On Weeping Forward [Renewed].

I found this from my old, original blog...  And it struck me with new intention, as well as reflective imaging.

Intention, because during this hard season of home with consuming little ones, I am reminded and inspired by Sandy Lawson's words that prophesied: "Christina, God is tilling up the soil of you heart right now" [old blog, October 12, 2009].  And he was!

Oh, was I weeping forward!  God churned and yanked and uprooted, and then planted and watered and spurned Mark, Camilla, and Judah, and church and friendship and home from that harsh, blackened, cracking climate where I just kept couraging and strengthening and fighting for life and joy.

And now, just last week, I think of this blog as a reflection of my dear friend Sandy, who lost JD two years ago, and is weeping forward.  With college OT/NT classes each semester, 3 life groups, countless young women she mentors, two sons and daughter-in-laws, church commitments, and coffee dates, her life is a complete investment in the soil around her.  Surely, she is weeping in grief of JD as well has incredible, horrific, health upheaval herself (6 times cancer and auto-immune disease), yet she bravely forges her energy to weep forward, for the sake of Jesus Christ and the kingdom.  Oh, what beautiful love He induces with her seeds, what Oaks have grown from her watering!  Countless people like David Johnson & David Russell  (link to his sermon Christian Hospitality) and many others without title or fame, like me have been ministered too, homed, loved, served, hugged, and whispered prayers over before, during, and after their own season as well as her own, of Weeping Forward.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

SATURDAY, JANUARY 15, 2011

Weeping Forward.

I read this phrase in my Ruth study this week, and shared it with a friend who is going through a really painful season. It stirs thoughts, as one tries to grasp what that means, and what it looks like.

Weeping forward.

Action. Movement. Hurt. Hardship. Pain. Journey. Hope.

And then today, in my study, another phrase collaborated with it: sowing tears. It comes from Psalm 126, where the psalmist writes: "Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy" (v5). And again, it insinuates the same: in pain and loss and hardship and sorrow, in acknowledging all that is hurt and lost and mourned, there is still action. There is sowing.

The sowing is planting; it is moving forward. Knowing the harvest is still a season away. In this hard sport, not only do we weep, but we weep forward. Not only do we weep forward, but we sow seeds for the hope and life that is yet to come.

So, in this thought, today, if you are in a season of weeping, what are you also sowing? And, are you sowing and weeping forward? What kind of harvest do you expect to reap from that of which you sow? Seeds of goodness, love, joy, faithfulness, obedience? Or the folly of the contrary?

Or, if you are in a season of harvest, what bounty can you name and label and see, to gather now as a sign of His faithfulness during the toil of sowing? In the blessings, the abundance, does your joy acknowledge the goodness of the Lord? Are you sifting seeds from your harvest to plant when the time for sowing comes?

Dancing With Daddy [Repost}.

I was reading through my old blogs this morning and fell in love with a few during the time when Camilla was born.  This post below was a favorite, and one I still hope we esteem and aim for.

*This is the bummer of blogs instead of books, the good, old, well-said truths can get hidden and lost forever, instead of remembered, underlined, held, and cherished in print.

Dancing with Daddy.  Published Saturday, June 7, 2014

Dancing With Daddy.

We left as two, a couple, a pair.  Husband and wife in covenanted unity, a marraige.  We came home as three.  Baby released from womb into our hands, our hearts, our home.  That first night, after we tucked her snugly in her bassinet, we moved to our own music, knitted hands in the quiet, warmth pressed between us.  Beside the baby who made us three, I swayed, Dancing with Daddy.

My parents believed the greatest gift you could give your children was a happy marraige.  The older I became, the more I heard this phrase from their lips, and the more I believed it. 

Being married now, I think of all the ways my parents created a healthy framework as a role model of marraige for me.  I think of the tasks they danced through, the way they ran our home like smooth butter.  Dad brought in finances and cared for the outside, and mom tended to the inside, and souls of her home.  Their roles seemed clear and seemless, and left little room for squabble. So the life of our family ebbed and flowed, with peace and freedom and laughter at the table.  

I think through those days with smiles and ease, and have found them often at the forefront of how I perceive parenting and marraige and everything in-between.  I think their love and mostly their joy and each of the ways this was modeled to me.

My parents loved and enjoyed each other.  Oh did they enjoy each other!  I remember coming home from Sunday church, Dad cranking on the kitchen stereo, swinging mom around in crazy circles, all of us children laughing.  I hear their hoots and hollars on the boat in pure freedom and release on a Saturday, bursting through Lake Michigan waves.  I think of them as empty-nesters giggling about how much fun they had tasting free samples at Costco and weekending in Traverse City.  I picture them holding hands across the car and in the church pew, and riding jeeps Jamaica and Ferraris in Hawaii.  I hear my mom at the piano, dad singing "I am a Promise" and the roar of a Vet, convertible in the breeze. My mouth tweaks to her eye roll, his compliment of cookies -- two a time, four times a day.  From Wednesday movies to Saturday morning breakfasts, from newlywed to empty-nest they flourished everywhere in-between.

