the refrigerator

The outside of a person and the inside of a person are often very different things. I’m not talking about muscles and blood and body organs either. Inside of each human, there is a depth that makes them tick, gives them purpose, and defines who they are.

Refrigerators are backwards.

On the inside of a refrigerator, you will find the foods which sustain us, but which also go into the make-up of our external bodies – the foods which nourish us and those which add character to our hips, our waists – our outward frames.

In many homes, the outside of a refrigerator is rife with preschool drawings and family pictures. Our home isn’t much different in its capacity to show the inner workings of the mind – the medium is just different.

There is a chore calendar – laminated in hopefulness to allow a white board marker the freedom to cross off accomplished chores. It bears no marks.

There is an enormous magnetic band-aid perched above the memo pads for recording needed groceries (blank) and telephone numbers for callback purposes (also blank).

There are various free magnets from assorted solicitors by mail.

There is a bumper sticker, held down with an earth magnet, bearing the words Fat people are harder to kidnap.

And there is a new addition.

On Thanksgiving, at my sister’s house, the entire family enjoyed playing with the magnetic words they had on their refrigerator. This enjoyment was obvious enough that my mother gifted us with our own set for Christmas.

While our ponderings varied from silly to profound upon my sister’s cooling vessel, they have yet to gain such loft on our own.

From the freckled boy on Thanksgiving came these haunting words:

Speak the word slowly as though a whisper can be judged.

He is a bit amazed at all of the fuss those words received claiming not to truly understand them himself. I, on the other hand, have contemplated the heritage of assembling text that somehow speaks the inner workings of the soul while remaining only the messenger that carries them to the outside world.

But alas, perhaps our own refrigerator’s surface just as accurately captures the little idiosyncrasies that make us who we are.

The Drama King (9):

Pedal when drunk
and
crush the light

driving could be eternity


The Freckled One (12):

pound, stare, and love a puppy


The N Boy (17):

I as wet of a storm
smell beauty spring and
sausage heave


Spongebob (6):

TV’s purple finger
why love time


The Brat (old):

drool sweet juice there in the dream
music of honey spray


Da Man (older):

Stop leaving a smear


And a bonus anonymous entry (which may be attributed to the Instigator (14)):

Dress in shaking peaches
blood is behind shining pictures


I’m sure the Pink One will be contributing soon, but she has yet to learn how to sound out words. Once she does, I am betting we are all in trouble.

still kicking (and screaming)

I just wanted to let you all know that I am okay. Things have even gotten somewhat better in all of the unmentionable directions. I will certainly try to be back soon with more substance.

-the brat

bread pudding

There is a certain stillness that emanates from the not quite comfortable cushions of the visitor’s chair in a hospital room. It whispers of mortality and importance. It beckons deep thought while the outer crust of awareness seeks distraction. I find myself struggling to evade the level of openness necessary for baking bread. Given the complexity of the situation, my hesitation is understandable. It isn’t a matter of a mere can of worms – more in the order of an industrial sized vat.

There has been a lot of rawness this past week. Finding a balance between searching my soul and maintaining some privacy is no small feat. But bread must be made and ingredients must be measured.

Is it consolation or desolation to have a loved one hit rock bottom? That question still hangs, uncertain, in front of me. For you see, rock bottom is a catalyst for intervention, which is a motivating factor in upward motion. And that motion would be considered consolation…or should be. There is always the possibility that the loved will wish to hang out in the pit for awhile.

Could I be any more cryptic? It is doubtful. Perhaps I will find the words to be less mysterious soon. For now, I hold fast to the consolation that God hears my prayers, and He holds the fragile bits of me in his ever capable hands – much safer than being in my own.

rose colored glasses

So yesterday, shortly after making red kool-aid, I had to blow my nose. Ah, the pinkness! I don't know how to remedy this. I have tried putting a little water in the bottom of the container first to reduce airborn dust among other methods.

The question is, since I have a two paned window directly above the sink and kool-aid is made pretty regularly in the House of Brat, would it be reasonable to assume that I am looking at the world through rose colored glasses?

I hope so. I can use all the help I can get.

breaking the fast

sleeping with bread







airing the laundry

It is hard to start a post when you know you are going to fight yourself over hitting the ‘publish’ button.

I have been lauded in the past for being open and honest about trials and tribulations in my life. I have taken those praises like a guilt-slap. For you see, it is very hard for me to write or speak anything emotionally searing, open, or honest until sufficient time has passed to allow me some distance. I can be brutally real as long as I am talking about something that has, largely, already been neatly categorized, dealt with, and filed under “loss” or “depression” or “mistakes to learn from”.

In April of this year, I wrote a poem. It wasn’t a particularly good poem, but it was an honest expression of how I was feeling at the time. In a fit of bravado, I posted it to my blog. It stayed there for all of 1 ½ minutes before I took it down – too raw to risk.

I have posted many things about the loss of my son Caleb – deep and personal things, but I didn’t manage to work up the courage to write online (even among a group of women experiencing the same loss) until almost a year after his birth.

I think I had hoped that with a blog, I would have a canvas for those raw emotions. As a teen, I carried pen and paper with me everywhere I went in case the need to write encompassed me. Much of what made it to paper in those days was, quite honestly, horrendous, but the very act of releasing it onto the paper was a salve.

I don’t feel free to write like that anymore. There are too many people that could be impacted by it. The newest emotions are often jagged-edged. Their barbs stick into vulnerable bits of exposed flesh. They are the gut-reaction, pre-school tantrum, “Woe is me” cries of uncensored id. Yet, this very aversion to writing it out may be affecting that same vulnerable flesh in everything I say and do. Without release, those emotions tend to leech into the unrelated actions of day to day life.

the should principle

Some of them are little things which slowly build into seemingly enormous piles. Some of them are birthed from self-doubt and insecurity. Some of them are selfish desires unmet. Still others are legitimate reasons for irritation. All of them act as catalyst to churning emotion. I know for a fact that I should feel freedom simply by releasing these things to God in prayer. And largely, I do, but there is ingrained in my pores the need to physically release them too.

When I write of consolation and desolation, the desolation is always drawn from the deep well of emotional necessity. The consolation? Most frequently the high notes are tacked upon the end because my mind recognizes them as truth. Often, I have yet to develop the ability to “feel” that truth. It is an act of will to place them in front of my eyes as the goal, the joy, the ideal. It is true that this very act does help to refocus my vision, but I wonder. Am I holding onto a small seed of resentment when I choose to hold up the silver lining? Am I wishing that, somehow, someway, someone would simply notice the little desolations and scare them away so that consoling would not be necessary? Am I holding back a portion of each desolation in order to pull it out later for use as a weapon, a brooding point, or an excuse?

I have often said that I am trapped in Romans 7: 14-25.

14 For we know that the law is spiritual, but I am carnal, sold under sin. 15 For what I am doing, I do not understand. For what I will to do, that I do not practice; but what I hate, that I do. 16 If, then, I do what I will not to do, I agree with the law that it is good. 17 But now, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me. 18 For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh) nothing good dwells; for to will is present with me, but how to perform what is good I do not find. 19 For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice. 20 Now if I do what I will not to do, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells in me.

21 I find then a law, that evil is present with me, the one who wills to do good. 22 For I delight in the law of God according to the inward man. 23 But I see another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the law of sin which is in my members. 24 O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?

25 I thank God—through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, with the mind I myself serve the law of God, but with the flesh the law of sin.

I repeat verse 25- drilling it into my brain. I do thank…I do. But, I have so much trouble moving on to the first verse of Romans 8.

1 There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus, who do not walk according to the flesh, but according to the Spirit.

I believe it. I do. But I don’t usually feel it.

And today, as I continue reading Romans 8, I notice that it talks of being spiritually-minded, not spiritually-feelinged. It sparks a small hope in me. I guess, sometimes, I just wish acknowledging that would make the battle go away without me having to actually put any effort into it. How’s that for honesty? Like the grasshopper, I want all of the benefit and none of the work. I am sick of the work. I want to curl up and be cared for and coddled. I want to be without responsibility. I grow tired of being the one in charge – especially when viewing my shortcomings.

