The Light

I want to write about it but I don't.  And I wonder if a lot of people are feeling that way.  There are words - but not enough and maybe, not the right ones.  I want to hope but I struggle.

Maybe, it's just pen to paper, heart to heart that heals.  Maybe, it's voice.  It's listening.  Sharing.  Cleaving.

I could be wrong but it seems I've seen much more faith based commentary, postings, stories, this time around - how sad to have to say, 'this time around' - and I think it's because they were children- babies, really.  Tiny.

My kids were with their dad this weekend and when the two little ones came home, I hugged them both, hard and looked at them.  I looked long at my five year old.  My kindergartner.  At how small she is. I think of how she wouldn't have been able to grasp, really, the evil.  Honestly, I can see that she would fear, but confusion, too, would have clouded.  Looking at her, I pray that it was quick and that they didn't have time to process.  The cruelty or the pain.  And I have to believe that God somehow miraculously overrode the darkness in those moments.  And that's what I'm seeing out there in the conversation we do and don't want to end - a new hope-filled discussion on God's presence and the afterlife.  Because when it's babies, we need a heaven.  I have to believe this because otherwise, it's too much.  It is too much right now for those families.

When Verity touched my face this morning with her little hand, just that size for a short time longer, the tears came for those who won't feel or hold the little hand of their child, won't experience that child's remarkable child-like forgiveness and glee.  How will they celebrate Christmas?  How? How do they tell the kids left, anymore, that the good guys always win?  The siblings.  The twin.  How do the nightmares go away?  And the missing?  I have no idea.

We are best when we are loving children.  I think our parent sides are the best sides of us.  And when we can't protect our children  ....when the President spoke these words, and told us we all needed to help, my cynicism wanted to sneer,  no, I'm not trusting the village anymore because one person gets it wrong and this what you have.  But then the stories are there of those beautiful teachers who are martyrs and I know that children can bring out in us what is of God.  God is a father.  And a mother.  And I have to trust somehow that in the majority of us is that God given light.  And that it has more power than the darkness in one.

Could we be a multitude of light?  Are we sick yet of the dark?

This Christmas, let's bring back the light of the world.

When Life Becomes "Complicated"

I think, often, about how my two younger children have not, overall, received as much attention from me as the older two. It wouldn't be too hard to blame this on the idea that the more children there are, the less of mom there is to go around.  It's a valid argument.  Four children vying for attention instead of two, absolutely  requires more conscious effort and creativity.  It's true, also, that a brood of children have a tendency to somewhat entertain each other and yet, I know that they need individual attention.  I try to shoot for this.  I take them out alone, in their turn, when I can but not as much as I'd like.

Sometimes it makes me sad to think back to the days when the older two were younger, when it was just them.  I remember when True was in preschool and I only had Annika at home.  She and I had our little routine.  We read stories, worked puzzles, drew together. Further back than that, as a young mother, when it was only True, he and I spent endless quality time together.  Less stress and perhaps, more motherly enthusiasm meant that I dedicated hours to teaching him, playing with him and just being silly with him.  We used to sing in front of the mirror together, using hairbrushes as microphones.

I feel sad thinking about this because so much of that, the younger two have missed out on.  And when I really analyze it, although amount of children plays in, the fact is- life was simpler then.

Confession: I'm not merely distracted by four kids running in four directions.  I'm now way too easily distracted by technology. Blogging, Facebook, online school, texting.  None of this was in my life when the older two were younger.  And I might have been a better mom.

Sitting in the parking lot of True and Annika's school yesterday, waiting the fifteen minutes it takes for them to be delivered to me, Palin asleep, Verity chatted in my ear while I checked my email on my phone.  As if there might be anything that important.  But I opened A Holy Experience and read about the practice of relationship.  And it occurred to me that right now, I could spend that time with Verity.  So I did.  We played hangman. And not on my phone (though I was tempted).

This is a practice.  It's so easy to 'multi-task' to the point of losing sight of these brief moments when children are young. The now moments.  These moments when they want to be with us.  I don't want to look back and realize that this time has passed.  Will I remember any one email I opened up or anyone's status update on Facebook?  Probably not.  But the essence of time spent listening or playing with my kids- that I want to remember.  I need to practice ignoring the lure of phone notifications, these false demands, all that's far less important than just being.  Just being available and present when I'm with my children.  Practicing that which used to come easier.  Practicing because it no longer comes easy.  Practicing to get back to that place.

Source: wordcandy.me via Nicole on Pinterest

My job

Confession:  (This is a huge one)

I've been resenting my kids lately.  That's terrible, I know. God forgive me.  It's the truth.

I've been restless, irritable and discontent. Denying the fact, for weeks, that I want more time to myself, less mess in my life, less kid chaos, maybe even less time with them, entertaining the fantasy of putting the older two in school. So I could have more me time.