Home was a safe place, a happy place.  It was a place where anger was not heard, where sharp voices were void.  It was a place where encouragement was present, support was plentiful.  It was obvious to all: in this marraige, Love lived there.  Their marraige was like a dance.  A slow dance, like the wedding first, where others watch with wonder and awe and hope for the same.  A model of steps, a series of movements, a swirl of love and life all through the rhythm of their home. They divided tasks and flowed in and out without correction or chiding, without second thought or worry, each trusting the other with abounding purity and confidence.  They set a foundation, created a haven, a waltz of motion that provided rest for me.

Over the years I've listened to friends and family share about their parents' marriages.  I've heard their heart cries, bemoaned their hurts, softened to their words.  I've watched them ache for something better, wish for models, remember the wrongs.  I've heard them recount the falling-outs, or seen them live the lies.  I've heard wives belittle their husbands, husbands cower to their wives, and both ripple the effect to everyone around.  I've witnessed expectations turn to curt words, hugs turned aside, and marriages staccato like roommate arrangements.  These unions feel like legal arrangements, without security and softness, safety and shalom, for the parents, the heirs.  Some notice their strain, others simply live without bother.  But the affect on the children - their homes, their hearts, and their own bonds, is woven through the daily, unyielding.

I've seen this in my own home.  In my dearest friends' home.  We unveil our stories and noticed or ignore the interactions we repeat. We play the unsaid roles we saw them generate, and the hope or harm that that creates.  I've heard woes over vacations, fear over dating, and judgement over gender display. I've smiled to praise in public, hands holded, and hotels booked.  I've watched couples encourage dreams, support hobbies, and embrace relatives.  And I've heard children learn to live the joy, or seek shelter from shame.  Some hide the past, afraid of the sins or choices, or being found as the same.  Others long to encourage their heritage, foundation faithfully set, and mimic the marraige their parent's made.

Gliding there, next to my daughter, was fresh reminder of this gift.  This marraige vow.  This initial created covenant under God.  It is under this umbrella of marraige that a family begins, blooms and blossoms.  It is in this embrace of husband and wife that children see the world as safe, inviting, enjoyable.  It is in this union that they learn their model, perceive emotions, and imitate roles.  This on my heart, our limbs in embrace, my heart felt such peace at what I prayed we'd display.

May our children grow up seeing me hold Mark's hand.  May they know I still enjoy the safety of his embrace.  May they see me uplift him with my words and support him with my works.  May they see us laugh together, adventure together, and enjoy each other.  May they see us wink across the table, road trip for weekends,  embrace after work days, and dream toward vacations.  May they know we sparkle about dates, kiss in the kitchen, and whistle 'handsome' and 'beautiful' -- even when we are fifty, sixty, seventy...  

May our children know their mommy still grins and flutters because of their daddy.  May they know their daddy still names her Love, every day.  May they know they are loved, and see love, when their mommy is found, always, Dancing with Daddy.

Refreshers.

"Refreshers are rare finds in this narcissistic world."  ~ Beth Moore, Entrusted

Onesiphorus, Paul writes, was a refresher.  He would seek for Paul, earnestly scour cities and countryside looking for his friend, possibly finding him in a jail cell, entangled in chains, and yet he kept loving, kept accepting, kept giving, kept refreshing, his friend.  He didn't judge the stench of the body worn by weeks in a dungeon, or shake his head at the latest of Paul's rants for the gospel, or give up after days asking person after person along the streets of Rome to no avail.  No, he refreshed!

He could have complained about the journey.  He could have shown his dirty, bloody feet and sweaty robe.  He could have tossed critical remarks about the others he bumped into.   Or mention the annoying, unhelpful passer-byres he asked.  He could have talked about his tiredness, his lack of good sleep, or his bodily ailments.  He could have found a million ho-hum one-liners and paragraphs about the frustration of his life, or effort finding Paul, or the negativity infiltrating the church the culture...  But no, he refreshed!

He walked in to unabashedly hug his friend.  Both men thick with grime and hair and filth, they embraced like war-torn brothers, possibly crying in relief or laughing at the site of each other.  Then he ministered to the heart of Paul, not ashamed of any part of him.  

I imagine him laughing at stories of escape, or sharing tales of children.  I imagine him spreading the Good News of the gospel, and saying it with such joy and elation, that it would really feel like Good News!  I imagine him speaking in the Spirit, enlightened by holy refreshing, to move life and vigor into Pauls'.

Oh, how good it is to be in the fellowship of a refresher!  Oh how life-giving it is to walk into their home or feel their embrace!  Oh how true the Good News feels when they share it from their life and lips.

