.  You were determined.  You fell lots of times, just like when you learned to walk, and I expected you to walk away, but you didn't.  You fought for it.  And you were rewarded with the thrill of racing on your bike down the sidewalk, victorious and fast.

You sing at the top of your lungs whenever the song hits you, no matter where we are.  I understand how that is. I do the same, just not at the top of my lungs any more.  Just ask my family how much the liked it.  (p.s. it bugged them, but I still love when you do it)  You long to play and instrument and can sing back any tune or song.  Like the theme music for Peter Pan and Captain Hook in the Disney movie.  You sing Peter's theme when you are happy and up to mischief.  It suits you so well.  Your jokes improve with every passing day and I love how you love to find things to be joyful about.  We joke that you are Emmet from the Lego movie who said, "I can be dark and brooding...Look guys a rainbow!!"

You are my go along to go along guy and generally play well with your older sister and  younger brother, intent on fun rather than having your ideas be the ones that are used.  You build legos like a maniac and love (yes still) anything with wheels or that flies.  You make your loud vrooms and screeches go along with it.  I love your gentle spirit, your love of justice, your kindness, your willingness to share or ask or think of others.  I love that you never quit, but just try again until it works for you, willing to be terrible at it until you succeed.  It makes my heart brim with love to see you push through your fear and swim or try because you trust me and want to try.  You are my fella and I love you with all my heart.

Love always,
Mama

Midnight at 7pm - Happy New Year!

We rang in the New Year with our little people tonight.  The children and I turned out all of the lights in the house and asked them to sit in the dark at the dining room table and wait for me.

I came in with lantern and they ooed and aaaahed at the light.  We poured sparkling grape juice and used the fancy glasses.  I talked about the New Year marking the end of one trip around the sun and and beginning of another trip around the sun.  The sun that God made.  And how it gives us light.  And how Jesus brings light into our world.  How He is the light of the world.  And then we made toasts to things we were thankful for; our fancy glasses ringing like bells as we "clinked". 

We toasted to marshmallows and race cars and joy to the whole entire world.  Judah said, "Yum, this is delicious toast!" and I didn't correct him.  It was too sweet.  We talked about how we could show light to others this new year.

And in the dark, with only the lantern to light our way, I took them upstairs to bed.  I spun the hands of my watch forward to midnight and in the bottom bunk of the children's bed, all huddled together, we counted down to midnight.  We said "Happy New Year!" in joyful whispers and I tucked them all in their beds and kissed their sweet cheeks.  At 7pm.  The small squabble over who got to blow out the lantern passed quickly and we said goodnight.

Happy New Year!  Here's to seeing the lovely in each moment of the coming year.

First Days - thoughts on her starting school

School started a few months ago.  I was silent on the subject.  She has a great time and loves it but I am a mess.  I miss her.  Often I get the dregs of her day, the crabby leftover attitude after a day of rule following.  She adores her teacher.  Adores the structure.  Adores having feedback on her behavior and knowing how she is doing at all times. (Am I in the green zone? Purple? Pink? Orange?)  She can work her way up the "behavior yardstick".  For her, it is heaven.  As long as she can stop talking to her neighbor.

Which for her might be pretty tough, seeing as the decibel level around here dropped significantly the moment I dropped her off.  In fact, it fell almost silent for a little while, except for the middle guy and his car noises.  No perpetual questions and conversation.  Nothing.  It was a little unnerving at first.

So pros and cons

Pros

- Getting up at 5:30 am is kinda my jam.  Everybody dressed, fed, ready, and OUT OF THE DOOR by 7:30?!  We get it done. Errands AND working out is done by 10am so the day is free to play, to read to my boys.  It is truly awesome. (The grumbly bear, aka Matt might disagree)

- The house is clean.  WHAT?!  Yes.  Well...mostly.  When my girl is home, it is like a bomb goes off.  She takes something from everywhere to make something amazing and it is truly a mess.  Also, it is too early for the boys to make a mess.   They start out more chill than she does and Judah can focus for hours on one box of legos.
- Music class.
- Art class.
- Meeting amazing new people who are passionate about teaching.
- Cora learning to read after so long being ready.
- She LOVES. IT.  Really.  I thought it would be a big shift for her, but she is crazy about school.

Cons

- She is gone almost all of her awake hours and someone else is her primary influence.   While this is OK (sorta) now since her teacher is great, what if she were not?

- Bedtime is strictly enforced.  For me too.  In bed by 7pm (them) or 10pm (me) or there is hell to pay.

- Saturdays now begin at 5:45 when the youngest gets up and is quickly followed by the rest of the gang who have been dragged from their beds before the dawn so often that they have forgotten how to sleep past 6:30 am.  This completely sucks.
- I get half of the story.  I am used to knowing about her life and now I get a half remembered thing that happened and often it is through her end of day filter and seems much worse than it is.
- Maybe it's a kindergarten thing, but they spend a lot of time learning how to be quiet.  I have spent a lot of time trying to help her find her voice, to know who she is and state her needs.  And now, it seems, that her needs must hush and wait while the grownups talk.  I know some of that is necessary, but I want to hear her thoughts and ideas too.
- Oh my word, the fundraisers.  And the deluge of papers and more papers.
- Her having to be in a classroom situation for the majority of the 7 hrs she is gone.  Not a lot of playtime there.

The jury is still out for me.  She is staying in public school (for now.  I always add, "for now"), but I am not sold on the idea.  I'm still not ready.  So for now, I can't WAIT for the next school break.

Six

Dear Cora,

Before too many more days pass.  Before I forget who you are right now, in this moment.  Before you grow one more millimeter taller, let me just say that you are pretty fabulous.

Six years is a short/long time and we have been up hill and down hill.  You have struggled to find your voice and struggled to feel good in your own skin with what seemed like an unending battle with eczema.  Now that seems to be winding down.  You started school.  You thrived on it.  You learned to read! (Your first book was "I am a Princess."  How fitting.

I met you at your school for lunch and marveled at how kids from all the classes called your name as you walked by. "Cora!  Hi, Cora!"  I looked at your Papa and said, "I think our girl is...popular."  So strange to think about considering how hard I had to work to pry you off of my leg for the first two years of your life.

You love to make art.  You came home from school on picture day as blue as a smurf, but oh how we love you anyway.  (and luckily the pictures were BEFORE art class)  You love to write notes and mail them to friends.  You find new things adventurous now!  You were recorded as a "voice actor" this week and you loved it.  Your brother was worried for you, but you were amazing and worked hard at it.

I will admit that I am still sad that you are gone so much of the day and I miss all the ways that you shine and sparkle when you learn new things.  I know how much you love to be there.  I love the way you care for others, especially Peter who looks up at you with his little brother eyes and loves, loves, loves you.  You have such a sweet way with him.

I love how you and Judah are pals.  Friends in adventures together.  I love how you encourage him and how together you are stronger.

I love your fashion sense.  I love how you love to be a little bit fancy, but still sensible of how hard you will play later.  You grow lovelier every day, in heart and mind and spirit. And for that I am so grateful.

Love,
Mama