And perhaps the need to write it all out stems simply from my repeated attempts to fill a place in my heart (that will only tolerate perfection) with fallible humans - myself, my husband, my children, my family and friends. When will I rest in the knowledge that the spot is already filled with a perfection found only in God?

I set my mind to the goal.

I pray my feelings learn to follow.

that poem from april:

subdermal

trapped by the ankle
pulled forcefully into fissure
camouflaged by underbrush
as silent scream rings out and pierces
nothing

passing frames
seek only
what is directly in their line of sight,
or the limitless tasks
waiting to be prioritized
by their mind’s eye.

inaudible pleas,
beseeching eyes,
mere inches away -
grasping
for anything
to slow the slide.

solitude of thought.

-tle 4/14/07

collage

There are a bunch of couch cushions scattered randomly through at least three rooms of the house. Toys are strewn about haphazardly. Everything needs to be vacuumed, dusted, scrubbed or decontaminated. The “To Do” list would be a mile long if I could be bothered to make it. Through practice, I am getting better at looking around without seeing any of it.

Notebooks and textbooks balance precariously on the radiator cover. Whiteboard markers slowly lose moisture through the hairline gap which is the difference between full closure and…not. Two week old spelling words taunt from the sidelines, “Yo! Ya still remember how to spell us?”

An empty tissue box houses a naked Barbie and a Transformer. The ear thermometer takes up semi-permanent residence on the kitchen counter. The laundry and dishes are relatively contained at last.

In everything, give thanks.

the box on the shelf

When I was younger, I was always quite proud of the fact that I was not a very materialistic person, but like so many of my self-interpretations from years gone by, close inspection sometimes highlights unexpected details. I like my things – my TV, my computer, my moist-heat heating pad, my pillows and blankets, my music. I enjoy having an ability I didn’t have for most of my life (including many of the married years) – that ability to get what I feel like eating from the grocery store. I have become rather attached to some of the more material aspects of my life.

Julie from Using My Words (formerly The Ravin’ Picture Maven) says this about the Hump Day Hmmm Today: “I am so distressed for the people of California who've been affected by this fire. 1600 of them so far have lost their homes, lost everything. It's made me think about loss, what we value, and potential gain. Let's write about that. Imagine losing all your material possessions (except the few you can carry)... Or, tell us a story about some sort of loss. If you can inspire through hope, and tell us about something you gained from it, and real value, please definitely do that.”

A question that is sometimes thrown out for pondering among friends is this: “If your house was on fire and all of the people and animals were already out safely, what would you try to save?” As a child, I got to test this theory when the firemen arrived at our door one day. We lived in a town home, and one of our neighbors had a furnace which exploded. There was a fear that this explosion was going to set off a chain reaction, so the firemen were evacuating our entire court. I grabbed my favorite stuffed animal and my guinea pig as I chased the cat out the door. Weighing my answer today against my answer so many years ago, I guess I haven’t really changed that much. The first things I would reach for would be the irreplaceable things – the photos, the poetry, and one very special box. Ironically, that box already represents loss, and sacrificing it on top of the injury already sustained would be a sore trial indeed though the contents would seem too trivial to merit such a reaction – a few cards, a few pictures, a very small, satiny nightgown, and a simple knitted hat.

On Friday or Saturday, I will open that box. I will allow my fingers to touch the cloth and the cards, my eyes to scan the visible remnants; I will allow the tears to come. I am a bit hesitant to figuratively open that box today, so close to the anniversary of that day. There is a risk to opening the floodgates prematurely and allowing the associated emotion to wash over me. My suspicion is that the built-up melancholy on this particular year is enough to overwhelm me.

Ten years ago, on Sunday November 16, I went to church as I have on most Sundays in my married life. After church, I was worn out, antsy – perhaps the best way to describe that day is simply to excerpt some letters I wrote a few weeks later.

December 7, 1997 (two weeks 6 days)

Dearest Caleb-

In about three hours, it will mark three weeks since your father and I left for the hospital to find out you were gone. Just about an hour ago (that week), you were jumping around inside of me. When I came home from church, I was so tired. Nothing was unusual about that; I was tired every moment that I carried you. I went upstairs to take a nap at about 3 and had a lot of trouble sleeping soundly. When I finally woke up, around 4:00, I was in terrible pain. It felt a lot like labor with your oldest brother, except there was no break between the pains. I was worried. I told your father, “Either I am severely constipated or I am in labor.” He responded that I couldn’t be in labor. Oh, if we only knew how wrong he was. A few minutes later I looked down to notice that I was bleeding. That was when I really got scared. But my son, I never thought you would die before you were even born!

Going to the hospital, I tried to comfort myself by thinking of what they would probably do - administer drugs to stop the labor, observe us for some time, and send us home. I prayed that I would end up feeling stupid for going to the hospital when nothing was wrong.

The nurse strapped the monitor to me and immediately we heard a heartbeat, but she looked concerned and took my pulse. She then moved the monitor, stating that I was so upset that it was picking up my heartbeat instead of yours. No matter where she moved it, she kept coming up with my heartbeat. So, when they wheeled in the machine to do the sonogram, I was quite aware of the fact that there was no heartbeat in your chest - that you were just lying there, little fists clenched, motionless. I didn’t want to believe what I saw, so I didn’t let it sink in quite yet. Then, they told us what we saw. They explained the blood clot next to the placenta. They told us you were gone. Still, it wasn’t real. I didn’t think I would grieve until later. I do tend to be delayed reactionary.

I still had to deliver you. They would administer pitocin to try to induce active labor. You needed to come out of me. As long as I did not start hemorrhaging severely, that meant vaginal birth. In the state of shock I was in, I could deal with delivering you, or I could deal with the pain, but I could not deal with both! I didn’t just want an epidural, I wanted drugs! I did NOT want to think. I did not want to feel! I got the drugs - something called Stadol, which is in the Valium family, AND the epidural. But, nothing took the pain away. When the Stadol would first start working, I was okay - a bit oblivious to everything around me. But soon, it would begin to wear off, and my emotions would wake back up, and I couldn’t take the pain. I couldn’t take the pain of childbirth, knowing that I wouldn’t have you at the end of it. I am afraid I was quite a baby.

When the time came to push you out, I was screaming in anger at the world. I was screaming that it hurt so badly…that I didn’t want to push, to have the pain - that I just wanted you out of me! And then there you were. I had hoped, even through all of this, that somehow, miraculously, you would be alive, even after all we had seen with our own eyes. I remembered those times that Christ chose to bring people back from the grave. Even when I saw that you weren’t alive, a part of me hoped that when I touched your fingers, some of the life would come out of me and breathe into you the life that was so obviously absent. I wanted to make up for whatever it was that I did that took you from me. I could not stop feeling that I killed you.

You didn’t breathe. You didn’t suddenly come to life like the ending of a Disney movie. You were out of my reach forever. I kissed you and held you as tears wracked my body. I looked at your father and cried out “He’s dead! Our sweet baby is dead!” Even knowing you were gone, I could not let go of you. Oh how tempted I was to play the “what if” game. But I knew there was no healing in that. I knew nothing could come of it and I just had to face the fact that you were gone forever.

You were born one minute after midnight, so technically, the date on everything is the 17th of November, but to me, it will always be the 16th because on that day I knew you were gone.

I was so concerned about the wellness of everyone else - the nurses, your Mom Mom and Pop Pop, my mother. I had to let you go…they needed to do a D&C on me to remove the massive blood clots. They promised me I could see you again after if I so desired. Although they couldn’t knock me out to give birth to you, they could to remove the blood - and they did. I don’t remember how long it was - I don’t really remember getting to the operating room or to the recovery room after. I do remember seeing your father and eventually both of our mothers afterward. I do remember holding you again - kissing you again - trying to convince myself to let them put you in that bassinet and wheel you away forever. I do remember sitting, alone and awake in the middle of the night after everyone had gone home. I felt as though I could sleep if only they brought you to me. I could curl up with you in my arms and drift off into dreams. But, I refrained from asking for this - knowing somehow that to do this would be entering into a long path of denial. So instead, I flicked through channels on the TV as I stared off into space feeling emptier than I ever had in my life.