Dear Jesus, give your kingdom a new host of refreshers, and refresh the hearts of your saints.

~Context from II Timonthy 1:16-18

"Your love has given me great joy and encouragement, 

because you brother, have refreshed the hearts of saints."  

Philemon 1:7  (NIV84)

Side Reading: The Ministry of Refreshment  (Found this little sermon as I was looking up the scripture verse)

One Gate.

I have lots of ways everybody could do something better, could live someway better, could be somebody better.  Essentially, my finger waves and my mind spins and whirls with lists and tidbits and thoughts and measuring lines for their best life.  With this regard, the upmost importance is the sifting of their personality, economics, and home-life according to my manicured standards and perspective theology.

Ouch.

The other day, I was thinking about exactly all of this -- the completely divisive thoughts and appalling self-righteaous evaluation I created for measuring people and friends against my own opinion of a good person, or a godly person...

And God cut through and reminded me:

There's One Gate.

One gate into heaven.

And he doesn't ask what you served for breakfast or how your marriage looked or what choice of schooling you picked.  He doesn't ask how you spent your tithe or what your career was or how your kids behaved.

He asks if you know and love Jesus.

The One Way.  The only choice that matters.

Everything else can be debated, majors and minors.

But the same gate is for the criminal on the cross, the pre-schooled toddler, the laboring husband, the slow elderly driver.  He doesn't ask a series of questions, or go through a check list of behavior, or yank out the righteous-life list.

He says, "Do you love me?"

And if the answer is yes, he opens the gate.

The One.  Only.  Single.  Narrow, Open Gate.

One Gate.

Done.

Redeemed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

What a great relief!  And what a great equalizer!  Isn't that concept so freeing from our comparing and criticizing and competing?  Our dividing and graying and blackening and whitening?  One gate:  Jesus.  One Way In: Him.  For all, to whom the answer is, "Yes, Lord, it is you!"  One Gate.

Now Welcome Home, Dear One.

Circus Soliloquies Again...

This is starting to be less funny as the waring reveals exhaustion more than humor...

There was last-weeks doctor-vomit-poop incident I shared on Instagram...

And now today...

We were once again off to the doctor, the ENT this time, walking into the double coordidors.  Judah was not be held or hasseled, he was squirms and shrinks and independence.  So I set him down to show Camilla the button she could push for the elevator.  As she pushed it, the doors immediately slid open, to a wait-to-volt Judah, who instantly walked in and pushed the first button possible --

Of course, the Emergency Call button.

For real?!?!?

So I dart to grab him from the buttons while Camilla still has her hand pressing the "elevator up button" since its been a millisecond since starting this episode, but as I scamper to find what button turns off the emergency and wrangle Judah at the same time, the door starts to shut.

I start yelling at Camilla to come in, but she is startled and scared, so the door keeps shutting.  My foot swings to stop the sensors, but the creeping continues.  I yank Judah over my shoulder and puncture once again the "door open" button, as she's yelling for help and getting panicked behind the sealed silver.

They clinch open, and I swing her in.

Whew.

Then the elevator starts speaking to us, in alarming terms, signaling request for response to emergencies, since Judah hit the button.  Oh good grief, I'm talking to an elevator while tugging two little people and trying to avoid the firetrucks and ambulances showing up at the ENT.  Wouldn't that be a scene!?

I'm not sure if it went off first, or if we just got off the elevator and abandoned ship, but somehow we made it to the second floor without sirens, though the stares of those overhearing our escipade should have been filmed as the door opened and they could see us standing there, a wreck, and talking to the elevator doors...

Can I just add in the joy here of the doctors office "switching systems" and having to re-up every address, phone number, insurance, family medical history, etc. while I'm holding these two squirmy little people?  Oh thank you, technology, for this ease of morning.  Grrr...

We go back to the waiting room and the doctor is kind and straight forward:  surgery.  Again.  Round 3 for this little guy in 6 months, round 2 for his ears.  Now tubes plus adenoids.

Scheduled it for next week.

He leave us suckers for the littles, and we walk out the door to grab Camilla a haircut and get the necessities from Target.

Don't know why this didn't go better than I hoped, but the concept of licking a lollipop in Target seemed like a kid-restraining genius.  However, after the end of the 10 minute shopping excursion with panic and sweating, I was literally pushing the red cart with Camilla covered in shampoos and deodorants with Judah clamoring on my shoulders, lollipop stuck to every bit of his shirt, hands, me, and the cart handle.  Purple goop everywhere.  Sweet lady checking us out went and wet a million paper towels to at least clean him off enough to get home.

We ran to the Post Office (seriously, could that line be any longer and slower!?) and I called Mark's mom to schedule babysitting for Camilla for Judah's surgery.  At the end of my sanity and whits, she offered, pleaded, to take the kids...

