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...

Paper Plates.

Last spring, as summer stared at us wide in the face, bright and alert, screaming energy and lurking for attention, so did my newborn son.  Only a few weeks old and he would stay awake twelve hours a the day, no sleep to ensure, and his toddler sister never stopped -- not her full-blown personality or her eyelids.

A friend was over and I started for the cupboard and laughed, half apologizing, half throwing my hands in my air at this blessed predicament and said:  "We're in a season of paper plates. Sorry, that's all I got around here.  No time to unload the dishes, no time to eat real dinners, so I'm dishing up whatever I've got and throwing it on paper plates and calling it good.  There, I fed my family, and now I throw the plate away.  I've got to minimize anything around here that I can."

She laughed, smirking and shrugging, "Us too!  I told my husband last night that I'm doing paper plates through the summer.  Just taking them out, eating on the porch, and throwing them away.  Besides, it has to be somewhat cost efficient right -- not running the dishwasher all the time?!"  We laughed loud and shook our heads.

Commradery in season.

Life didn't slow down, and neither did our serving of paper plates.  We bought them in stacks and shared them relentlessly.  Our door kept opening and people kept eating, so paper plates did the job.  The minimalist; necessary.  Burgers fresh on the grill or simple salad, store-bought cookies or English Muffin breakfasts, paper plates it was.  Serve them, dine them, trash them.  Breakfast: done.  Lunch: done.  Dinner: done.  Snacks: done. Hospitality: done.

I don't know when I stopped using them, but somewhere near the rounding of fall, I must have thought dishwasher-requiring porcelain plates were back in style in my house.  Perhaps with comfort food or hot dishes, real plates seemed necessary.  But for months now, I've taken those antiqued white pretties out for every. single. meal.

Today the same friend left my house and I looked back around at the catastrophe of my house.  Puzzles askew, grapes spilled over, half-drunk coffees and waters left about.  Tonka trucks and drums and duplos and tambourines all littered the floor.  The kitchen still dolupped with breakfast dishes piled high; the dishwasher needing unloading. Chaos abound.

I rolled my eyes and smirked.  Predicament.  What a mess.

Yet:  What fun.  What friendship.  What time in the trenches with our littles.  What crazy dinners with our family "around" our table.  What tea parties on the kitchen floor.  What food cut and sliced and slopped and forked.  What people loved and hugged and hosted and homed in this home...

It's important to me to have a home that is... a home.  Where kids can run wild, where their hearts are free.  Where the indoors of life is trampolines, firetrucks, tutus and kazoos.  Where bellies are fed, and meals are eaten united.  Where people are welcomed and hosting happens.

Yet this life abundant -- in noise and toys and people and parties -- sometimes needs a little breath, a little filter, a little simplifier...

So, once again, in this spring-time season, I'll still be serving... with paper plates.

Start With Oatmeal.

It all began with oatmeal.  It was seven am and the kids were both up and stooled in the kitchen, Judah propped high in the green stool and Camilla contained on the purple and pink one.  And I turned around with watered oatmeal in my hand to nuke it warm and soft.  The coffee was brewing, the sun still not revealed, but the kids and I were roused awake with morning under full force.

Then wack! went the porcelain bowl, edge colliding with the corner of the wall-mounted microwave, white dish clapping against the ground with the bursting volcano of oatmeal spraying out of it all directions.

I stood blinking a minute, stunned in my now wet, dripping robe, surveying the damage: loose oatmeal and water splattered at every angle of cupboard and counter, the pantry door, the refrigerator, dishwasher, the whole of the kitchen.  Up and down, like a tsunami of steel oats and sticky water speckled and sloshed.

I could tell from Camilla's face, how I reacted mattered.  Because -- oh no, it was mommy this time who made the mess.  I got down with the thick roll of Bounty paper towel and started to mop up the deepest pools, rolling the remarks about "don't cry over spilled milk" over and over in my head.