When I looked into a mirror, I was so swollen that I was not recognizable as myself. But beyond that, the eyes that stared back at me were not my own. Oh sweet Caleb, I couldn’t see ever getting past the loss that I felt that day!

Today, as I sat in church, I felt sort of numb and disconnected. Nothing feels like it means as much and yet every feeling seems so much more vivid and weighty. At most times, I am able to live life again. Something changed about a week ago that gave me the ability to move forward. Through all of this, I have felt the hand of our almighty Lord upon me, holding me together when I could not hold myself - letting me cry upon His shoulder when I needed it - drying my tears when the crying time was spent. But now, I can see moving onward. I am able to look at the future again without viewing it ONLY in regards to what stage we would have been in with you, had things been different.

I don’t really know where I go from here, my sweet child. I know only that I need to keep my eyes on God lest I shatter. I miss you.

Time passes, wounds heal, scars fade. But that box? It holds the only physical proof I have of my son’s life. I know with all of my being that losing everything we call our own would sear me deeply, but I also know that they are just things. I have lost more than things in my life, and God upheld me.

There is, in times of deep vulnerability, a spark which smolders, a spark so small that it can often only be seen in retrospect. The survival instinct, the fighting spirit instilled within us by our creator feeds on that spark and grows. Sometimes, the beauty of gratitude, of priorities, of community spirit is allowed to shine so brightly only because the many concealing layers of the extraneous have been peeled away.

Today, so close to the ten year anniversary of Caleb’s death, I am thankful for the friends I have made that would never have crossed my path had it not been for our mutual losses. My prayers are with any and all who experience heart-rending dispossession whether it be material or emotional. I hope that they are able to turn their eyes away from what isn’t and seek comfort in gratitude for what remains.

It may be trite, but there is some truth to the saying, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

leaves

I can remember autumn-soft days from years gone by when the crispness in the air sent vigor through my nerves. Me, walking amid the slant-altered light and pre-crisp leaves – fallen – while others still held tenuously affixed to the brighter than blue bulletin board of sky. I remember the sense of deep Creator knowledge that embodied my visible breaths.

These days, my autumn view is far more likely to consist of four walls and several whiteboards, spelling lists and solitaire, dirty laundry and red-exed calendar boxes. But, every so often, even in my urban setting, when I am rounding a bend in the road on my marching band participant retrieval route, the light and colors will tenderly awe me, and I remember what it is like to be whole.

random ponderings

There are definite disadvantages to being female when you live in an old house...


...especially at five in the morning when your bathrooms don't have heat.

Just sayin'.

And there you have it, the deep thoughts which took an entire month to brew.

Wasn't it worth the wait?

killing the yeast

sleeping with bread

Some days are better than others. Friday was an ‘other’.

Over the years, a parent develops a set of warning signs that misbehavior is afoot. Sometimes, out of sheer exhaustion (or laziness), the brain tunes out the warning signs in the interest of five more minutes of quality vegetable imitation. And sometimes the warning signs change.

I sent the youngest three upstairs to get ready for bed. The older kids were already in their rooms achieving lofty goals – or the next level on their games as the case may be - so I planned to let the littles play for a bit before venturing up the stairs. The darlings began playing together with soft giggles and periodic bursts of greater laughter.

There was none of that eerie quiet, you know the one – it signals imminent disaster.

There were no screams and yells or conspiratorial whispers.

No strange thumps resounded through the hallway.

In fact, there wasn’t a single warning until the DK (drama king) quietly came down the stairs in search of towels. I have to admit my curiosity was piqued enough to inspire rapid motion.

That forward momentum came to an abrupt halt upon reaching the top of the stairs. Approximately ½ inch of water covered the floor in much of the hallway and bathroom. Children, with suddenly guilt-ridden faces, grasped surgical gloves and baby wipe containers tightly to their chests. Spongebob played a marching song on a vacuum cleaner tube trumpet acquired from the base of the dyson by virtue of a screwdriver and thirty seconds of solitude.

Fragmented: existing or functioning as though broken into separate parts; disorganized; disunified.

It would be reasonable to say that ‘fragmented’ was an apt descriptor of the momma bear’s reaction. Like a super-sized grenade, the explosion sent shards of recrimination in search of soft flesh. Harsh words flew off the ends of each towel as it was whipped across the floor in attempted damage control. There is a rumor that the words, “I will sell your computers and beds on ebay if I have to buy a new vacuum!” exited the momma bear’s mouth.

The children, exhibiting conciliatory powers worthy of Nobel’s attention, picked shrapnel from their wounds without complaint while simultaneously uttering placating murmurs of apology.

Eventually, the mess was cleaned, the children were bedded, and the momma bear did her level best to disguise any evidence that the sun was indeed going down on her wrath.

The truth about strong-willed children is that the moment a discipline is meted out, the wheels begin turning in their brains, measuring the pain of the punishment against the joy of the misbehavior. If you look closely at their eyes, you can sometimes even catch a glimpse of the machinery at work.

The very next morning as the three were charged with the responsibility of cleaning their rooms, the DK came down the stairs and sadly stated, “They’re doing it again with the water.” Apparently his lack of complicity in the follow-up event activated his tattle-tale function. Apparently his machinery decided greater joy could be gotten from remaining the innocent party. Apparently the momma bear needed to see the destruction first hand in order to gain a little perspective.

Baby wipe containers, filled to overflowing with additional water, flanked the bathroom sink as Spongebob and the pink one engaged in a slap fight with water-filled surgical gloves – each slap disgorging the contents therein. Discipline ensued. Cleaning continued, and the momma bear went down the steps with a thoughtful countenance.

Just when did I start thinking I could do this parenting thing by myself? It is, perhaps, the most important job I have here on earth, and it is the one that I have decided can be trusted to my own fallible reasoning and fickle moods.

They are children. They are creative children. They need discipline and guidance, it is true, but my tendency, when taking the reins, is to react from the biased edge of reasoning. Some part of me occasionally feels the misbehavior as a personal insult, a statement of uncaring, and a judging finger pointing down on all of the ways that I have failed to be the perfect parent. That perceived judgment expands the cracks of insecurity until explosion results in fragmentation.

But I’m not in this alone.

For by him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together. –Colossians 1:16,17

The sooner I remember this, the better my parenting.

As I came down the stairs and related the story to the hubster, a smile played across my lips. How can you not appreciate the creativity that went into their escapades? How can you not tilt the angle of the lens just enough to realize that, hey, at least now the hallway is clean? How can you not remember that God has it all in His very capable hands, and, the act of wresting that control from Him to solo parent exhibits the same kind of defiance played out by those of smaller stature? When that knowledge hits home, how can you not then view your children through different, more compassionate and understanding eyes?

It’s that little glow of love and understanding interspersed with the discipline that makes all the difference in the world. It’s the supporting shoulder of God and the glory in His creation that refits the pieces, erases the seams, and makes that which was broken become whole.

200

It occurred to me, as I looked at the 199 next to the word ‘posts’, that I should probably write something special for number 200. The only problem with that logic is that I really don’t have anything special in me right now.

I could rant about already having to write an email to one of the instigator’s teachers, or I could tell the tale of the mysterious incident of the water in the hallway (which, by the way, is not in the least mysterious). I could tell a cute story about the littlest of the littles.

Instead, I will repost a poem that I posted before (now set to photography courtesy of the Oddmix) and marvel at the fact that one year of blogging passed me by some time ago, and I didn’t even notice.

fuzzy logic

There is a cardboard box in my kitchen. It isn’t an empty cereal box or the packaging to ravioli or canned fruit purchased in bulk. It has no kitchen-like function.

On Monday, I received a few relatively small books by way of the U.S. Postal Service. Of course, they arrived in a box five times larger than needed – the extra space consumed by brown packaging paper. Well, I guess that’s better than Styrofoam peanuts.

The box sits on the floor of my small kitchen. It is empty except for two small “bouncy balls” and a piece of junk mail. The lid flaps are rather unwieldy and will not stay flattened because it is a sturdy box.

Tell me, please, why this box remains in my kitchen when I trip over it every single time I walk through the room.