About 15 minutes later, I dropped my "Special Deliveries" off at her door.  Praise Jesus.

Angry and spent, I drove the couple minutes home, grabbed my Target bags, and walked through the door for some much needed refreshment alone time...

When I looked up as I slipped my shoes off, bags still in hand, I noticed a 2 foot hole sawed out of the ceiling...

Oh that's right.  Shoot.  I'd forgot.

Leak in the house.  Coming from the roof.  Into the dining room, about 6 foot long, over the table.  Hector was coming to look at it while I was gone this morning.

Might as well just sign the check now.

Weeding and Planting. [Weeds & Seeds.]

I'm in a season of weeding and planting.  Weeding out what's growing around me, in me, and amongst me.  Pulling and yanking at these entangling roots, some even looking like dandelions, and then sowing deep what will harvest fruit eventually, prayerfully, down the road.  Both are hard work.  Toiling work, grueling work.  Which take so much of my heart, my soul depletes and Christ's rain has to sprinkle fresh to keep strength through the plucking and pruning and rooting.

The Bible has so much to say about weeds and seeds and soil and plants.  Jesus himself uses The Vine as an analogy, and multiple parables illustrate lessons through gardening allegories.  So much of life is cultivated through the concept of seasons and growth, life and death, harvest and famine.

Lately I've been dwelling on two ideals 1) what is weeded out, allows for deeper planting in, and 2) what is planted in, will harvest out.

I'll start with the first.  I've got a lot of weeds.  Some I've noticed for years and just let be, others have more recently poked up around me.  Some are harmful, thorny and pricking, others are camouflaged, or simply there.  Some offered beauty like wildflowers for a season, but now have crept past their purpose.  Some are choking out the good grass, and some can't be alleviated by me.  Those I can't cut back on my own, I pray the Lord prunes and try to figure out boundaries and let go.  Those I recognize, I have to do the work to pull out, yanking and straining, being stretched and clawed through.

I've only got so much soil, so much space limited by time and energy.  If weeds are crowding my life and heart, there simply isn't room for what could instead produce fruit and harvest righteousness.

So then I've got to step back, gather my spades and shovels, dust off my hands on my jeans, and reexamine the seeds.

"For whatever one sows, that will he also reap."  Galatians 6:7

What am I sowing?  Which, is possibly more recognized by: what is producing plants?

I recognize resentment, entangling and ensnaring as I partake in conversations; I feel it coil inside me, looping around joy and delight like jungle vines.  I sense envy flourish as I view some picturesque families on social media, or flip through grocery store racked magazines.  I feel it deteroet my self-image as comparison encircles me and chokes me.  I've either got to build my hedges so those seeds aren't planted, plant something in it space otherwise, or work to prune the trees around me so we all grow closer to the light.

I notice a critical spirit sprout from seeds tossed by other people, their words and own perspectives and conjectures swirling around me.  Things I don't want to listen to, don't want to be a part of, or a sense I don't want to see the world or people through.  Fencing these seeds from falling and footing in soil takes most of my energy these days.

What other seeds are planting, threatening, allowed to take root in the soil?  Nothing is happenstance, or simply pleasure or entertainment, either its growing healthy fruit or rotting the tree.  It either produces joy or criticism, uplifts or tears down, encourages or depresses, dilutes or nourishes.

Seeds are strewn all around.  Some in packages, others just floating in the wind.  The media, news, photography, conversations, books, music, and relationships all crowd for a spot in our minds and hearts and days.

I recognize the seeds I'm planting by the texture of my heart.  Some friendships bring such richness to my soul that my mouth overflows afterwards with thankfulness, with wisdom, with goodness.  Others lend me afterwards to speak more critically of my surroundings, of my people, of the institutions in my life.  My soul feels mucky and dirty, like thick mire after filthy television, or blown way-ward by song lyrics too sexual for personal display.  I could go on and on about seeds of news or TV or politics or facebook, or tea parties or dancing or inspiring biographies too.

Some seeds will never return void.

Isaiah writes, "It is the same with my Word.  I sent it out and it always produces fruit.  It will accomplish all I want it to, and it will prosper everywhere I send it"  (55:11).  The seeds of the gospel, the Kingdom, of planting scripture and hymns and spiritual hope is a promised investment, a towering oak tree or blossoming pear.

Jesus himself notes the difference between cracked, rocky, hardened soil, and thick, rich, soil which opens the heart to understanding, listening, and seeing him (Matthew 13).  Purposefully abiding with him and growing from his water, his light, his shade  (John 15). Then he preaches further that those who are his disciples "will recognized by their fruits"  (Matthew 7).

