Speak the Truth [in Love].

It was her birthday, her special lunch, and yet she debated and waned when asked to choose a restaurant.  Her mother waited, letting the teenager pick her preference.  Yet the girl sighed indecisive, leaving them both hungry and grumpy, angst to make a choice.  Then her mother, in wisdom, spoke: "Speak the truth in love."  In quick, confident reply, the daughter named a restaurant and off to enjoy the day they went.

Speak the truth in love.  I hear this phrase and think: confrontation, conflict, conversations; big daunting episodes, tactful words spent hours composing, and mustered courage in the face of hard.  I picture it in the context of elders and pastors, or a friend boldly fearful to a friend, both in angst mixed with bravery, the outcome a paralyzed unknown.

But perhaps, sometimes, its much simpler than that.  Perhaps it is freeing in the smaller context, in the miniscle decisions and chatter of everyday.  Perhaps it is life-giving in those, for it releases forward motion, vision, commitment, confidence.  It takes out the wariness of indecision and lends to belief, fulfillment and action.

I think of it in the context of food.  How many times don't Mark and I wrestle with where to go for Saturday lunch?  Both afraid to make a decision, worried it may not be what the other desires, we simultaneously circle options as time ticks, until either we are frustrated or don't care where we go, and still end up unsure if the other is happy in the end.  Slightly ridiculous, right?  But what if one of us just spoke up and said, "I'd like Qudoba" and away we went, skipping the whole ordeal.  We'd both be much happier, the relationship would have no worry, and seriously, in the end, food is food, right?

Or think about friendships and all those little decisions that require a final answer, yet neither party commits to one in fear of being overbearing, too forward, a burden, or falsely selfish.  Like: coffee or tea? my place or yours?  Friday or Sunday? talk or play? pizza or burgers? Sometimes, what if instead of being fearful to ask for that cup of French Press coffee or swing kids at Freedom Park or eat lunch at Poppy's, we just spoke the truth of what we wanted, and perhaps in speaking that truth, it releases love.

We often fear to speak the truth in worry of being selfish.  In Christian subculture, the aversion to selfishness is Biblical, and humility is honored.  This is good, yet perhaps we've swung too far.  The pendulum lending instead to weak-minded, timid, and uncommitted.  But, remember oh Christ-followers, that "God did not give us a spirit of timidity but of power of love and of a sound mind." II Timothy 1:7

The contrast in Ephesians 4 shows the opposite, relating the ambiguous and indecisive to infants, helpless, needy, and weak.  It continues exposing such as "tossed back and forth by the waves, and blown here and there by every wind of teaching and by the cunning and craftiness of people..." (v14).  It concludes that without truth, without backbone, one is lent to "futility of the mind" and indulgence, and even can give the devil a foothold!

Now, rest assured, speaking the truth in love does not give allowance for bluntness, unfiltered wisdom, or sharp words.  For the rest of Ephesians 4 billows into a framework for what Paul signifies as signs of mature believers --   sanctified of slander, bitterness, and greed and bearing instead compassion, forgiveness, and the attitude of Christ.

Coming back to the small things  --  the daily practices of speaking truth in love.  Perhaps committing to these these little decisions, these mundane choices, these tiny preferences, not only free us in the moment but set us up to make the bigger commitments, the weightier decisions, the imperative  outcomes in the long run.

Music Box.

Twinkling and turning, spinning and sweet, the music box opens, she dances, it plays.  Purple and pink, with ribbons like kites, this box is a treasure, to touch or to hear.  Harmonies and melodies all snuggled inside, a mystery kept special for those inside.

A metaphor can catch what descriptions and words and graphics cannot, and within an instant, give light in prisms to everything words and thoughts and feelings couldn't describe.  And with its use, all becomes perfectly clear, that idea in a vision, with use of metaphor now captures and symbolize the context of the whole.  Like an epiphany, a lyrical breakthrough, a release to the known.