Maybe I should blame it on the Harvest Moon.

know your ingredients

There is a commercial currently running on the television for a label maker. A group of children sits around a table as a cake is carried in. It is mouth-watering in appearance. A slice is placed before each guest as excited mutterings flow over the scene. Forks are raised to mouths when, suddenly, foul expressions cross the faces of the guests. ‘Spit takes’ abound. Cut to the kitchen and the label maker: labels are applied to two identical containers of white crystalline matter – ‘sugar’ and ‘salt.’

As I bake bread today, I examine the labels on my own ingredients, hopefully working toward recognition of the gratitude within.

The Great Commission, a tenet of many Christian religions, is not one that I have been overwhelmingly good at putting into action. My incredible introversion is certainly a factor in this, but there is more. As one who has been hurt in the past by organized religion, as one who recognizes how the world at large views hypocrisy in the church, as one who respects the beliefs of others (even in disagreement with my own), as one who quite clearly sees the stumbling block of hypocrisy between beliefs and action in her own life, speaking out to others has never come easily to me – even when there is certain knowledge that it would be helpful.

I never seem to be able to get past the fact that I cannot speak out without shining the flashlight on my own weaknesses. Theoretically, I know that we all have weaknesses, but I am always made more acutely aware of how my own personal weaknesses could end up causing harm where I mean to apply balm.

It hurts me, so many times, to see people recoil from the love of God because we, the church, manifest our beliefs in harshness, judgment, and “shalt nots” while the penetrating, aching love of God for His creation goes unfelt by those in the greatest need. I’ve always compared it to Wheel of Fortune. When watching the show, as soon as the puzzle solution occurs to me, I am suddenly unable to see how anyone else could NOT see the answer. It seems so incredibly obvious to me, but, mere moments before, I was just as clueless. Christianity can be like that. When a person suddenly sees, they sometimes forget what it felt like to be blind. That can come across to others as condescension – perhaps because it often is. This is not a true representation of God. He does not look down His nose at us with a smug and superior tone lacing His words. But how do we, how do I - as an imperfect creature – convey the true nature of God’s perfection through this broken vessel?

Paralysis.

I will never be perfect while I am alive.

My heart bleeds for people in pain, but my own weaknesses hold my sympathies in check.

With a grateful heart, in church one Sunday morning, I felt a prompting to start blogging. Through the written word, I am better able to capture my heart-voice without the wall of self-doubt. Less stifled by my inability to speak in confidence of this Great Love through my insecurity, perhaps a clearer picture would come through of that love. Perhaps my tongue could be unloosed.

And my heart has spilled forth through the keyboard. Frail though my words might be, they have flowed more freely here. The introspective mirror can reflect my weaknesses and God’s strengths with greater abandon when I am not bound by the ties of proximity and all of its associated fears.

But, I know how real each person is, even if my only contact with them is through black text on white page. I know the blood that courses through their veins, and the hurts that have piled on their backs to create tender spots which flare when touched by the slightest misfortune in turn of phrase. I know that the power to inflict unintentional hurt on another is not limited to those with whom we have physical contact. And so, after brief stints of posting more regularly and slight increases in readership, I find my insecurities feeding and growing. Fear of failure begets failure as I sabotage myself through silence. The nerves are severed as my fingers are temporarily paralyzed mere centimeters from the keyboard.

Truly, there are many valid excuses for my silences. I never manage to accomplish the things I should do in a day, and allowing myself to spend the time to compose and comment induces great guilt. The guilt joins the mounting pile of recriminating evidence against me, and my confidence wanes even further.

But, but, but, there is a seed of gratitude buried deep. Because, you see, somehow I keep coming back. My words are not gospel. My path is not blameless. My motives are not always selfless. My love is not always pure and unconditional, but I do care. I do love. I do break inside over the suffering of others, and deep down, I am so very grateful for that. I would not want to have a heart of stone.

"Woe to me!" I cried. "I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the LORD Almighty."

Then one of the seraphs flew to me with a live coal in his hand, which he had taken with tongs from the altar. With it he touched my mouth and said, "See, this has touched your lips; your guilt is taken away and your sin atoned for."

Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, "Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?"

And I said, "Here am I. Send me!"

-Isaiah 6:5-8 TNIV


God, Help me remember my guilt is taken away. Help me be willing. Help me not to cause pain through my flaws. Help me to remember my gratitude. Help me remember that, in order to love others better, I need to grasp hold of the fact that I am lovable in your eyes.

always saying sorry

So, obviously I have been absent yet again. I can pin it off on being busy, because I have been, but there is more to it than that. On Monday, I wrote the first paragraph of a Sleeping with Bread post after which I promptly fell asleep. On Tuesday I opened it up, started the second paragraph, deleted it then gave up entirely when the husband came home from his meeting. On Wednesday, I had an hour of free time in which I read a few blogs and nodded off in front of the computer yet again. Yesterday we had Back to School night at the instigator’s school – a first for this homeschooling family. It didn’t start off well with both his homeroom and first period teachers being absent. I have to say, though, that I quite liked the rest of his teachers. I think we may have made the right decision. But on to the “more than that.”

I can open a blank document with a mind full of ideas on what to write. I can slip into the comment sections of my favorite blogs, but when faced with a blinking curser, I am suddenly made small. Ironically, this most frequently occurs when my thoughts are at their deepest. It seems that my insecurity level and the depth of my thoughts are directly proportional. Perhaps this is why a friend gifted me with the poem “Please Hear What I’m Not Saying” when I was a teen.

I am feeling deeply. I am reacting strongly to what I read. I am wanting to reach out, yet, like Helen Keller in her pre-sign language days, I am struck mute. This is a regular cycle with me, so I have gotten rather good at apologizing for my disappearances through the years.

Today, I make no promises that I will get better at saying what I am not saying, but I do commit to at least trying to say something through the fog.

And that bread? Maybe it’s meant to be a sourdough…

the art of blogging dangerously

“It will be a grand scale comedy!” the inner voice pitched as I attempted, in vain, to concentrate on Good Eats. “People will bow at your door in utter amazement of your comedic stylings.”

“But, I’m not funny,” I replied. “Besides, one has to actually have subject matter in order to attempt a Hump Day Hmmm of the lighthearted variety.”

“Let me just set up the scene. C’mon, what harm could it do? There’s this kid, see, and he keeps forgetting to call his mother between school and band practice…”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a comedy to me.”

“Well that’s where the snake, the buffalo, and the band of singing hamsters come into it.”

“Will you just leave me alone?” I muttered as I trundled off to check my e-mail.

Oh look, my long lost friend, Hank, has some performance enhancing tips for me! I’d better put the kids back in bed. One would think it would eventually sink in that I am going to KEEP putting them back in no matter how many times they climb out.

shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, clomp, clomp, clomp (steps, you see)

“Pssst. Pssst. Hey, look here. If you aren’t going for that idea, how about this one: There’s this mom, see, and she’s trying to figure out how to make her kids stay in bed. So she goes out and gets a mule, two geese, and a bucket of spiders…”

“Just go away, won’t you?”

shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, ow (sooner or later I will STOP banging my shoulder on that door frame)

A little blog reading, that’s what I need. I will NOT go to Julie’s site to be reminded of the assignment. I will not, I will not, I will not. Oh look, Julie has a new post….

I might as well just go to bed.

shuffle, shuffle, shuffle

Mmmmm pillows, soft blankets.

“Pssst. Pssst. Hey, listen, it’s obvious you have taste. No mere trifle is going to satisfy you. Just your luck, I’ve come across something that will completely win you over. There’s this woman, see, and she can’t remember whether she locked the front door…”

It’s a sad fact of life that you’re rarely funny when you actually try.

where did I put that gluten?

I haven’t baked bread in much too long. It’s interesting really that almost all of the bakers seemed to simultaneously go on hiatus without any kind of discussion. I did mean to post a few times, at least to say that maybe bread would make an appearance again once the school year began. Then school actually descended upon me with the force of the stay puft marshmallow man during a stint in a full-body cast.