Yes, these thoughts would crop up and I would hush them, not even wanting to admit them to myself. And I would drudge through another day, not giving my children my best.

And then last night, as I lay in bed, this feeling of incredible and huge gratitude came over me.  Unparalleled gratitude for my children.  The reminder that they are gifts, pure and simple. And that I have been called to raise them, lovingly and to put in my best efforts.  And that right now, this is my job.  Because it is a job.  But it's a job I'm blessed to have.

And I was thinking, too, about how my life used to feel so much simpler.  A lot of things went into that but part of what's different is the amount of time spent on my writing.  Though I love it, though I know it, too, is God given, it also takes a lot out of me.

Laying in bed, I remembered how when the first two were young we had all day at home together, and so much got done around the house, as well as in them, in their own personal growth.  More than I feel they've been receiving from me lately.  More than the two little ones have maybe ever received.

And back then I wasn't blogging.  The internet ten years ago, also did not seem to consume me like it does now.  I hardly remember using the computer at that time.  Finally, I wasn't working on any writing project.

And life seemed nice.  So, I made the decision to, for a period, even if only for a few weeks, put all my writing on hold. I have a long life ahead of me and there will be plenty of time to pursue certain goals in the future but my children will not be the ages they are now for long.  And I want to pour more of me into them.  I want to stop holding back parts of me for me.  I want to have more time just to play with them, to work on chores while they work on workbooks.  I just want to find a bit more ease in the now that we are in.

 I know it looks like I haven't been blogging much anyway.  But that doesn't mean that my mind hasn't been on the blog.  There's a pressure I place on myself even when I don't actually make it here.  So I'm lifting that for now.  I'm going to try to recreate a bit of the old days.  Days when I was still in total awe of my children and days when I didn't want it all.  Days when I knew that I needn't strive and I understood that God had me right where He wanted me to.

Days that were less about me and more about them.



submitting at Weekend Reflections

Day 2 update and a confession

It feels a bit magical so far, Novel Writing Month.

It seems that God is for it and I am being beckoned in by Him.

My school approved this month off.  Brett's parents are in town this week and have had the kids.  And I'm even here for a brief moment because I went over the word count goal yesterday!  5 pages of a brand new story has unfolded and I'm excited to see what comes!

One confession here:  Although I'm enjoying all the writing time I'm also missing the children.  They've been spending the night away - all of them- and being only a writer and not a mom would be sad and lonely, I've discovered.

Annika

This is my Annika.  My second child.  The one I feared I would never have.  But that's another story.

She came and she is a joy.  Her Nana calls this one, her sunshine, an apt description.  To know her is to love her.  Really.  She can make most smile.  She makes me smile every day.  She amazes me, as they all do but in different ways.

There are times, I think she is the most like me.  This is flattering myself.  But she is the little actress, the artist, the reader, the learner.  Wow.  Superstar.

 And she has the most amazing heart.  She will work for hours making a book, illustrating it, writing it.  And then announce she wants to give it to 'someone with cancer'.  She plays cooking games online.  Games with soft yoga music in the background and slow directions which require patience and which have no seeming goal.  She'll happily create crepes with these games.  She learns cooking tips online and knows more about cooking than I do, even though she's only six!

She's always encouraging.  She writes letters to her friends telling them that they are 'kind'. She teaches and sings to her little sisters.  She is her older brother's biggest fan.   She tells me every day that I'm the best mommy in the world.

I want to be like Annika when I grow up.

 Submitting at The Creative Exchange Wordless Wednesday Sweet Shot Tuesday  and Communal Global On Your Heart Tuesdays

Megan

After all that weight of late, how bout' a bit of joy?

I love how God knows just what I need.  Laughter, lightness, love.  These, I received last night when my step-daughter came over.  How I adore that girl.

So far, I've spotlighted Verity and True.  I thought today, I'd spotlight my Megan.

She's been in my life since she was eleven.  Since I was twenty-one.  Now she is the age I was when I became her step-mother.  Wow.  That's crazy.  It's amazing that I've been privileged to see her grow from a child to an adult.

She has been a blessing in my life, teaching my young heart many lessons about pre-teens and teenagers.  I got my schooling early.  And now she has blossomed into an amazing young lady.

Megan has always been so good to me.  Never was I placed in the wicked step-mother category.  I played the role of another sort-of mother while she was growing up but it was really more like the role of aunt or even big sister because we're so close in age.

Today, she is my friend.

A friend who makes me cry with laughter, who lets me teach her, who warms my heart with her encouraging words and teaches me.

Yep, I love that girl.

God is good. He has given her to me and it is all gift.




communal global,

On Your Heart Tuesdays

Here

I am here but elsewhere.