A music box with its sacred secrets, is this relationship, Camilla and I.  And so much of that, is what makes it special.  It's our secrets, our treasure, our intimate mixture of notes and sharps and flats that only she and I know.  The simile speaks so strongly, it makes me feel the sounds and whispers and sighs and screams, the moments of crescendo or chorusing symphony. There is something so intricate, so intimate, that it captures this quiet glory, this treasured mundane, this soft sparkle that fills up my days.

One other person may hold the box -- Mark, her daddy, my love.  He has the key, the shelf, the access, to see, to ask, to hear our sounds.  It's private contents revealed to him, a glimmer of his girls inside. With gentleness too, he cranks it, churning the music, giving courage and life to what's inside.  Even still, what he holds is only part of the whole, for really, only she and I know...

Others beg entry at times, in spaces.  We bare little music to public display, but personal eyes may gingerly peer, given moments in story, pictures, or hours of the day.  Yet careful, mindful, of protecting the music, I intentionally compose each note; for the best music is kept hidden, as only she and I know.

Like soft music or dancing diddles, we rainbow the air, we pause in the rest.  This little treasure, this music box, is a sacred gift from Heaven to us.

 "And Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

** My friend Amy and I had a beautiful conversation during engagement about marraige and hedges, and growing a secret garden in it.  This has flowered for me through the years as I grow borders and encase my marraige, my family, my home, with boundaries.  Like a secret garden, at times others can peer in, enjoy, and be part of the green spaces, but without the hedges and tall vines of protection, it gives way to weeds and thorns and strangers unwelcomed.  Growing these hedges gives love by boundaries, providing safety and romance and time in that space.  That's what the garden, what marraige, was meant for.   As this expands with Camilla and our home and family, the music box seems to capture the same concept, eclipsing protection and intimacy and joy and peace for the privacy and personhood of the people designed for this space, in concrete and illusive ways.

** Contrasting enough, even as writing these words, I started sharing our moments, our secret mundane... Then paused, re-read, re-wrote, and took out our secrets....  We know we danced like two old lovers, quiet but the hum of my voice on her chest; her leaned in, sweaty with burnt hands and tears, and I held in gentle and long-loving sway....  We know those conversations over turkey and avacado, the tickling things we say and do all day....  We know the silliness of swimming in shorts, and poking puddles in the rain....  We know the smell of morning coffee and the way to make a scrunchie face....  But these secrets, to her and I, they remain....  

Shepherding My Sheep.

"How do I shepherd that!?"  my friend remarked, referring her daughters' smiley confidence, whimsey, and fearless approach to life. This phrase nestled in me, sitting so perfectly in its context.  

I picture sheep: soft, fluffy, white.  Spotless and calm.  Slowly meandering the hillside.  Add lush green grasses and lightly streaming sunlight and the picturesque vision is set.  

Or recall Jesus in the artistic, Renaissance to modern portrayals, him holding and caressing the docile creatures.  The lamb are cuddled in his arms or submissive at his heels, peaceful smiles snuggling from their lips.  Gingerly tended, eloquently displayed, and all is at rest.

Yet the images of the ages are warped, skewed.  The role of the Shepherd downplayed and the behavior of sheep distorted.  The relationship between the shepherd and the sheep discrepant.

To shepherd does not mean to quiet; doesn't ask for serene.  It isn't a formula to mellow, a desire for docile, or a wish for waning sunsets over serene pastures.   Its instead an eclipse of endurance and energy, guidance and boundaries, closely held and loosely free.

A few months ago we watched an episode of Amazing Race where contestants had to corral sheep.  We laughed hysterically watching these crazy, running sheep darting here and there, and anywhere but near.  They frolicked and jumped, scattered and skittered, bounced and boinged in all directions like scurrying, startling kittens or fat men on po-go sticks.  It was hilarious, crazy, and eye-opening all at the same time.