Not only will the marks of good soil be seen in service and attitude and daily living, but they will be heard from the lips. In Matthews, Jesus asserts: "What comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart"  and then Luke proclaims the truth again:  "For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of."   What an obvious marker of the condition of the soil!  Such a factual measuring line, to look at our language, our conversation, and immediately be able to assess what we are storing up, what seeds are growing, what plants are germinating.  Even if the mouth wills it self to speak otherwise, it cannot for the heart will eventually leak what is in the soil  (Matthew 13).

I want seeds that sprout life.  That bring beautify and newness and nourish those around me.  For today, for years from now, for generations, for eternity.  Which means, I've got to examine my weeds and seeds, and what is pollinating what I plant.

I'm constantly cutting back and then hemming in.  Pruning down, then hedging around.  Digging up, then toiling through. Germinating in, then watering on.

The promised hope is that the Gardener does not leave us our own to do this.  He embeds and lives in us through the power of his Holy Spirit, pruning and planting and producing what is then noted and shown as the fruits of the spirit:  love, joy peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control  (Galatians 5:22).  The outward signs of the inward soil.

Purposefully planting in scripture and solid truth cultivates the Holy Spirit within me to reap these fruits!  Intentionally gathering other believers who "spur one another on towards love and good deeds" also rains the grounds of life towards a bountiful and blessed harvest (Hebrews 10:24).

In this season of weeding and planting, uprooting and growing, whittling and aerating, may God give me the grace to release the weeds and seeds that yield little fruit, and cultivate instead a depth and richness to produce life for generations to come.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

"Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever one sows , that will he also reap.  For the one who sows to his own flesh will from the flesh reap corruption, but the one who sows to the Spirit will from the Spirit real eternal life.  And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up."  Galatians 6:7-9

"The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life, and the one who captures souls saves lives."  Proverbs 11:30

"You will recognize them by their fruits..."  Matthew 7:16 & 20

"What comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart..."  Matthew 15:18

"A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart.  For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of."  Luke 6:45

Parable of the Sower // Matthew 13
Parable of the Weeds // Matthew 13

Called To.

We all dressed up, frocks and frills, purses on hand, earrings in ear.  Invited to a tea party at another missionaries house, my roommates and I.  There were three of us - Michelle, Tiffany, and I, along with a few other single missionary teachers.  We were excited and fancy, dressed for what seemed like a little slice of femininity in the hustle and bustle of teaching and life in dirty Manila.

She welcomed us in with giggles and joy, like Fancy Nancy coming to life in a 60 year old body.  I'd never met her before, but was immediately embraced into her home like a grandchild at grandmas.

The front sitting room was strewn with randomness, my eyes trying to take in this masquerade.  Hot pink feather boas, purple and green ones too.  Mardi gras necklaces, of colors and circles, dancing across numerous hooks.  Wide-rimmed hats, floppy and regal, but cloche and boina ones too.  Pictures, colors, accessories flung and laid on every hat-rack and table, long white gloves and clip-on earrings arranged.  Oh what a marvel of art and eclectic decor garnished every aspect of this room!

She could almost shimmy with excitement, I could see it; one could feel it.  This missionary wife, come to life.  Our eyes were watching, child-like, taking in her joy on display.

"Oh, I'm so glad your here!"  She stood before us, now opening her life, explaining and gifting her story.

"You see, I don't feel called to the Philippines, I don't feel called to be a missionary.  I wouldn't choose to be here.  But, my husband was called to be a missionary, and he was called to the Philippines, and I was called to love my husband."

Our single-women minds paused on that but she moved on: "So, I had to figure out what to do here, and who I was and how that would work here.  Otherwise its long days and lonely hours.  So, I figured I loved books and children, so once a week I have a little story time for the neighborhood kids..."

I could see the kids tinkering down the bumpy, hard-dirt streets, frolicking among the wild dogs and hoots of "banana-qua", enthusiastically jostling as a group down to gather at her legs and this graying white lady bringing to life picture books, with every voice-inflection and pomp and circumstance possible.  The highlight of all of their days.

Then she continued, though I don't remember all the exact details, she rambled on as such: "I was the only sister amongst my brothers, and my mom had no sisters, and we had no daughters, and all my life I was the only female for so many things.  As I grew older, I missed enjoying all the girly things like dresses and heels and tea parties and frills.  When I moved here and had to figure out how to be me amongst all the dirt here.  So I decided to start having tea parties..."

I sat on the maroon, floral couch mesmerized, taking her story in.  Becoming part of literally hundreds of women who have passed through her house, touched and blessed with boas and darjeeling, literally feeling the cup of my soul fill to the brim.  To overflow.

She swung her hands around the room, "So, help yourself to whatever little trimmings you'd like, there's all different accessories to choose from, or just come as you are, and bring yourselves over to our tea table."