I am most certainly not a morning person (unless you count the part of the morning that occurs before actually making it to bed). Historically, my writing is much more abundant in the hours after dark and before dawn. That seems to be the only time that I am able to channel the incessant brain chatter into a conscious stream. I am, lately, having to s-t-r-e-t-c-h which is not such an easy task when your elasticity has lost its boing.

Oh the woes of the downtrodden (a.k.a. the desolation)!

Fear is often my greatest weakness. There have been so many times that I have printed off Bible verses pertaining to fear just to carry with me in the still hours of the night. My imagination, in this regard, is not an asset.

My oldest son will soon be seventeen. In some ways, he is so sure of himself – so mature and strong-willed. But, that in itself can bring about the Fear. I fear that he will hurt others unintentionally; that he will grow into an insensitive man, but I also fear that he will be hurt (and he will). I fear that the hurt will come in part because I haven’t prepared him fully enough for the evil of the world. I fear that he will not reach his fullest potential because of mistakes I may have made along the way. I fear that I will blink, and he will be grown and gone – never to be the heartbeat away that he has been for his entire life.

My second son has traveled off into the world of public school. The Fear delights in this development. No longer does the majority of input come from within his safe and loving home. He is not a friend-maker. People like him easily, but he rarely allows anyone access to the workings within. I know from experience the kind of pain that is the fruit of that tree. I also fear my weaknesses have handicapped his ability to reach the highest peaks. Consistency is not my strong suit, and I am quite sure there are times I have fallen down on the job. I know I haven’t done enough to ensure that this still water which runs deep has an outlet for the emotion he so infrequently expresses aloud.

My freckled boy has inherited from his mother a certain enigmatic air. The Fear walks close to him for many hours of every day. Is it nurture as opposed to nature? Am I silly to feel mama-guilt even though much of it is the latter? Will he delve the deeps or overcome? Will he try to accomplish both?

The prince of melodrama calls Fear to my side by the searing intensity of his emotions and the trusting nature that leads him to preach to the masses on whatever he is told by one unreliable friend. It is a subtle Fear – that he will easily be led down a crooked path, or, contrariwise, that hurt will awaken the power of the grudge in him (a power that runs strongly through some of the family lines).

My curly-headed imp embraces the Fear – emulates it. Sudden bursts of joyful energy or pain-induced rage send him streaking through the air like a comet bent on planetary contact. The Fear chases me down as I picture the explosive conclusion. Will he ever be understood? Will emotion send him off on a dangerous journey?

The girl – I see so much of myself in her, and it scares me. Her body-language is already so well attuned to getting what she wants, yet so often, what she wants is most certainly not what she should have. Her eyes delve deep. Fear – it curls around my joints as I pray that she will never pull away from mother or father in righteous (or not so righteous) indignation. I Fear she will always look at what she doesn’t have when compared with others – never seeing the bounty stacked high upon her plate. I learned, but the battle was long and hard. Will she have to fight such battles too?

Personally, there is the fear that all of the swirling emotion that runs in my deepest vessels will spill out – untempered – and overwhelm me.

But Joy of Joys (the consolations)!

My oldest son holds fast to faith. Though he knows his inexperience in many of the ways of the world open him up to a special kind of pain, he declares himself glad for his vulnerability. Though mistakes have been made along the way, he has never doubted my love for him (or God’s). He will not be perfect, but he starts his journey with many strengths.

My second son is being afforded the opportunity to shine. A studier by nature, he now has a broad realm to test his strengths (quietly, internally, perhaps, until he is sure of his steps). He has the strength of will to stand by his convictions and the humor to reach beyond the harder days.

My freckly one is blessed with deep empathy and compassion. Though he may sometimes choose the rockier path, he remains on the path. He seeks (and usually finds) means with which to express the excess emotion. His faithful heart holds fast to known love.

The blue-eyed prince holds tightly to righteousness. Though his path is bound to be filled with drama, he will hold fast – resolved to take his bows after each performance. And although he may take direction grudgingly, he takes it. He cares about doing the right thing.

The curly one has too much fire to be consumed by a mere planet. He shows remarkable agility at avoiding personal harm. And besides, he has a praying mother.

The girl? She will never be shallow. She will love deeply and be loved deeply. She holds fast to her prayers of growing big and strong (and driving a car, and having a big-big-big-big bed, and wanting everyone else to be big and strong, and, and, and…).

Me?

There was a time when I had only three children, but those children were all quite young. In those days, I came very close to losing my sanity on more than one occasion. There was never a downtime. The first was a night-owl, the second a morning person, the third could swing both ways. Sleeplessness (which was not self-imposed) was the rule more than the exception. Even having the audacity to go to the bathroom was a dangerous gamble. Mustard and chocolate syrup finger paintings (with a refrigerator shelf canvas) were some of the least dangerous concerns. Every breath held the anticipation of the next catastrophe. The Fear preyed on my inability to see beyond those early years.

God sends relief in strangely wrapped packages sometimes.

Caleb died. Suddenly, having my every breath consumed with concern over my three sons was not a worry but a joy. If every moment was spent concerned with them, surely, I had proof every second that they were there with me. I could breathe them in and revel in the sweeter taste of love when administered by chocolate fingers. The blessing.

Now, older children grace the house. Though three young ones also reside with us (and they are just as resourceful), I don’t have to take them to the store when all I need is a gallon of milk. I can go to the bathroom and blame someone else for their inattention if craziness ensues. I can laugh a little more easily at the creative efforts. I can actually forget what it felt like to be so starkly on my own.

I can lean firmly on God and know, from experience, that a little raw emotion isn’t going to scare Him away - that He is already encouraging me to spill it out on Him. And about that stretching? My God has very long arms.

web weavers

All summer, there have been several rather large spider webs attached to the wall just outside of my back door. This prime real estate resulted in enormous quantities of trapped insects and a resultant boom in egg sacks hanging in the uppermost web.

These webs were not very attractive, but I left them where they stood for the entire summer. There was always an instant science lesson for whoever wandered into the back yard. The insect population inside my house (from childhood associated repeat screen door flappage) was less acute than might have been.

People were coming over for Labor Day, and the husband placed the power washer into the N boy’s hands. The webs couldn’t withstand the fervency of his delighted spraying. Suddenly, an entire summer’s stockpile was gone with very little time left before the cooler weather decreases the food supply.

Tuesday morning, I walked outside to find two new webs where the old ones had been. Today, I see that they are beginning to serve their food pantry functions. Though all was lost, life continues onward – and death as well.

I could learn a lot from that spider.

as a matter of fact

I feel like I need to grow white fur and sprout long ears – my continual inner monologue consisting entirely of varied mutterings concerning my lateness. Some time ago, August 18 to be exact, Mary-LUE graciously benefited me with the Nice Matters Blog Award. Apparently, I matter (I’ll make sure to let everyone in this house know that I now have justifiable cause to insist upon them paying attention to me).

Go ahead, click on the link. Find out what this is about; I’ll wait.

Okay?

Well, since being told that I matter, I have managed very few posts – let alone posts with any merit to them. Be that as it may, I will practice simple gratitude by saying, in my sincerest humble voice, “Why, thank you, Mary.”

Now, on to the business of passing this award along:

Be warned, most of my choices are having as much difficulty posting lately as I am. Though their words may be sporadic, however, they are always worth the wait.

For never failing to touch me with the gentle beauty captured through the lens, for the raw honesty of his family love, for his love of furry friends while embracing the circle of life, and for the way his comments never cease to make me feel special, I proclaim the OddMix to be very nice indeed (he even went so far as to add a wonderful photograph to a poem I posted long ago. With his permission, I will post his version at some future date).

For the love of inanity, the perspective that comes from experience, the efforts to touch the lives of others through her work (not to mention sidewalk chalk and bubbles), I must pass this award along to Mel. The birds and furry critters of her back yard menagerie join me in applauding this great honor.

For touching upon subjects both personal and global, and often controversial, while maintaining an atmosphere of acceptance to viewpoints other than her own; for welcoming new voices to regular “commentversations”, and for always forgiving me when I disappear for inordinate amounts of time, there is simply no choice other than to pass this honor along to Julie.

