Laundry

Laundry.  It piles up around us sometimes.  Boys drop it on the floor instead of the bag ... "Put it in the bag, please, hun .." said over ten times in a morning ... till I'm weary of my own voice and weary of the piles of unfinished mothering and attempts to pour in all that is needed for a life in short eighteen years ...

And some days we just leave it all where it is and go walking.  We pack our paints, hit the bike path, don't look back and sit by the lake and laugh and create and drink in views of egrets and ducks and people walking dogs ... those "laundry can wait days" give life the pace a savoring heart needs. 

And, then when someone just pops by, we have to put the laundry away so it isn't sitting out for every one to look at.  Just like so much of life stashed away from critical eyes who may see the unfinished, unwashed, unkempt parts of me and fear that you won't find me as tidy as you'd like.  But, there are always those friends who come in and do the laundry with you.  Those are the keepers.

And there's the laundry sorting where you think about each boy and his jeans torn in wild abandon on a grassy hill or a bicycle stunt and his carefree love of living out loud with his neighbor friends.  And you stand and fold and smile about those boys who just can't turn a sock right-side-out to save their lives, but they sure turn me right side out most days just by filling this house with all the life it can handle.

And when all the laundry is folded and stashed away and I have things lined up as I like and the boys are tucked in and the night light in the hall is on, if it's been one of those days, I can thank God for new mercies.  But if it's been the other kind, those memory making, heart quaking, eat-em-up days, then I can sigh and pull up my covers and just thank God for all of it -- the dirt, the wash and the folding.  

Stop. 

When Growing Pains Get the Best of Me

I've got those growing pains again.  The ones that wrap around my heart while you lay sleeping sweetly in your bed all half-boy, half-man and unaware.  If only you knew the ache of a mother's heart for you -- the joy-giving, cliff-hanging moments of motherhood that catch me up and dare me to care this much.  I think back to the birthing of you with the growing pains of welcoming you into this world.  I had waited and you were not coming and they had to rush us into the emergency room to help you along.  And when you came, I felt Niagra Falls in my heart and couldn't hold back the outburst of "I love you."  All the nights of rocking back and forth one leg to the other -- no aerobics class ever prepared me to rock like that.  And you soothed in my arms after the hard work of helping you settle.  Those frazzled dear early months of your life were long and short simultaneously. 

Tonight I sit alone on the couch, writing my rememberences after having written you your last "tooth fairy" note.  It will be the last time this tooth fairy ever sneaks in your room, lifts your pillow in that quiet way and puts a bit of cash and a silly note there for you to read excitedly in the morning.  And I have some serious growing pains tonight.  I think back to the first time the tooth fairy came to you and you were so exuberant, running down the hall the next morning, note in hand and money and treat in the other.  You read the note to me with such sincerity and then somberly turned to me and asked me to give you back your teeth.  How did you know!  You were on to me and I had to confess without confessing so that you could keep your trust and we could keep our game.  And ever since you have obliged us both with the reading of the note in the morning.  It is our sweet secret -- the identity of your own tooth fairy.

Who knows how many "lasts" I have missed while my eyes were blurry and my heart was elsewhere or we just assumed more were coming.  I can look back and say, remember when, and it is no more.  I don't lament your growing into a more dynamic and mature and amazing boy.  I love the privilege of having a front-row-seat in your life.  But I miss you each time you outgrow a shoe or a habit or a quirk and I have to pause and say, "goodbye" to just a little piece of you.  It is preparation.  I'm in the letting-go bootcamp and I'm getting worked over in the process.  A wise friend said, "It is the letting go that helps them want to come back."  I'll get there.  Thankfully I have years ahead to hone those skills.  Tonight we say farewell to the tooth fairy.  And they don't call them growing pains for nothing.  

As You Wish

I've been a bit out of sorts since yesterday evening.  I'm not sure what exactly set me off-center, but when I get this way my poor husband can be the brunt of unrealistic expectations and some grumbling.  This morning we bantered our way through a few issues.  For one thing I was frustrated that I ultimately had to step in when the boys were acting poorly.  Sometimes I feel like it boils down to me being strong and taking charge.  I don't really want that role, but I do step into it without invitation when I feel a situation careening into emotional escalation.  At one point my husband was frustrated and told me to stop talking to him about our disagreement.  I flat out said, "no."  He told me again, "Stop talking about this."  I said in a regrettably stubborn tone , "no."  My darling oldest son said, "Someone is going to have to submit here or this will just get worse."

You know how you raise your children to be wise and know God's will and His ways?  This was one of those times when the training sunk in and my eldest was right.  The word -- submit -- hung in the air.  It silenced me.  It brought me back to my senses. 

In years past the very word submit brought about the feeling of fingernails on a chalkboard to my strong-willed nature.  Of course I would submit to God, of course.  But, what about this less-than-perfect (though very lovable) husband of mine?  God wanted me to submit, I know, but I was sure He would understand my need to skirt the issue when my husband fell short of the Bible's mandates to love his wife as Christ loves the church.  I mean, when I know better, why should I submit?  