I glanced again over the elbow-length gloves and shiny gold broaches, but decided to stay in the comforts of normal wear.  Gathering adornments with friendship, we proceeded to follow her over to the adjoining enclave, once again nearly breathless with the beauty within.

Stacked white towers of tea cakes, cut in all shapes with rare-found-here cucumbers and fillings, petit fours dancing across floral china plates, lemon wedges mixed among sugar cubes, silver polished atop the white-lace tablecloth.  Oh, my mom would love this!  Heaven meeting earth in the most beautiful, extraordinary, tangible way!

Not one detail was overlooked, not one short-cut taken, not one pleasure withheld.

This woman had taken such pride in presenting us with her best, the best, that merriment jeweled the table.

It was a festivity in itself.  She pulled a little square book from under her plate and proceeded to pass it around, "This book is full of questions to enhance our conversations this morning.   I've had so many women here, from all over the globe, of all ages, and some know each other but most do not.  So I pass around this little book for each woman to choose a question, then we'll all use to know each other better later."

I remember then the charm of her thoughtfulness, the ease of placed-conversation putting my heart to rest.  Through the tea, the simple questions followed, but our answered unearthed glee or emotion or stories or wonder as the fruition of well-planned conversation unearthed a depth in us all, sharing in the years of toiling and blooming.  Years later, I still remember Michelle asking "What was the view from your bedroom window as a child?"  And how that small question unearthed so much of our home, our family, our quiet, our spaces, our plantings.

We sat for a couple of hours, feminine luxury and the comforts of home treasured within us like a rare gem. Quietly and loudly we swapped stories and experiences, questions and probings, giggles and tears. Sometimes homesick; sometimes heartsick.  Moreso released in the most beautiful, gratifying way: loved.

I remember little tastes of her pleasure, placed sweetly to serve.  I remember the tinkering of floral china cups, sugar and cream.  Dots of conversation, speckles of laughter.  But what I remember her doing most, was her flourishing, thriving, ministering, in what she was called to.

That statement has never left me: "My husband was called [here], and I was called to love my husband."  It strikes me with strength and vigor, with stillness and acceptance.  It is this truth which still speaks to me, years later.

She had sifted her purpose, accepted her place, both geographical and situational, and bloomed where planted.  Her methodology encourages and spurs me to grab gumption or boundaries or purpose, to find ways to weed out and plant in, making space and intention, for what I was called to do.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I love that my mom, in hearing this story upon my return, loved this so much she found out who the woman was through calling Faith Academy long-distance, asking around about the "tea lady" and wrote her a thank-you card, for loving her daughter so far away, in a way that she needed, and I needed too.  My mom loves tea; my mom loves me.  :)

Sing Your Crabbies Out.

"Judah," she directed strong and certain, "get your crabbies out!  Now, sing as loud as you can:  Jesus Loves me" she started the rhyme for him, screaming the words from her corner of the room.

We were at the doctor, once again, in that tiny little waiting room that feels like a jail cell, slowly destroying everything from the lab paper to the book pile, to magazine shards on the floor, then Little Man wacked his head against the swinging computer keyboard table, and screams exhaled.

I'd already tried twice to page the nurse to see if the doctor was on his way, including getting a handful of crackers from her to hold them over.  Then we troused ourselves down to the bathroom for a three-year-old potty with all of us in tow, still waiting and waiting.

Cabbies were amongst us all.  Crabby is what brought us here in the first place.  Too many crabbies.  Too long of crabbies.  Too much of crabbies.  Makes everybody crabby.

So Judah is crying, mommy is crazy, clutching teeth and straining for self-control, and Camilla is sitting in the corner plastic chair, directing the choir:

"Jesus Loves me.." she screams at the top of her windpipe, "Louder Judah!  Get your crabbies out, sing louder Judah!  Now, This I Know...!!"

Her purposeful pomp and circustamces echoed through our little room, shattering his crabbies.  This little three year old ball of crazy, was trying to help her little brother in the best way she knew how: using her own taught-methods of calming the crazy to help him.  It was embedded in her.  Bless her heart.

With Camilla, everything needs to be out of the box.  Every thought needs to be anazlyed, every idea scruptinzed, and every discipline measure re-worked to tweak her brain in such a way that its stimulated for positive, and corrals her intellect and energy elsewhere.

We've tried it all.  We've tried a zillion spankings and red buns.  We've tried time-outs, sitting in a chair (ha!), and taking away toys. We've tried tossing her in a pack-n-play, letting her scream behind the locked door, and sending her outside.  We've tried whatever anyone has suggested and then some.

Fail.

So here we are, swirling more categories in discipline methodologies, creating our own devices and speaking inwardly to whatever angst is insider her, to know, label, and gather it out of her.  Strength.