Yet two hungry kids needed to be fed.  So before finishing, I swooped them up and settled - buckled - them into their high chairs.  Seated now.  Contained.  I pulled eggs out of the already-open microwave and sprinkled them into pieces on Judah's tray, then rearranged new oatmeal before Camilla.

Gathering a red bucket of vinegar water, I squeezed the rag between my fingers, removed my robe, and started crawling around the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, smelling of vinegar and brown sugar oatmeal and ham and eggs. Bare knees rubbing on wood, my hands scrubbed the soppy mess sliding down every corner.

Then, a thud! Clunk.

I peered around the island corner, bracing myself for whatever fell or broke...

But worse:  There was Judah, holding the edge of the tablecloth;  somehow The Little Destroyer pulled the whole thing over his way, with the entire contents of the table with it.  All. Over. The Floor.

Eggs.  Ham. Oatmeal. Flowers. Cards. Cheese. Valentines.  Everything.  A mornings worth of debris sprinkled about.  Add it to the rug stains.

I stood up in my mix-matched pajamas, knotted ponytail floppy atop my head.

To laugh or cry?  Blink or look?  Cringe or sigh?

I decided to scrap the rest of breakfast altogether.  Unbuckled the kids, grabbed a few of the biggest chunks off the floor, and turned to grab my phone to share with family what could only make their morning slightly comical at this point.

In the couple seconds of getting started a talk-text phone chat, I hear: "Mom!  Judah's going upstairs!"

The kid is so fast.  And I am not an absent parent.  I round the corner and my 10 month old son is atop the stairs, super proud and determined.  Destined.  And I know exactly where.

He loves the toilet.  Like a dog.  He could play it it and lick from it all day if I'd let him.

[I don't.]

So I take a second to tuck my phone away and dart upstairs.

He's already grabbed the toilet seat with wet fingers.  Yuck.   Nothing good can be growing in there.

But this little guy has a grab on that toilet seat like he's going for gold.  I loop one arm around his waste and lug him to my hip while my second hand goes to get his gnarled, clinging fingers off the nasty seat.

Breaking him free, I swing him around, swirl him on my hip toward the door, while, simultaneously, Camilla steps in the bathroom, thus slamming heads, colliding and bonking each other lending to streaming tears and screams in unison.

Someone start the day over.

And it's only 8 AM.

Happy Valentines, 2017.

Aprons In Heaven {Revised}.

Written for the Church At Charlotte 2017 Women's Ministry Devotional, Themed: Be Present

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Aprons In Heaven.

“After leaving them, he went up on a mountainside to pray.”  Mark 6:42

She would always wipe her hands on her apron, dusting off the day’s debris, and reach out with a two-arm hug.  Whatever had filled her hands before instantly ceased of importance the minute we walked in the door.  The iron would come unplugged.  The spatula would rest aside the bowl.  The phone would click back into its holder.  Whatever the task at hand, it wasn’t important.  We were.  She was always present for us; intentional and loving.  

When I think of being present, I think of my mom and her apron-living.  She was never without those colorful garments, yet though the work could have kept her constantly darting or endlessly preoccupied, she never wavered in the practice of being fully present with people.  I think of this present-ness with now with my own family, my friends, my neighbors, the women in the check out line and at the restaurant. I long to be someone who puts aside my agenda, and loves well because of it.  For being present, undistracted or unhurried, is to love.

When I think of being with Jesus, I’m embarrassed to think of my Bible on my lap, my phone full of texts I’m writing and reading, my to-do list open to scroll, and my availability to other people unhindered. Yet, when I think of Jesus being present with the Father, I think of the Scripture: “Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed”  (Luke 5:16).  Surely, he was in union with the Father all day, but even the Son of God needed to withdraw, undistracted, and be fully present with God.  He walked away from the crowds, from his friends, from his tasks, to be undivided with the Lord.  He was fully present in his trinitarian communion and love.  

He is our example, and this my call, to practice love by being fully present in His presence and others. And this is eternal my hope: that there are aprons in heaven, where myself, Jesus, loved ones, and my mom will all wipe away every tear and task to dwell in the very present love of the Father.