As I watched those sheep, and as I chewed my lips about it hours later,  I thought about the artform and sermon portrayls of shepherding and the juxtaposition of that which I had now seen.  I thought about Christ, the Bible, shepherds and sheep.  I thought of Jesus, and his words and actions, depicting shepherding as a constant pursuit of sheep, always finding the scampered and tending to His flock.  

Then I thought about my Camilla-Bear, and my friends words:  "How do I shepherd that?!" and God's use of shepherding as a parable, a model, and a reference made so much more sense.  She's the boingy, frolicking, flitting, scampering sheep.  She's pep, pizzaz, vitality; surging curiosity and sparkling zeal.  She is zest and joy and this bounding lamb that loves life. Constant motion, always jostling for the next adventure, and protesting, steering clear of corrals or anything that might contain her energy.  

Shepherding this spunky little blue-eyed lamb looks differently than tranquil, artistic images.  Just as the Good Shepherd knows me, tends to me, and guides me, so I care for my little lamb.  I chase after her, guide her, and train her steps.  I give her boundaries but allow room to roam.  My role isn't to squash, to squander, to squelch, to scowl at her energy, but to set boundaries with room to roam.  It's to allow hamlets of safe pasture, with mountains to adventure, and waters to dip in.  It's to encourage her curiosity while setting borders; to keep guard for danger while herding forward.  It demands my attention, persistence, patience.  It requires courage, strength, and endurance.  Yet this is the joy, the calling, of Shepherding my Sheep.

"He tends his flock like a Shepherd.  He gathers the lambs in his arms 

and carries them close to his heart; he gently leads those that have young."  Isaiah 40:11

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Amazing Race Recap 

Amazing Race Episode Season 25; Episode 3 (start at 25 for the whole sheep segment, or at 31 to get a second viewing; it goes til almost the end of the episode)  -

Verses on Sheep from the Bible 

You're Not Done.

Stark gray chairs lined the building; all centered around the minimalist platform, hanging screens dark above.  He buttoned black, of course, and preached to the masses, each bending forward, hungry and curious with a listening ear.  Different words, phrases, churned within the chorus' of those sitting, peering, listening to this church, this pastor, this emerging.

Then, he made them stand.  Stand and be honored, revered; proudly risen.  The retired.  The grayed, the balding, the sun tanned, color-dying; each sixty-plus individual halted and honored before the crowd.  Ready to hear their pat-on-the-back from this young pastor, this blooming crowd.

But instead, his words called out like a chime, a command, a calling, a clear purpose, as he challenged the aged:  "You're not done!  We need you!"

The air felt stiff with surprised; his forward words catching many off guard.  They had stood to be acknowledge for a life of work, of values, of now-earned reward, but instead were challenged to press on, to persevere, to keep purposing forward.

He spoke about the needs; their gifts, their time, their purpose.  He begged them to continue, to offer themselves to the church, the orphan, the organizations.  

I sat there, roughly eight years ago, among them and burned inside.  Yes!  Yes!  Yes!  We need you!  I felt the strength of the burden burn within my soul, lists of needs piling one-by-one, all scrambled, unfiltered. The church needed them.  The schools needed them.  The urban kids needed them.  The young mothers needed them.  The tradesmen needed them.  The nursery homes needed them.  The squatter villages needed them.  We all needed them!

Retirement is portrayed in American society as golf carts and plane tickets and book clubs and fishing poles.  These are good things; very good.  And earned!  Very earned!

But that is not the whole story.  That is bubbles that fill the void.

Many look at retirement as a badge to be worn, a paycheck to be complete, a labor to be final.  It is a date, a marking line, a hurdle.  To some, sweetly dreamed of, like licking cool ice cream on a steamy, weary day.  To others, greatly feared, like blank black space, fiercely shouting emptiness and void.  Like Columbus and the ocean; the end of the map, the falling of the sea.

But perhaps there is a different worldview, a perspective not from society but from the Bible as a whole.  Perhaps there is a plan from Genesis to Revelation that says God wastes nothing, from beginning to end.  Like the newness of Genesis to the completeness of Revelation, everything has a purpose, a meaning, a reason, a season.  So too then, perhaps each life from infancy to mortality, God designed with something to offer, to steward, to grow from start to finish, beginning to end.