So a few weeks ago, I was ruminating on who I know of her, studying her like a microscope to a microorganism, dissecting every little piece of the parts of her, three years of twenty four hours a day study....  And thought of the best idea I knew how.  Two, actually.  One: to run her crabbies out of her by her running around my house, holding hands, jostling until the crabbies turned into giggles with our antics, or Two: Singing at the top of her lungs.  Taking all that is inside and getting it out.

Why do I know that method?  Because, she's me.

We have a sign in our house that says "This kitchen is made for dancing."  And it is.  It's the place where Judah goes to point upward with his finger, motioning relentlessly for the iphone4 to blare "Fight Song" or "Baby Boy" or "Church Bells Ringing" or "Peace On Earth" from its speakers, blasting the corridors as loud as it will go, with our legs all twirling and whirling, and my lungs growing hoarse from screaming out the words inside of me, energy released until we all end up expelled on the floor, limps strewn.

So I thought and thought and thought, and took this little two-year old who named her own crabbies at 30 months and said in screaming tears and fear: "How do I get my crabbies out!?  I want my crabbies out!! How do I get my crabbies out!?" I needed to help those scared, beckoning eyes and fearful soul...

Thus, now she stands in her purple room and screams, singing Sunday School Songs from the top of her lungs, with tears and crabbies streaming from every opening.  And I yell, "Louder!  Louder!" to get her to use all her energy and gusto to sing-scream her crabbies out, tormenting the angst additionally with jumping up and down...

And it works.

Almost always.

Because it turns silly, and gets her energy out, and turns the focus on the crazy of scream-singing.

So now, back to the doctor story.

This day in the doctor's office, this little three year old blossomed, as she had planted in her the knowledge and coping skill to teach and train her brother in what to her was "normal," seemingly rational response to crabbies:: to sing praise music to Jesus.  Scream it from the top of your lungs, from the depths of your insides, until all that was within you was released, and you were once gain at peace with yourself, and others, and in that, with Him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Mark and I have a label for noting growth/hope the kids.  We call them "Sprouts."  [I'll blog this whole backstory later].  But on this day at the doctor, my little three year old made what he called a "Shrub" -- sprouts growing into something bigger and greater; taking roots and making larger, visible wholes.  Signs that what I do at home, that what the gospel is, that what we teach our kids, matter.

So Many Words.

My sweet friend came over the phone line, myself either single or early married -- before kids -- and her voice was tender and kind, full of tact and peace.

"I only have so many words a day, and I'm saving them for Hannah."  ~  Bekah Wallace

The exactly order of words in the quote I don't remember, but it was pretty much that summation...  Only so many words to give, only so many words to take in, and they were reserved, carefully, thoughtfully, intentionally, for Hannah, her (probably) almost three year old at the time.

I took her words softly, like wisdom laid out in language.

I knew her well enough to receive them as they were meant: to be a polished line that guarded the space and boundaries around what was entrusted to her that day: her daughter, her Hannah.

She had the grace to use them with strength and tact, with confidence and peace, and to allow me, the outsider, to not ask for excuses or plead for more words, but to respect those lines drawn and feel the pleasuring of letting friendship go at a distance, in love and geography.

We had been dear, close friends for years.  But time and circumstances lead us apart.  Not in heart, but in ability to communicate.  Narrowed to phone calls meant lengthy ones endured, but the pressure cooker of time of that young, pre-school mama was treasured more than I knew.

Now, with a three and one year old of my own, her words drip such goodness, like sweet olive oil down David's forehead or soft streams trickle down wildflower lanes.  I didn't understand them then, I couldn't.  But I do now.

Oh, the wisdom and tact and confidence and peace, all mixed with grace, to give and receive those words!

Silence is a sacred space these days.  Words are frantic gusts, either treasured carefully in number and delivery, or billowing me over in exhalation and amount.  Like mini tornados leaving storms in the day, or specks of rainbows within the clouds.  Depending on the giver; I the receiver.

Today, I stay in silence.  Words quieted, thus my soul finding rest in this sacred space.  And I think of Bekah, and my own little people of many words  -- needing and sending -- and rethink of wisdom for the hedges around this life, in words.

Circus Soliloquies.

I guess its time I start an encore of soliloquies regarding life in my circus...  Apparently, summer has begun, or something, because they're starting to crowd together by the week now, and the stories have to be told somewhere, live somewhere, so someday we can all laugh, and I can relate to some mom who feels she's gone crazy, and he kids have too.  For real, people...  Wow...

~ ~ ~
** Note, surgery was originally scheduled for Friday, April 7.  But we ended up going to the doctor on Wednesday (can I mention we had 11 people sharing 1 bathroom then!?!?) and again Thursday for another ear infection, thus canceled surgery at 7pm Thursday night after talking to the surgeon at home....


Friday, April 14

Poor buddy, all drugged up and loopy.  They charioted him away on the big stretcher bed, trying to sing songs; little man turned in to a limp rag doll in his teddy bear and aqua gown, rolled down the hallway into the great unknown.