It wasn't long after I returned to Jesus in 1997 that God brought me in touch with Bunny Wilson who wrote Liberated Through Submission.  Bunny spoke at a women's conference on "Hope, Help, Holy and Free."  Through this talk God brought transformation into my life where formerly there were lies around the subject of submission.  The concept of submission is so misunderstood -- and I was no exception in the way I reacted to this crucial idea in God's plan for relationship. 

One of my favorite movies of all time is The Princess Bride.  In this comedy-adventure a stable boy, Westley, always addresses the  princess Buttercup with the answer "As you wish."  As he says these words, he has a impish gleam in his eye that tells you he is delighting in her very presence and in doing whatever she would wish. 

As I studied submission and made feeble attempts to practice it, I realized something deeper.  When God is asking me to submit, He isn't asking me to submit to my imperfect husband.  He is asking me to submit to HIM.  I don't have to pretend that Christ is standing behind my husband as I submit.  He is present.  His Word tells us wives to "submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord."  Submission always boils down to trust.  When I trust that as I let go, God is there, behind the scenes, in the midst, acting on behalf of His beloved, I can submit.  God is inviting me into freedom, not captivity.  The lie is that I must hang onto my will in order to get what will make me happy and safe.  The reality is that when I let go, I leave room for God to move. 

So, after a rocky morning I decided to stop resisting my husband, stop trying to change him, stop focusing on his deficits and start living out what I am called to be: a good and godly wife.  There was a log in my own eye.  I stopped bickering and started serving.  And, sometime in the middle of it all, I said in my heart, "As you wish."  I said it to my husband and simultaneously I said it to God. 

The more I submitted and served, the more I saw what my husband wasn't.  I had been focusing on my twisted view: "He isn't strong where I need him to be;" "He isn't what I want him to be today."  As I served him and practiced "as you wish" submission, I found that I could see what he wasn't in a different way: He isn't mean-spirited; He isn't bossy; He isn't demanding; He isn't an uninvolved father.  Nothing turns a heart around like gratitude. Submission came first and gratitude followed close behind. 

In the Princess Bride there comes a pivotal moment when the Princess becomes aware of Westley's heart behind his words:  The narrator reveals, "And, that day she was amazed to discover that when he was saying, "As you wish,"  what he meant was, "I love you" ... Submission always means, I love you.  The fruit of submission is always inner-freedom. 

She

She was more than I had hoped for and I was so nervous to even ask.  I had gone to that dear enlightened professor a few months prior and asked him, with fear in my heart, “Could you refer me to a woman who does what you do and might mentor me?”  He was quiet and I said, “Was that an inappropriate thing to ask of you?”  And, he, true to form, said, “I am just thinking.”  And then he said, “I could unequivocally recommend her … and you can reach her husband at his office here and he will get you in touch with her.”   And I got the number and kept the paper for months.  Two months.  I never called.  The fear was too great – the need was so great.  What if she didn’t want me?  What if I were too much for her?   After all, she didn’t know me and her husband is a little important and she may think I am - Just. Too. Much.   But, I finally did call and he gave me her number and she suggested we meet at a Mimi’s Café to see if God had something for the two of us to do together.  So, I went.  And she was there and we ate and I unloaded my story and my desire and my need on her – sort of just like that.  And she listened, and she even asked if she could take notes.  At the end of that meal she gave the verdict.  “I think God does have something for us to do together.”  And that is how it started.

God did have something.  It was she He had in mind.  He knew all those years that after the pain and loss and loneliness and fears and tears there would be a season, not right after my return to Him, but soon enough after that I would find her and she would walk with me into very dark places and help me crawl out intact.  God sends those soul spelunkers who go deep and know how to navigate the unspoken recesses and draw out His image from within years of darkness and pain.  She is one.  You wouldn’t really know it from meeting her at first.  She may seem just like someone’s mom; someone’s grandma; someone’s wife; someone’s friend.  She is all that.  But, if you wait and you come, you find out there are skills and insights and even a bit of a tough gal in there who will go toe to toe on your behalf. 

She was a missionary child in China when things were not so friendly at times over there.  It was another age and she was there with her beloved mother who wrote so many letters every day to people and memorized scripture and knew how to win a heart and how to care for a soul.  You wonder where some of this goodness came from.  It has rightful roots and then it has its own territory as well.  And she loves those whose feet go out to share His love and the Good News and she devotes her life to caring for them and giving them refuge and an ear and a shoulder and a shove when needed.  She prays.  She laughs and she listens long and hard.  She sends up balloons often.  That’s one of her dearest phrases: “Let’s send up balloons” or “It feels like we ought to send up balloons about that,” or “There is so much there to celebrate.”  

