giving myself

Last week I had a birthday.

When I was a child, I thought birthdays were all about me:  sort of an opportunity to be Queen for the day.

To tell the truth, up until last week, I still kind of thought birthdays were all about the birthday girl.  My children cooperated with this theory as soon as they were old enough, expressing eagerness to give me presents and backrubs and coupons good for cheerful service.  They were, I thought, copying how I treated them on their birthdays.

But then I had the "perfect storm" of a birthday, and my eyes were painfully pried open.  Life (celebrated and represented by a birthday) is about giving.  It is more blessed, Jesus says, to give, than to receive.  And then he thought it'd be good to let me learn it by living it, day after day.

To begin with, I had pms (which, I know, some think is a myth; let's just say it felt pretty real this time).  So I was a little grumpy to begin with.  But I smiled graciously for my Farmer's (belated by an hour) morning birthday wishes.  I made our breakfast graciously.  I oooh-ed and ahhh-ed over the gifts the children had picked out for me.  I allowed the whiny toddler to help me open my presents.  I smiled, pleased, to receive the gift my Farmer gave [allowed me to order].

And then (it was a little mp3 player) I wanted to play with it.

But there were groceries to buy.

On my birthday.

Since I wasn't actually having any luck transferring my music to digital form, and since the clock was ticking, I went, not quite so graciously.  [do you see me overlooking the fact that I get to go alone, since my Farmer - graciously - took off work to be home for my birthday?]

Before I left, I (graciously) pointed out to my Farmer some potential timing issues relating to pie-making and pottery-studio-paneling and toddler-napping.  [do you see me overlooking the fact that, on his day off, my Farmer is not only watching the children while I run errands, but is also planning to make me a birthday pie - with the children - and put up paneling in my pottery room?!]

And then I bought groceries.  God, in his graciousness, had many little treats planned for me on my outing:  Cans of crab, which I love, and have never before seen at the discount grocery store.  Also five unexpired bars of 85% Lindt in pristine condition, Belgian chocolate cream cheese for a song, and my favorite kinds of sausages.  Wonderful new books for me at the library, checked out by my favorite librarian, who had just watched a documentary I had recommended, and loved it!  And at my regular grocery store, crab cakes were a dollar off.

I returned home to a wonderful smell - my Farmer had made stew!!  But ..... I was eager for those crab cakes ..... and it turned out he had made the stew from the dried peas I had told him I didn't like!!  I put the groceries away, suppressing irritation at all the helpers - big and small - getting in the way.  [and yes, overlooking the fact that they want to help me]

After lunch, I took up one of my new books and settled into the recliner.  It was not to be: Lil' Snip, whining so unbeguilingly, wanted me.   I graciously read Curious George to him, mostly from memory, mostly without looking longingly at my own book.

When he hopped down, temporarily appeased, I picked up my book again.  Nice appeared with a flutter of homemade coupons - for backrubs.  She had set up a little backrub-giving shop.  I laid my book back down, graciously, and turned myself over to Nice.

The rest of the day was the same:  willing myself to speak nicely over the utter cacophony of three or more of their voices at once, to not ruin my birthday for them; coaching them in kindness, kindly; and receiving, graciously, what they want to give.

: : :

Here's the moral I thought I was writing about:  grownups don't get to receive on their birthdays; they just get to give to their families the gift of their graciousness, so the children can learn to enjoy giving.......so that when they grow up, they too can give and not need to receive.

Here's what I think I'm actually being taught:  even though I am no longer (in some ways) a child, I still need to receive.  My birthday was not about how graciously I could give a good day to my children.  I missed the point.  It wasn't that they were giving me the "wrong" things and I needed to set a good example by receiving them anyway.  They were giving me the right things.  I could have been truly receiving them.  I could have been blessed by them.  My birthday was a day for them to be blessed by giving to me.  And for me to practice truly receiving, because I need the practice and because they learn from watching me.

Hmmm.  Didn't I just write about this?  About letting go of one thing in order to receive something better?

: : :

[I am still learning.  Very likely I am still missing a lot.  Maybe even the main point.  I am grateful for my blog, where I can learn out loud, as it were.  Maybe, someday, I will be able to look back and see the path that He has brought me so gently along, and how it has led me to Him...]

night vision

[yet another eye-opener from my Lil' Snip:]

Up the morning steps I go, toward the sound of energetic, tuneless singing, punctuated by enthusiastic commentary in the little yellow room.  I round the corner, unlatch his door, and swing it open - always an excitingly unpredictable moment, followed by anything from a happy "Mommy!!!" to a suddenly, inexplicably furious squeal.