An hour and a half later, I started pacing, wearing down that waiting room floor.  Stretching tense muscles and worked up nerves.  We were cool, calm, collected the first ninety minutes, but now this was getting long.  Nurse comes to the receiving, I jump excitedly.  Nope, not for us.  I drop down defeated in my chair.  Put the timer on for the two-hour mark, I tell myself I'm allowed to ask then.

Two hours comes, tick-tock.  Trying to be chill, I walk to sweet, cheery Lolly at the font desk, "Can I get an update on my son Judah?"  She calls back, nope, still not even in recovery, still in surgery.  I report to Mark.  He says, they'll tell us if somethings wrong.  "No they won't!"  I say, "They go into medical panic mode and only tell us if he's getting ambulance to Levine.  They're not going to come and tell us that his blood is flying out or his breathing stopped or something!"

I start crying. Now worked up.  A lot.

Nurse comes.  The kid's okay.  Screaming.  But made it through.  They hand him to me in a pile of blankets and cords; I don't know which is what but they tell me to sit.  I cradle my buddy, both upset, he's shaking and freaking out, unaware of where he is or what is going on.

I see blood.  Smears of it across the blanket.  The nurse comes to my frantic concern.  He ripped his IV out.  Blood.  Tears.  Screams.  Maybe his?  Maybe mine?

Poor Buddy, Poor Mama Heart.

We get him home, hugging him crushingly in the backseat.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Monday.

Three days later.  Yes, three days later.

Kalea is over to play, Emily is chatting.  Camilla is in the water, Judah walks by.  We're all standing directly together, huddled on the little back patio.

He bumps into the plastic pool.

Plastic, flimsy, 1990s version of floppy patio pool.

Exactly.

There he goes.

Three days after casting, he falls head-first into the pool, cast and all.

Nope, not waterproof.

Nope, not supposed to get wet.

Yep, drenched.

I rap him, quickly panicked, and pick him up out of the surge of water now overflowing outward.  He's screaming.  I tell Emily haphazardly, shaking my head, "Can you watch the girls!?"

I'm in no rush at all, just shaking my head.  Of course my kid would fall into the pool and get his cast soaked three days after its on.  Of course I'm the mom that has to call the surgery center and ask about infection, re-casting, or what to do.  Of course it was just in surgery three days ago.

Never crossed my mind till a couple weeks later that he could have taken in water, that the screaming was probably from water in his nose, that he could have hit his head.  Nope, no thought to the head-first fall in a pool, just wanted the kid out of the water to save the cast.

For real, kiddo.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tuesday, April 25


Rough afternoon.  She already screamed so much she had been in her room before Ellie came, then came out, tried to regroup, and had found her self failing the time-out attempt on the stair steps and was locked back in her room.  Judah was clamoring at the backdoor to go outside, and sweet Ellie was just playing whimsical with her mommy, wondering what all the fuss of the other two was about, and why Camilla wasn't around to play.

We try to reset.  Outside.  Always go for outside, the winner.  Yep, get your shoes on.  Out the door.

The kids are wandering, playing.  Two tricycles out; one bike.  The toy lawnmower, a plastic rake.  The other neighbor comes over, and Taylor joins Ellie and Camilla in the what-not, while Judah continuously tots his little jeaned buns up the sidewalk, despite the numerous attempts to keep him contained on the driveway at home.

Kathryn, Brian, Melissa, and I all chatter about, watching our kids and catching up in between...

When we hear the click and clamor of the garage door start luring and churing itself toward close.

What!?  We all turn around, finding three little bodies standing near the stairs, stark and still, stuck in position, frozen in fear.

I throw my hands up, knowing, yep, of course this happening, of course at my house three littles get locked alone under the closed garage door.

I swing my foot under the door to prompt the sensor for stop.

Uhhhh.  Nothing.  It keeps cascading downward.

I grab the door itself, chugging heavily and purposefully to close.

It doesn't yield to my efforts or strength.

Screams start to steamroll now out of the garage.  What started as a solo, turned into a ensemble of squalling, freaked-out kids.

Screams might be a mild version to say what noises shrilled the air.

I think quickly and run through the front door of the house towards the back, garage door.

You would have thought someone was being murdered.  The exhaling shrieks that came from those three little bodies were enough to make horror movies blush.

I nailed the garage door button, opening it to safety.

Screeches continued.

Taylor screamed bloody-murder so intensely he was shaking, freaking out.  Judah was full-on freaked out with streams of tears pouring down his face.  And Camilla's fright came out in frantic running circles around the garage, squalls of noise releasing, and streaked face red from terror.

The garage door rose, light poured in.  The parents outside were laughing.

And so was I, shaking my head.  The circus continues, with stories to be told...