I've had the privilege of watching my grandparents grow old.  And when I say "grow old" it is with vagueness, for their years do not detract from their youthfulness, their purpose-ness, their fullness of days.  I've watched with take-for-granted eyes, learning eyes, with reverence eyes, with challenged eyes.  I've lived under their roof and taken notes from their days, grace from their table, and freshness from their spirit.  Silver lining shines more hopeful than silver hair.

I started noting their lives, gathering tid-bits and time slots like pearls on a string. As years rippled into years their days stood set-apart, a contrast to other grandparents I started to meet.  Their hours were filled, from dawn to dusk, with purpose and people, fulfillment in giving life and aid to the needs that they'd meet. In the years of nursery and Sunday School and grandchildren to oversee, they mixed in  disaster relief trips - kitchen duty and construction sites and week-long labor for the least of these.  To the elderly, they delivered meals and offered rides to church. With Marv, the giving continues, caring for refugees, babysitting at MOPS, tutoring at an elementary, and befriending the special needs through Friendship -- every week for 30 years!  At 84 and 86, respectively, they are still the warm home that opens when I travel, and their legacy, their years of "retirement", blooms with purpose and peace, a proud heritage for me.

These years after "work", after the books close, the children raised, the final hammer stroke, still billow with Biblical purpose, with bounty, with command to a life of calling.

There is a burden, a blessing, a benediction in retirement.  The reaping of decades of planting, seeds sewn in deliberation, now harvested anew.  Years of toil and labor crescendo with wisdom and skills and relationships, all set to bloom in fresh colors. This beautiful arrangement of purposed time, stewarded gifts, and fostered humanity lends to a fulfillment all creation calls out for. 

So enjoy grandchildren.  Sew a new quilt.  Play another round of 18.  But just remember, Philippians 1:6 -- "Being confident of this: that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."  

God is not done.  You are not done.  God is not done with you.

Take On The World.

War raging. Cancer child. School shooting. Celebrity Split.  Baby sick. Gunned toddler. Car crash. Lonely day...

The hurting is everywhere.  The pain endless.  The horrors or humblings often told.  From CNN to newsfeed posts.  Burdens.  Broken.  Broadcasted.

Twitter. Instagram. Blogs. Facebook. NewsTV. Gossip. Viral Fame.

Instantly share experience, instantly share empathy.  Horrifying shock to heartbreaking story.

I was talking with a friend last week, noting our tension with having or using or removing our Facebook account (I know, same story...)  But our conversation took an unusual turn.  We started talking less about our need for connection or use of viral community or perception of so-called "friends" - the usual banter that revolves around this media.  And moreso, noted how much heavy is shared...  There's a posting about a couple who lost a baby, or a child who has luekiemia.  About prayers for a strangers story, or a school child home with the flu...  Every burden is noted, every personal heartbreak now a social situation.

It reminded me of a conversation a couple months ago where a friend was reading a stranger's blog and had drawn up an entire conclusion as well as burden from holes and innuendoes that were written.  And, she had taken on the weight of it.  Worried, prayed, distressed, agnoized.  Over someone's life that was far removed and not intertwined with her own. Yet she had taken on the load of it to her core.

There is something to ponder here -- this sharing of emotion, personal turned public news, and the burdens that it heaves on life as created creatures.

As the Church existed under Bible times and until the last century, people knew only what was in their circles.  Only what they could do something about.  Now, with constant social media and twentyfour hour worldwide news, we stay up-to-date with humans and hardships multiple times removed from our daily life.  Surely as finite beings, we weren't made nor meant to take on all the world's hurt and hardships.