My last four choices are very different women, but women drawn together with the tight knit cloth of understanding. Each of these women knows what it is like to say goodbye to a child without ever getting a proper hello. For years their presence and compassion in my life has mattered even though I have yet to meet any of them face to face.

For her joy in her hard-won twins and the Norman Rockwell-esque beauty with which she paints the canvas of their daily lives, I simply must compensate one Minnesota Momma that embodies the term ‘nice’.

For the beauty captured in mother/daughter, mother/son, and wife/husband deep and intricate love, jouette takes home top honors. The niceness quotient of her optimistic intensity is beyond compare.

For the genuine compassion that somehow manages to peek through even the most scathingly witty remarks; for holding her friends in her thoughts amidst the craziness of globe-trotting, periodic single-parenting, and repeated close encounters of the MRI kind; for silver linings (presented bilingually to boot), and for the ability to look past my weaknesses (or poke fun at them – but somehow only when she knows I can handle the jest), I crown Heather with many crowns.

And finally, for the indescribable depth of passion (hidden ever so slightly by the scientific demeanor), for the slightly unexpected way her camera’s eye can catch the importance of a scene, for the mama-pride that blushes over the surface-speak about her ‘normal’ children, for the careful choice of words that manages to grasp - entirely, exactly - what my heart is often wrestling, and for holding firm to honesty in a less than honest world, my spidermama friend earns her reward.

I exhort you all; play nice!

two days

Sometimes, when I look at how my mood is affected by the happenings on any given day, I am confronted with the evidence that “atypical” is quite an apt description of me. Take, for example, two days from last week.

First the commonalities – both days contained mornings filled with activity in preparedness for the Instigator to begin his “real school” career, a summer bridge program for incoming freshman. Both days followed with the necessity of transporting the N boy to his place of work. Both days entailed meal preparation, child caring, bedtime struggles, and plenty of bickering.

The first of the two days was causing me some minor nervous anticipation. It was my quarterly rheumatology appointment. The nerves came from realizing I had to be honest with the doctor, and tell him I had stopped taking my medication. It started off innocently enough. When my mother was in the hospital, and things were going just a bit crazy, I started slacking off on the meds. It wasn’t intentional. But, as I slacked off and felt no difference, I thought I would stop taking them for a bit to see if they were really making any difference. Considering the fact that these are long term meds that can cause some adverse physical effects, I thought it might actually even be a wise course of action.

Eventually, I did notice a difference (after several weeks), but by that time, I was almost due for my blood work, so I decided to hold off on resuming until afterwards. Being the procrastinator and rationalizer that I am, further delay tactics were within easy grasp. With only a week remaining until my doctor’s appointment, wouldn’t it be wiser to consult the physician before resuming the medication to make sure he didn’t want me to ease into it rather than start up with the increased dosage?

I don’t tend to feel very confident and secure around medical professionals. As a result, a myriad of hypothetical conversations floated in my brain – in an attempt to find the best way to avoid being on the receiving end of a disapproving word. Tension.

The second of the two days involved my father. He has been living out of state with my half-sister for some time. He was visiting the area and staying with my sister. He called to see if I was going to be home.

My relationship with my father is a complex one. My parents separated when I was two and divorced when I was three. I always loved my father fiercely, but I am not sure I ever liked him very much. Mine was a childhood filled with broken promises of visitation. Alcohol played a part in many of the let downs. Still, after I confronted him at age eighteen and informed him that we could get along fine as long as he stopped trying to be my father and tell me what to do – since I felt he had lost that privilege by never being there for me when I really needed a father (so much for long life from honoring my father and mother), we have actually had a pretty peaceful relationship. I still love him fiercely. We get each other on a deep level.

I told him I would be home in the afternoon.

The rheumatology day arrived. I managed to keep my voice – setting my downfalls on the table the moment he entered the room. Though my blood work results were normal, my ankle was swollen, my Achilles tendon was thickened, my right knee, left hip, fingers, and lower back all showed moderate fluid retention. I even found the courage to tell the doctor I had noticed other symptoms a few weeks after halting the medication – symptoms that wouldn’t appear to have anything to do with my ankle (a risky venture since disclosure of this sort always chances the condescending look from many medical professionals). Everything about me evidenced the need for a continuation of long-term medication.

My father’s visit came. I had begun to think that he wasn’t coming as the clock ticked by, but he had merely gotten lost coming to my house. The majority of the visit took place on the front porch where, due to my father’s short term memory losses, we had the same conversation six or seven times for the first forty-five minutes. He let me know he was in the preparatory stages of moving back to the area and plans to take more of a role in his grandchildren’s lives.

One would think, from the evidence, that the better of the two days would have been the second.

One would be wrong to make such an assumption.

For years I have had issues with my knee, my back, and my hips. I have sporadically seen doctors for these issues. Due to the nature of the medical field, the ailments were never acting up by the time I saw the doctors, but the answers were always little nothings – bursitis, runner’s knee (a.k.a. patellofemoral stress syndrome), a degenerating disk in my lumbar spine. For years I have had other little issues – things I rarely even mention to doctors because I can’t remember a time when they weren’t issues in my life, so I have always chalked them up to being normal. But, a part of me has always felt that the “acting up” of these different joints and different systems were somehow related. Unfortunately, as they were never acting up when anyone saw me, they diagnosed the other issues present and treated me to the condescending looks.

My rheumatologist is different. He was almost giddy with excitement. Here was very clear evidence that his narrowing of the disorder was on exactly the right track. The five possibilities he has been considering fit perfectly with this newfound evidence. These things ARE all related, and it isn’t just in my head! To be fair, those other “minor” conditions also exist. We are really no closer to determining which of the five diseases effects me personally. My treatment will not change. But I know, and so does he, that none of this is in my head.

My house was a wreck when my father visited. It usually is. Of course, in the past few weeks, this has been even truer than usual (due, in part, to construction and increased time commitments). I was tired and a bit worn down.

My father evidenced to me that his ability to put his finger right on the spots of deepest insecurity – turn and gouge, turn and gouge – is still alive and well. I knew this. His unerring talent for taking a few little words and turning them into character judgment (all while making it seem that you are the only one with a problem and never him) hasn’t struck such a resounding chord on me since my younger years. Two little sentences, twelve little words, and suddenly I am without self-esteem. Logic plays no part in this little drama. It is all raw nerves and childish longing.

Two days, one following the other, they are just simple boxes on my calendar page. And yet, two simple days have such power to make me understand how precious the gift remains – God’s gift of seeing me, not as the world sees, but for who I truly am….and loving me anyway.

refrigerator humor

Upon the plastic baggy which encases the instigator's left-over french fries are written the following words:

S's: Touch this and you will be mauled by 3,000 poodles, 3 spotless giraffes, and a farting leopard!

Need I say more?

ode to a working computer

Ah, sweet peace doth grace my heart
As fingers touching keys transmit
Their binary tendrils of understanding
Onto the screen
So recently blank and white!

Such dread fear did dare to fill my veins
As screen following screen fell ill
In grandest domino-tian homage -
Upstairs and down -
A single technician to share.

Oh horror unimaginable upon my back
As insult and injury combined
In vicious scheme of foulest battle drawn -
No ping was heard.
The interweaving net had fallen down.

But, joy! Sweet joy reigns now within me deep
As pressing publish will result in post
Drawn nobly from within the delayed stress -
So hard to bear -
Of several days without the blogosphere!

too much is not enough

Every week, I find myself composing posts in my head in response to Julie’s Hump Day Hmms.



Only twice have I actually managed to write them – three times if you count today (for which the prompt is Too Much of a Good Thing). I do realize that in order for this to still be considered the day of the hump, I would have to lie about my time zone, but I am a lot closer to timely than I have perhaps ever been before.

Ah, the world of blogging. It is, indeed, a marvelous world – full of quirks, unexpected beauties, free humor, and even a seedy underbelly (which is simultaneously more and less despairing than its corporeal sister). I remember stumbling into the world – not through fur coats in a wardrobe, but in hungry anticipation of a few friends’ words.