This morning, he's standing in the far corner of his crib, pointing hard at his changing table.

"There's a fox!!!" he exclaims.

A what?  I open the blinds and let light in.  Yesterday's jeans and shirt lie crumpled in a pile.  He looks.

It doesn't take long for him to regroup with a revised exclamation:  "When it was dark, it was a fox!!"

Ahhh.....!  Not "oops, it was only my clothes," not "it was dark; I couldn't see," not "I was wrong," but "when it was dark, it was a fox."

He's just a toddler.  He couldn't know that what I heard was myself, insisting on the truth of a lie freshly-exposed by the light, unwilling to release an old familiar hurt to embrace instead an opportunity for life.

Open my eyes, O Father of the heavenly lights, to see what's truly there, instead of pictures painted in shadows.  Open my heart to receive your good gifts.

Every good and perfect gift is from above,

coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights,

who does not change like shifting shadows.

He chose to give us birth through the word of truth

James 1:17, 18

a dare to myself

There are fourteen posts on this blog, hidden from view, unfinished, unpublished.  Drafts, blogspot optimistically calls them.  From time to time I read these unpolished snippets of ideas, and feel restless about them.

I want to finish them.

I'm telling you by way of holding myself accountable (that's high-minded language for "publicly shame myself into finishing them").

I hope it works.  The discipline will be good for me (uncompleted tasks are my nemesis, an all-too-familiar impediment to all kinds of progress).  And who knows, maybe I'll turn out some good work.

There.  I dare me.

refuge

Earlier this morning as my children and I performed our various obligations, Lil' Snip came running to me, tears streaming, wailing with toddler offense.  He flung himself at me, and with his sturdy little self came a flash of insight:  I am his refuge.

This is what refuge is - it's what you run to, when you're in trouble or afraid.  It's what you fling yourself on, when you need comfort, or help, or defending.

Even (sometimes) when the one who is your refuge is the one who you're angry with.

Cast all your cares on him, for he takes care of you.

I Peter 5:7

What do I run to for comfort?  facebook?  chocolate?  friends?  books?

Where do you turn?  shopping? exercise? work?

Not bad things, those, just not a true refuge, not a fortress, not powerful to save.

Let's run to the One who made us, who has loved us since before we were born.  The One who truly cares about us. The One who truly can and does take care of us.

He alone can comfort, help, defend and protect.  He alone is a Refuge.

God is our refuge and strength,

a very present help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way,

though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea,

though its waters roar and foam,

though the mountains quake with its turmoil.

Psalm 46:1-3

house of cards

I've been hiding in a house made of cards.

I've mentioned before, I believe, how much I dread fellowship meals:  crowds are not my thing.  Yesterday we had another one at church.  We stayed; there was a meeting afterward that we wanted to be part of.  And things went fine, mostly, until the food was finished and I started to look around .... at the people talking, laughing, enjoying each other's company ...

... and all I could think was "no one's talking to me."

I'm ashamed, of course.  So "poor me" I blush to write it.  But since I know I'm not the only one, I take a risk and publish my awkwardness for both of you - the ones who feel it, too, and the ones who can't imagine.

A friend and I were talking recently about high school, and how lonely it was for us, and how startled we've been, sometimes, to find out that others were lonely, too - even some we thought so self-assured.  We all hide, maybe.  At the fellowship meal, my inner ache tells me I'm unwanted, superfluous, unseen.  Look at all the others, talking to each other, laughing, sought-out.  And on the periphery (where I usually choose to sit), alone stand I.

So many things you could say to me, to convince me that I'm wrong.  I've heard it all.  It does not penetrate my armor of alone-ness.

But yesterday, a gift:

At the meeting (again sitting at the fringes), I looked at all the heads in front of me, and like Paul's light on the road to Damascus, epiphany struck:  this is my family.  These are my people, and they love me.  Hardly a soul there that hasn't said a kind word to me at one time or another, exchanged a smile.  They are for me.  We are one.

As a group, they overwhelm me to the point of intimidation, yes; but one by one - I love them, too.

Fear fled, as the house of cards crumbled.

I am safe.  I am loved.

This is my Body.

[now, let's see if I can remember that at next month's fellowship meal....]

"so in Christ we who are many form one body,
and each member belongs to all the others."

Romans 12:5