Colossians 3:13 and Ephesians 4:2 both implore "bear with each other..."  The epistles are full of passages, markings, and experiences of the First Church stepping in to help their fellows in need.  I have to pause and wonder what then, as finite beings, we were made for in this conversation of community as well as burden-sharing.  And I resolve that we can, and are called to, walk with those in our circle, in our sphere of impact, and then leave the majority of the weight of others to those who can carry their load too.

If we carry our own burdens but let no one walk with us, the weight of that cross is crushing.  If we try to compel ourselves carry everyone's burdens, the weight of that cross crushes us all too.  Perhaps instead, if we share the weight of our own community, they lighten our load and we lighten theirs in a way that spreads the weight healthily.  Sara Grove's has a song based on a Rwandan proverb, the chorus writes: "Every burden I have carried, Every joy -- its understood.  Life with you is half as hard, And twice as good."  Perhaps this is the picture of shared experience, shared joy, we are all looking for.  (wrote about this in previous blog: The Cot).

Perhaps instead of broadcast news, in lei of posting instant status', or in place of reading another filtered blog, we should refocus our needs and energies, our burdens and blessings in our own homes and human hearts around us.  Perhaps we would all feel a little less heavy, a little less guilty, a little less lonely, and a little more connected, a little more fulfilled, a little more loved, if our empathy, sympathy, and energy were cultivated and contained in a smaller community, within a circle we could help carry and care for.

Now I know enough to step back and note that there is a fine space between knowledge and emotion, between ignorance and apathy.  There's broad gray areas where cutting off all concern for people outside of your community is hardened, ignorant, and can be selfish.  But perhaps pausing to filter where and why we gather information can help lessen the fog.  For there is a space where information impacts innocence to bring important insight, but that can either instigate change and a call to community, or leave a trail of chosen ignorance or elusive grief. Herein lies the question to filter: is the purpose of inputting knowledge and gaining information to evoke justice, change, and community, or to burden, weigh, and rumor?

For, this noted, we should be attune to starvation, to orphans, to genocide, to widows.  We should support organizations and people who are on the ground floor to step into the lives of those hurting.  

But we cannot all do it. We cannot all lessen every burden, we cannot all tend to every sickness, we cannot all hear every horror, we cannot all mend every heartache.  We cannot all take on the world. 

Only He could do it.  Only He can take on the world.  Only He is strong enough to carry all the burdens.  Only He knows the empathy of each heart ache.  Only He is at the side of every hurting human.  Christ.  He is the Christ.  He is the suffering servant who knows the weight of glory and the cross and all human pain.  Only He can take on the world.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

** This is not to write or make statements against helping a broader world in need.  It is not an argument to turn a blind eye to widows or orphans, or genocides or starving.  It is not prose against media as a whole.  It is, instead, simply to start thinking and filtering how we manage our own emotions and abilities and measure the weight of what we are created to carry and Who is the ultimate carrier.