It is Wednesday night but I will post tomorrow.  I am in a hotel room.  My wonderful husband read my last blog, the sentence about how I wanted oh, a weeks vacation and this is what he did.  Booked me a room.  A room of one's own, I have right now.  And it's almost nine o'clock and I am just now able to process any sort of coherent share-able thought.  This whole deal was last minute.  He told me and I packed and came.  And then sort-of freaked.  I brought every writing notebook I own and my drawing paper and my laptop and my homework (which I did first) and then I had somewhat of a silent neurasthenia.  I don't know what I was expecting.  Maybe a breakthrough, but not a breakdown.  I felt this maniacal idea bobbing over me that I had to heal.  Right now.  Today.  Get it all out.  It was going to be dramatic.  God was going to send me into tears and then lift me up with secrets of my future...or something like that.  I was also going to finish my novel.

Suffice it to say, none of that happened.  Really, I just tried to ignore the horrible aching of homesickness and rationalize my fear of leaving the room to go to the pool, while begging God to show me whatever it was He wanted me to see.  Finally, I gave up and listened to music and drew and I think I did hear a bit of what I was supposed to.  And then I called up my old roommate and talked through some of the craziness and it helped.

"...good communication is stimulating as black coffee...."-Anne Morrow Lindbergh

So here I am.  Here.  Wherever.  But here.  And I think the freak out was good.  Because I realized that, while maybe there's a part of me that's a contemplative, that craves this alone time, the bigger part of me is now so deeply tied to my husband and my children and my home and the routine.  Perhaps the creative is nourished better even when I'm allowed to slip away throughout the day to blog, or write in my notebook but with space and time galore I sink a little under it all.  Lindbergh also wrote, "Reeling a little from our intense absorption, we come back with relief to the small chores...as if they were lifelines to reality-as if we had indeed almost drowned in the sea of intellectual work and welcomed the firm ground of physical action under our feet."  Maybe I need the chores, the physicality to experience the soft touches of the deep.

I am seeing things I've never seen before.  I am still on the cusp but I don't necessarily have to dive head first into it all.  Maybe just to announce that I am healing is healing.  I can set aside the notions I've had of facing things head on.  God's got it covered.  It will be revealed in His timing....if it needs to be.

The Boy (Golden)

I enjoyed so much, yesterday, 'spotlighting' Verity, that I thought it would be nice to take the time to spotlight each of my children.

True is my one and only boy.  The oldest.  I love how God worked that out.  He was my first and only for three years.  Our 'golden boy'.  He still is.  We are so impressed by his heart.

He is all boy in the typical rowdy connotation. He seems to think our home is merely one more big bouncy house.  He jumps from tree to trampoline, throws dead bugs at me (ok, that only happened once but it was enough to be marked in my brain), and thinks the mattresses in our house are launching pads.

 But he also has such a servant's heart.  He has always possessed the ability to see a person's need.  This is my boy who does so much for his sisters even when I'm not looking.  He torments them, gladly, too, the way a brother is supposed to.  I will admit that there are moments he leaves me wringing my hands.  Not growing up with brothers myself, I have to often ask my dad and husband if True's behavior is 'normal'.  It is, they assure me.  Why, for instance does he insist on taking the mattresses off the bed to use as launching pads?  Why the pleasure in hearing the girls (including me) scream?  Why can't he eat without getting food 'on the ceiling' as my husband puts it?

This child, the one who inspired many a poem, many an essay, when I had the time for so much more of that, because he was my first child-love.  This is the boy who prays nightly for our unsaved friends by name (something he came up with), the boy who can't stand it when I'm hurting and sees right through me when I insist I'm not, the boy who makes breakfast for his sisters.

This is my son.

Linking up at SomeGirl's Website, Project Alicia and:

Ravishing

Perfect, pink, pretty.
Imperfect, purple (her true favorite color), pouty.

This, my third child, my second girl, stunning and serious soul.  She, the one who has most challenged me.  Daily, her charm astounds me.  Daily, she perplexes me.

To be a mother is to know this unconditional love, to love through imperfections, to see imperfections but still ravishing beauty.

This child was the one who had me at the keyboard, googling autism because she at first wouldn't smile, then wouldn't laugh.  She was late to walk.  She was not much for cuddling.

Today, we snuggle and she loves abundantly my heart as I do hers.  She laughs loudly at times but still rarely. She's just not as easily amused as the rest of us.  Watching Mr. Popper's Penguins she didn't understand why the audience would chortle when 'Nimrod' bumped into a wall.  "He's a cute penguin, Mommy," she said sadly.

This is my child who scares me to death when she talks of Heaven because she can't wait until she 'gets' to go there.  I tell her that this won't be for a very, very long time.

She is fearless in many ways too and at only four seems to have a faith I don't.

Imperfect?  We all are.  But she's perfect to me.


Submitting at Wonderland  and with Imperfect Prose