There was a light that came into the darkness and that light was the light of men.  And it is her light and she shines that light and does so with boldness and tenderness.  Into my life came her light which is HIS light.  He brought us together and I told her every little thing.  Everything.  And she was able to sit still and hold that space with me and love me through it.  I tipped over the rock and showed her all the mealworms and weevils living under that dark place and the muck and gunk that ordinary people do not get to see – at all costs – and she sat with me and unearthed it all and allowed it to exist between us.  And as she did He moved in mighty ways of grace and did such healing works that I was propelled forward into strength unimagined before.  It is a gentle strength in the deeper parts of me now.  And it has a life of its own – of His own – that is becoming even stronger as it becomes more gentle.  

What became of me came partly through her and in that way she birthed the new thing or at least was the good midwife.  And who could ask for this?  Who would dare?  Yet He knew and He planned and He gave beyond what I could ask or imagine.  She.  She is my spiritual mother and my dear confidante and one who stands strong and gentle and listens and prays and believes the best and hopes when I despair and sees through and beyond so that I could grow to places He intended.  What goodness is God that He would give me her, a fellow sinner redeemed and willing?   

And now as she ages, and life takes its turns it is my turn to care and carry some burdens on her behalf.  Even in spiritual parent/child relationships there is a turning of the tables and we get to return what was so freely given to us.  And I freely turn and bend my knee to God for her and offer her my love and support.  It seems so small a thing to do for someone who has done so very much.  And yet, it seems huge that I could be so equipped at this time to be able to extend strength and to contain love and goodness and faith enough to reciprocate even a little.  It is time and I am ready thanks to God and to her.  

Life: as it is ...

There's life as you wish it were, and then there is life as it is. The disparity between these two can lead to disappointment and discouragement if we let it.

Tonight I had planned this little "family Christmas devotional" time ... you know, all courier and ives around the fire with our Bibles and the egg nog and shortbread. No kidding. I had egg nog and shortbread and Bibles all set out. Paul even got his own Bible out (see, it is how I dream it will be) ... and we settled down on the couches and then Jordan starts flipping around on the floor and bonks into something and starts howling about how he hurt his knee. Meanwhile Jon has gotten up and gone to the dryer to take the dry towels out and comes to pile them right in the middle of my dreamy-family-Christmas setting and turns on the overhead light and starts folding towels. S c r e e c h ... ever hear the sound of a tire tread mark in your own brain? I had this delightful, connecting, worshipful event planned and they just were not participating according to my script.

I started to pout (inwardly of course) and then I said to Jon, "I'm feeling a bit disappointed." He said, "what?" ... you know, the way an innocent, helpful husband will do (I mean, after all, he's figuring he's doing the right thing by folding towels). Well, I laid out my vision to him and said, "I don't know where everything started to unravel, but here we all are going in our separate directions and I was hoping for something very different." We tried to regroup and capture the moment but by then Paul was too tired and he threw himself on the floor and cried to go "nigh-nigh." Ah well.

Upshot ... you know that small, still voice ... the sweet one that God uses to get your attention and to call you to something higher if you let Him? Well, that voice of God sort-of whispered that I needed to find the beauty in the life He is giving me. I can wait for all these "magical" and "perfect" moments to come to pass, thinking that somehow they hold this hidden joy and fulfillment for me and everyone I care about. Or, I can take life as it is: muddled, imperfect, lumpy and definitely not according to my script. There I find within those moments the unexpected gifts straight from the hand of my loving Father. Today I choose life as it is. He meets me there, and wherever He is I am standing on holy ground.

Sweet Surprises ...

You know those days when you plan something in advance and then when the day finally comes ... it's rained out! Well, we planned this free trip to Legoland (thanks, Laurel!) and it turns out that the entire state was getting a rainfall today. California. Rained out. We did the right thing and stopped packing last night. We'll just have a day at home ... catch up on a few things; relax; Jon and Jor can go skating ... stuff like that.

Well, we got this wild hair and thought we'd go ahead and go on an adventure. After sleeping in and getting a late start we thought, "what can it hurt to go down to San Diego anyway. We don't want to forfeit our hotel room afterall." We fared a stop and go trip through LA traffic the weekend before Christmas and almost lost our seasonal cheer along the way.

Got to Legoland at 3pm. It closes at 5pm. Are we crazy? We drove from 10:30a - 3:00p to spend two hours at Legoland! Hang in there. It turned out to be GREAT! There were no lines. Really? You mean we were the only crazies who decided to go to Legoland in the rain? Yep ... well, almost. But, guess what? There was not even a drop of rain! We had a blast. Rode more rides than usual and ran around like a bunch of kids (okay, half our family ARE kids) on the huge playset and then went to TGIFridays for a YUMMY supper ... now all are tucked in at the Hampton Carlsbad. And, BONUS ... we get to go to Legoland Sea Thingy (not the real name) tomorrow for two hours before we head back to LA for the family Christmas party.

Isn't God sweet. He is anyway ... even when He doesn't give special family get-away weekends. I mean, He's sweet when times like my dear friends have been going through hit ... in times of cancer, chrons disease, losses of jobs. He's just plain sweet. I just want to end tonight looking at all the sleeping faces of my three favorite guys and thanking God for all His goodness.