Fall. Change. Resistance. Me.

~~~  Just rambles to help me work through change  ~~~

I am not ready for fall.  I am not ready for trees in charisma of oranges or yellows.  I'm not ready for fireplaces or blankets or s'mores on the hearth.  I'm not ready for pumpkin lattes or sweatshirts or football.  I'm not ready for fall.

I'm not ready for change.

Fall for me is different, this year.  Fall to me is big changes, swirling changes.  Fall to me is letting go.  Letting go of summer.  Letting go of my baby as a baby.  Letting go of my home.  Letting go of the last that was established when I was a "me" rather than "we."

This fall, for me, is letting go.  But my heart isn't ready to release to change.

My baby will crawl this fall.  She is animated and energetic and alive and squirmy.  Her legs kicking against the air, her arms writhing agains the floor.  She's ready to go.  But mommy is not.

My home was mine, as a single.  The last piece of what I did, as me.  Financially.  The last bit of pride in my work, my money management, my stake in providing.  Moving means letting go completely of that.  Of being provided for without anything financial to show.

Moving means letting go of the last piece of when I was decorating for me, and only me.  Slowly that was chiseled, when I married, when Camilla came.  So what was my "perfectly decorated cottage-style" home, is now a mesh of whites and dark woods, painted chests and bronzed antiques.  Its partially me, but not fully.  And moving means decorating with us three in mind, not just me.  But finding a way to blend my cottage-style with Mark's style with babies running in the house...  And I've a brain block, heart block, and just can't seem to formulate a new me-style with a new us-house to create a beautiful, homey, welcoming, airy we-home.  Letting go.

Fall seems to take dreams and the fullness of life and put it under wraps and hibernate all the energy of summer.

Without teaching, without schools and kids buzzing and schedules formulating and bells ringing, that energy that could-be fall instead feels damp and heavy outside my home.

I like summer.  I like beaches.  I like water.  I like walks and flowers and green trees and the colors of white and yellow and green and pink bursting everywhere in and outside my windows.

But fall looms upon me.  Its changing tide unyielding to my resistence, my protest.

And change will come.  It does come.  And someday I will find myself in our new home, under a blanket, snuggled with my husband on our couch, drinking red wine or hot coffee or brewed tea, with our baby crawling at our feet.  And I'll be okay.  I'll be a home with my three.

Women's Work.

I think of them, all huddled in dirt-made houses, caves, and kingdoms.  Ancient ruins today but alive and bustling in B.C.  I think of them listening, hurting, hugging, nursing, and loving their little ones.  Trading shifts and jobs and arms and tasks as new little bundles come and grow throughout the years.  Generations of women doing generations of women's work.  Loving each other.  Being community.  Being there.  Being real.  Being alive and active and serving in eachother's lives.

I think of me, sitting alone at my computer, parking lot outside empty of cars and people, all void to home to keep up with the hustle.  Independent. Just me and google.  A phone.  A computer.  A car.  A network of women, all scattered away.

I think of them holding, wet nursing the newest little pudge of wrinkle, mama's cooing and on-looking, waiting to see and hold or snuggle.  I think of them, some resting in Red Tents, the struggle of womanhood amongst women.  I envision great-grandma watching toddlers chase quail while bigger kids hear the distant matriarch voices lingering beyond.

I think of my woman, most moved away from family, longing for mentors and friends and women.  Searching for women who help them, care for them, nurture them, mature them.  Pining for peers to be colleagues in motherhood and womanhood.  Scrambling to search engines and books for insight on babies.  Needing women.

We used to do this together.  We used to be women, with women, doing women's work.  We used to be in community, exchanging aged wisdom and raising our homes and babies together.

Titus 2 is speaks of older women teaching women about womanhood, about the home, about mothering.  I can't help but wonder how different those B.C. and early A.D. cultures are from our postmodern days.

Is there a holy longing back for this, or is it just me?  For mothers, mothering in the context of community, in the surrounding of generations.  For women together, doing women's work.

Words associated with young mothering -- lonely, anxious, exhausting -- would look so different in the context of years gone by.  Possibly even eliminated.  Could they even be replaced with the images of gathered women?  Women sharing the joy and burden of motherhood with the context of generations and divided tasks and physical presence?

Oh, surely, there is much to be woad.  I know that.  The romantic vision of it in my head probably needs the proper balance of the B.C. mothers wanting to shut out advice, shun a relative, or find silence during naptime instead of participate in the hub-bub around, but still...

I think something changes for women, for mothers, when this context has community.  When their life has a circle, a knitting of those committed and communing.

Perhaps it can be done.  Perhaps it just takes a few women, committing to a few women, and growing their women together.  Perhaps it's just putting feet to Titus 2.  Perhaps it's just holding babies and making meals and showing hospitality and stepping in, and being willing to be stepped in to.  Being women, with women.

~~~

I can't help but feel a deep, engrained longing for this beautiful community.  It draws such attention to what I had and what I left, back home with family.  Like the Barlow Lake Day my Smith Aunts grabbed Camilla from her carseat and held her all day, loving me in such a way...  Now that is holy longing.  And a blessed giving.