I? Do everything by obsession. Reading my friends’ blogs was never enough. It wasn’t long before I was clicking on everyone in their “favorites” lists. Pretty soon after that I was reading every archive in every blog on those lists. Ever the people-watcher, I found myself following links from links until I eventually lost track of the starting point. Finally I started to write.

And then came Mary (and a simple comment to me – my very first from someone to whom I was not already in some way connected).

Not only did she fuel my desire to read more and dig deeper, but she began to coax me out of my shell, and I actually started commenting on blogs from time to time. There was never enough time in the day to express all of the feelings of love and compassion I had for so many people who didn’t even know I existed.*

You know, when you have children, for some strange reason they expect you to pay attention to them once in awhile?

When I read books, I sometimes go on a marathon of reading. I read while I cook, while I bathe children, while I teach school, while I converse with little ones. I sleep a lot less than I need to sleep for days on end. And then? Just as suddenly as it began, it ceases. I read the same sentence over and over but absorb nothing. That’s when I pick up the puzzle books.

Did you know that it is possible to do kakuro for 12 hours straight without getting a migraine? Or maybe this month it is spider solitaire (or freecell, or a rotating list of favorite versions of solitaire from the program boasting its 144 different options).

They stop. They return. They end again - ebb and flow with the cycles of the moon.

When I first fell in love with Jesus, it was with the roller-coaster thrill of emotional response. The passion waxed and waned - my commitment level piggy-backing on the tide of feelings.

For me, at first, there is always too much of a good thing. Sometimes those initial bursts of overmuch peter into nothingness. Other times the waves continue to beat a regular rhythm, rushing in to fill any void.


The happiest endings? Occasionally, as with my relationship with God, there is a stabilizing that comes with the maturing of a bond. There are still oscillations, but the extremes are less profound. There is still passion, but it is of a gentler, deeper sort that permeates the secret reaches – that comes from knowing and being known.

*I did eventually come to a relatively happy ending with the blogging. I got selective on how much I read and how much I check up on. I still never have the time to comment or write that I wish I had. One of these obsessions, maybe I will learn to type.

short talk

A few quick quotes for the week (short a few since I am down two kids for the week):

The Pink One (during prayers): And God, help us get big and strong, and get a gun (after her oldest brothers came home with Nerf guns).

Spongebob(age 6): When I get older I am going to build a rocket and go to sleep while it flies to Jupiter. And I'll see Benjamin (cat who died over a year ago). Pause. That's where all of the dead cats live.

The Instigator (age 14): Me like meat.

The N boy (16): I had to do something with myself; playing computer games gives me a headache when I'm sick (after basket weaving a coaster and a placemat from the disposable tape measures they have at IKEA).

The Dad: I'm out of Iced Tea.

The Mom: I wish one of us had possessed a neatness gene to pass on to at least some of our kids.

Bonus:
A silly song the girl likes at bedtime:
Pink likes chocolate milk, chocolate milk, chocolate milk
Pink likes chocolate milk, yes she does.

This then has to be repeated for every member of the family.

In order to save time last night, I tried to get out of it by singing, "Everybody likes chocolate milk..." but as I was leaving the room, Spongebob called after me:

"Mom, you forgot about the part that says 'Everybody likes chocolate milk except for the lactose intolerant people. But if they try to drink it anyway, they die'."

helium filled

When I write, I have a great amount of trouble editing myself. In fact, I don’t work on drafts and polish anything. I don’t plan what I am going to say. I usually have an inkling, but it is normally just a case of going wherever my fingers take me. This process can lead to interesting thoughts when something is on the mind, but in times like these, the general level of stressful and hour-gobbling activity leaves me sitting in my chair - mouth agape, stream of drool dribbling down the edge of my chin – with barely the energy to even read other blogs (let alone comment on them or write anything for mine).

It’s a funny thing, blogging. The longer it has been since you have done it, the easier it is to ignore the fact that you want to do it.

While sanding walls (and painting, etc.), it occurred to me that need is a mystical beast. In the era of first love, the sheer headiness of being needed by someone else can float us several inches off the ground through every waking moment. Entering the serious relationships that come with maturity, the warm-belly tingles of being needed serve as affirmation.

Why is there always a flip side to every coin?

I remember reading years ago (though I don’t remember where) that very often, the very thing which attracts us most to a mate is often also the source of our greatest consternation. I believe I have expounded on the dual-sided leadership/stubbornness gene in the past.

But need.

The joy of holding a newborn baby who is so utterly dependent on my care? The thrill of acceptance that comes from feeling a toddler's arms wrapped around me in the need of mommy protection? The bedazzling wonder that is a teenager seeking counsel (or simply a loving ear)?

Bliss.

The unfed masses? The whining beasts? The able-bodied residents somehow incapable of caring for their basest of needs alone? The single-minded who can walk right past said able-bodied in order to find the drywall-dust encrusted mother for the all-important juice replenishing ceremony?

Not exactly bliss.

Hold that thought, I have more laundry to do….

Dear God, help me hold the Bliss before the mind’s eye.

the tale of the dog that licked you

I have been remiss. In my all too frequent absence from this blog of late, I neglected to mention that we got a new dog. We were not intending to do this quite as quickly as it happened, but the eldest’s boss, upon hearing of our loss, asked if we would be interested in taking one of their dogs (personality conflict between dogs forcing them to get rid of her). So, we began the sudden adjustment that comes from severe downsizing, and made room on our laps for Daisy the Dachshund.

Daisy thinks she is a big dog. She is very loving and wonderful with the children and parents, but she is extremely protective. A ringing doorbell or knock at the door will immediately set her off on a frenzied rush of barks and growls as she runs back and forth from door to resident, “Intruder alert! Intruder alert!”

The husband has enjoyed this trait since discovering that doorbell rings on the television produce the same result (or telephone rings, elevator dings, game show buzzers…). He is now able to combine his two favorite pastimes – playing with the DVR remote, and teasing mercilessly (all in good fun, of course).

We have construction going on in an upstairs room of our house right now. Normally, we would be handling this by ourselves, but we threw caution to the wind, and actually hired someone to do the drywall this time around. The constant opening and closing of the front door combined with the speed of a certain weiner dog led to the necessity of leashing Daisy during certain times of the day. At one such time, S, the instigator, sick of holding onto the leash, attached it instead to the piano chair. Now, I call this the piano chair, but in reality, it is your standard wheeled office chair which just happens to reside at the table upon which the keyboard rests.

I was on the phone with my mother. It was turning into a relatively long conversation since, after several days of laryngitis, I finally had most of my voice back (and I haven’t been over to see her in an entire week), so I did not immediately notice the leash situation. When I did, I set off to locate the responsible party. Before I could make my way to the other room, happenstance interfered.

It is a dark secret of our “little” family that the TV is a member of the household. Often, even when no one is actually watching the thing, it is left in operation. After all, we wouldn’t want it to get lonely or bored. Apparently, the television would very much like to be the dear husband when it grows up, for it chose that moment to peal out with the ring of a doorbell.

Dachshunds are not very big dogs.

Suddenly, the piano chair went flying through the living room, hot on the trail of a barking tornado – through the obstacle course of a living room recently abandoned by young children at play, on to the dining room.

We live in a 100 year old house. I don’t know if you have spent much time in old houses, but it is a somewhat common anomaly for such houses to have floors which are less than level. In short, our dining room works well for science classes studying the effects of gravity.

The chair started catching up with the dog.

Being a person of gentle heart, I should feel guilty that I didn’t help the poor thing sooner, but I must admit that I was simply laughing too darn hard. My greatest regret? I didn’t have a video camera handy, so I won’t get to use that wonderful phrase, “No animals were harmed in the making of this film.”

humming to the beat of a different fiddler

What better day to jump back into the world of chronicling thoughts than today? What better method than to act as though weeks hadn’t passed with nary a whisper of fingers to key? That time has fleeted by, and it is long past the hour when I should be asleep, but thoughts tickle at my mind. I want to sleep (though not tired), and I know I should sleep, but soon is soon enough for such things.

There is this little thing called a Hump Day Hmm perpetuated by Julie at The Raven Picture Maven. Now, I realize that today is not Wednesday, and therefore not the day of humpliness. I also have just enough rationality left to admit that my particular hmm stems not from this week’s hump, but from that mid-week hill that we passed way back on the 20th of June.