~~

And a little PS -- this blog is NOT about gender roles or women in the work place or men staying home.  Its about hearts and life and community, and me, right now.

Everything I Want To Ask Her.

Questions and wonderings flitter through my head all day long.  With everything I want to ask her. Like butterflies they escape, purposely set out from open hands, knowing they can only be released, abandoned.  Butterflies liberate, lost in the wind.  My questions sink and bury; no sense holding on to them.  But I can't help but feel the weight some days of everything I want to ask her.

This is only freckles of everything I want to ask her.  Everything I can't ask her.  Everything I'd cling to her to know.  Her voice would help me trust my own.  Her hug would feel like safe embrace.  Rest.  Oh to be a mother, Oh to wish for my mother, Oh to know the answers to everything I want to ask her....

I'd ask her about connecting; what made me, me.  I'd ask her about walking early. And crawling on my knee.

I’d ask her about clothes size, and independent play.  I’d ask her about books.  And The Word along the way.

I'd ask her about pregnancy and nursing in the day.  I'd ask her about in-laws. And Connie/Deb Tea Day.

I'd ask her about drool, and then avoiding dairy. I’d ask her about bottles.  And growing mama-wary.

I'd ask her about waking gas, and wide-alert-eyes.  I'd ask her about schedules.  And thoughts on Babywise.

I'd ask her about crying, and sleeping through the night.  I’d ask her about cereal.  And waking morning light.

I'd ask her about jar food, and baby feet that sweat.  I’d ask her about sunny days. And wearing SPF.  

I’d ask her about teaching, talking what we see.  I’d ask her about making meals.  And deciding to have three.

I'd ask her about mothering, her without one too.  I’d ask her about empty holes.  And mentors that she knew.

I'd ask her about travel here, tomorrow and today.  I'd ask her about hugging me.  And telling it’s okay.

I'd ask her about Littles, see those bright blue eyes.  I’d ask her about Wiggles.  But in heaven she resides.

Hold To Love.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Walk in with empty hands and willing heart and hold that little life she loves.  Nuzzle close that babies neck, swing from hip, or sing to ear.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  She'll squirm and duck and say it's okay.  She'll act embarrassed because she needs you.  Slide hands to pink; release that mama from feeling both.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Tell her the beauty of little red curls.  Delight in tiny baby-coos and night-bath splash.  Hear that two-step giggle and shine because you do.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.   Hand dinner in the doorway and strut that mama-sway.  Take that crying cacoon from wearied arms then swap stories for empathy.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Let her bent body bent drop that bundle in your arms.  Listen to that baby-gurgle.  Rock that tiny whimper. And encourage that mama while you do.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Wiggle those feet and kiss those cheeks.  Swaddle that baby in arms so that mama can eat.  Tell her stories with your eyes; tales with your tongue.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Hold her baby so she can hold her man. To shower all-clean and smell all-afresh and dress all-neat.  Feel beautiful and shinny and strutting in heels.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  She just needs a break.  She loves that flesh she bore, that wrinkled baby-skin. But learning still she is, to reinvent the self within.

How to love a newborn mama? Hold her baby.  Jostle the colic, the crying, the child.  On sidewalks, knolls, and parking lots.  Neighbor the night-talk and walk the long afternoon.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Swoosh in to shush that squalling baby. Let love wrap arms around, rhythmic bouncing against breast. Stroke feet, massage limbs, slide fingers through hair.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Nest that little one while she naps.  Coddle that silk-skin while she sleeps.  Allow her to be weak.  To rest, relax, rejuvenate.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Carry away that backseat bundle.  With swimsuits and shade and strong-willed hands.  Dot on hair-bows while rest in chairs. Side-step in circles; show you care.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Cradle til mama begs her back; remembering to miss her. Let her wish once more for fullness in arms, warmth on chest.

How to love a newborn mama?  Hold her baby.  Love what she loves.  She loves that little baby.  She loves every roll-thigh and chubby-chin and arm-dimple. And she loves that you love that baby too.

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.