There is something about the phrase “accident of birth” that just speaks to me. I found myself looking up the word accident on Dictionary.com. I have trouble with the word “accident” in some uses, because it has such negative connotations. But I found two definitions which spoke to me in this regard.

3. any event that happens unexpectedly, without a deliberate plan or cause.


5. a fortuitous circumstance, quality, or characteristic: an accident of birth.

Ah, such a wondrous stroke of good fortune that the phrase “accident of birth” is actually associated with the definition I find most appealing for this topic.

Years ago, my mother and I almost died through a little thing called childbirth. Placenta previa was far less frequently diagnosed in the era before routine ultrasound. Blizzards in rural areas and hemorrhaging pregnant women (some thirty miles from the nearest hospital) would not easily add up to a living child and mother – the same mother who, years earlier, almost wasn’t born.

Years and years ago, a woman with an almost total hysterectomy gave birth. All that remained of her reproductive tract was one ovary and a small bit of uterine wall (in the doctor’s eyes, just enough to keep early menopause from triggering). That baby would grow up to become my mother-in-law.

Accidents? Coincidences? Miracles?

My first year of marriage was not a happy one – at all. However, we did find ourselves expecting a baby after about five months. Was this an accident? We weren’t “not trying.” I am not a proponent of having a child to fix marital issues. Generally, that is a very bad idea. For us, though - for me specifically, the first look from those newborn eyes left me drastically changed. My soul center shifted, erasing hurts and guilt – re-erecting the core of my faith as the core of my life.

My second child came. Purpose deepened; love grew. The third child brought, at first, a relaxed familiarity along with the joy. Soon, however, I found myself overwhelmed with three small children who got into every conceivable mischief in the amount of time it took to blink.

Depression loomed. Marital bliss suffered in its wake. Accident came again (not oopsie daisy accident, but “without deliberate plan”). There was fear involved in the joy of two pink lines (or blue, or purple. I’ve lost track over the years) - fear stemming from deep within - terror on some levels (am I adequate?), anxiety on others (will this make the tensions more or less acute?).

My fourth child was born, but born without cries or breath or open eyes. And, in the permanent weld of white-hot torment shared, the birth of a child into Jesus’ arms made petty irritations lose all value.

Unfairness? Accident? Miracle?

A fifth child came along - very much planned, yet so much an accident. Had his brother survived, the timing would have been different. The same combinations of momma and daddy might never have come to be. The family might have been deemed complete. The fifth child brought the fourth set of living cries to my external senses – a gift both powerful and frightening.

Child six, my fifth to keep, followed several early miscarriages. Is his genetic make-up accidental as well? He brought with him hope that life could come again from this body.

Child seven! Child seven? I never planned on having a large family. Is that accident as well? Is it accident that led that sperm to that egg and created a female baby? It certainly packed shock value!

A fortuitous circumstance led to such happy accident (serendipity, I love thee well)!

But today, today (well, yesterday in physical fact, even if I haven’t been to bed yet), TODAY! My best friend had a living, breathing, beautiful baby girl. Today, while her mummy tried to fitfully sleep in the post C-section haze, I got to hold in my arms such joyous evidence that there is most certainly a Great Designer. I got to look into newborn eyes and feel the unadulterated peace of lulling fussy whimpers into innocent sleep.

quickly speaking

I am so sorry I left things on this note and haven't had a chance to get back here. My mom is ok. She did get back to a regular room after 48 hours in ICU. Then, she spent a few more days in the hospital before heading out for a week of rehab. She is home now (since Friday), but still receiving IV antibiotics (administered by the sis and me).

Other things have been very crazy, and I honestly haven't had more than a few minutes here and there to get on the computer (during which I, invariably, fell asleep reading all of your lovely blogs - which is most certainly NOT a statement as to their entertainment value, but to my level of exhaustion).

I hope to be able to write something of more substance soon.

fresh bread in the morning

The bread I sleep with tonight is savory. It is a recipe passed down straight from Abraham’s hands. It should be noted, however, that the relaying might be somewhat terse due to exhaustion.

The last week could probably best be described as a roller coaster ride of consolation and desolation, but yesterday and today are perhaps some of the clearest examples of the apex and nadir.

I got a call yesterday morning just before leaving for church that my mother had developed a UTI and was being transferred to ICU for observation. It was a calm call, but I decided to leave church early and head over to the hospital. I ended up not doing that because my sister was closer, so she went before me, but had to leave for a few hours around 1:30. I arrived then and she left. Shortly after she left, my mother developed a severe case of the shivers (due to reduction of fever) and suffered a rather intense “anxiety attack” with very distressing physical manifestations. I was summarily kicked out of the room to worry in the waiting room as they paged various doctors.

Unfortunately, no one came to tell me that I could go back in, so some of that worry was unnecessary. Finally, I went back to the room only to be stopped by the nurse and told to be very quiet in the room as they did not want my mother to be stimulated.

Of course, after I entered, my mother asked for me to remove her blanket and give her ice chips. My wish to provide for her needs caused me to be reprimanded by yet another nurse for “disturbing” my mom. I sat quietly only to have her ask me for something else. I finally told my mother that I was going to go out of the room because they really wanted her to sleep. At this point, I felt pretty low. I was angry at the nurses for making me feel like I was causing my mother distress (whereas she was actually already distressed about things, but they weren’t there to help her), but I also agreed that my presence in the room WAS causing her to remain stimulated. I didn’t know what to do.

Still shaken from witnessing my mother’s episode, but afraid that my presence could actually end up causing a heart attack, I went out to the parking lot to try to decide what to do. After talking it over with my husband, I decided to go take care of some details at my mother’s house then return home as my sister would be arriving at the hospital within an hour or so of my departure. But, I didn’t leave right away. I closed the car windows, started the car, turned on the A/C, and proceeded to lie across the front seats and release wrenching sobs into the upholstery. I felt guilt that every time an episode happened with my mother, it seemed to be after I had left when my sister was not coming to take my place (the first episode, which I may tell about at some other time, occurring in the 43 minutes it took me to take care of my mother’s banking because she was actually sound asleep). I shouldered the weight of a self-wrought jinx, convinced that my mother might die, and that this was somehow related to whether I stayed at the hospital or left. And yet, I was drawn to the certainty that I had to leave. As I pulled out of the parking space, I did so with the knowledge that, should something happen to my mother, I would always feel like it was somehow my fault – no matter the illogic.

Abraham actually took hold of the knife to slay his beloved son before God called out to him to stop.

When my sister arrived at the hospital some time later, she presented our concerns to the nurse in regards to staying or leaving. She asked for advice. The nurse, after clearly stating that she hated advising families about what they should do, said that if it were her family, she would stay. She said that my mother was septic and her blood pressure was very low, and the ensuing twenty-four hours would be touch and go.

My sister took the first shift. I took over at midnight and stayed through morning. At that point, her blood pressure had been stable for almost 12 hours (though still lower than normal). My mother was coherent and alert (yes, even for most of the night, sleeping only fitfully). She encouraged me to go home during the change of shifts (the only slices of time where visiting patients is not allowed in the ICU – 3 hours in the morning, an hour and a half at night), and even said I should take a little time before coming back.

My sister ended up coming back for the next shift, and I arrived this afternoon to find my mother, looking the best she has looked since the surgery, full with the news that she had finally been allowed clear liquids. While I was there, she had her first solid food. She was most definitely feeling herself again.

Gen 22:13a Abraham looked up and there in a thicket he saw a ram caught by its horns. He went over and took the ram and sacrificed it as a burnt offering instead of his son.

If Abraham had not been prepared to sacrifice his son, would a caught ram have borne such significant value?

If I had not gone through the moments of deepest desolation, would a simple plate of hospital food have ever been capable of producing such joy in my heart?

Sometimes the greatest consolation comes from knowing that the deepest depths can be braved if God is at your side – and knowing that more fully because you don’t have to brave them at all.

At this time, my mother is still in ICU, but things look very promising, and we hope to see her back in a regular room by tomorrow.