bits of me

Surrounded by ten little girls in the 3rd-5th grade church club, I tore photos from magazines, chose words and images that appealed to me for any reason at all, glued them to construction paper while they did the same.  A "getting-to-know-you" activity when we began meeting in the fall, it worked well to give us a bit of a glimpse into each other's personalities and preferences.

I had so much fun, I made another one at home.  It's surprising how a collage can capture someone's essence.

It's not terribly grown-up of me, probably, but I wish I had a collage from each of my friends, to help me see life through their eyes, just a bit.

enough

I left this morning while the sky was still dark.  The children were all still in bed, and a full moon shone bright over low-lying fog.  Within a few minutes the sky was brightening to a fiery pink, and I was in a friend's car en route to a women's conference.

Hours later I came home.  It had been a full day of smiling, listening, and small talk.  I had been challenged, and reminded of truths I already knew, I laughed, and learned.  It had been good.

There had also been all the petty disappointments that you're not supposed to mention - having a bad hair day, not enjoying a speaker as much as I'd hoped, seeing goodie bags I liked better than the one I'd been given, feeling left out of conversations, and not winning a door prize.  (I never win door prizes, so you wouldn't think that could disappoint me anymore ....)

I had a headache from the long drive home, but decided to stop off at my favorite thrift store to hunt for jeans.  No luck.

Driving the last few miles home, I tried to tally up my day:  a break from responsibilities - good.  Headache - bad.  Hearing one of my favorite women's speakers - good.  Social awkwardnesses - bad.  Yummy meal I didn't have to make (& got to eat sitting down the whole time!) - very good.  No jeans - bad.

As I turned into our road, though, the balance suddenly tilted solidly on the side of good as I remembered -

 - my family loves me, and are very likely waiting to greet my arrival home with enthusiastic smiles and shouts of joy.

And sure enough, there was Spice peering out the window when I pulled in, waving excitedly with a huge smile on her face, happy to see me just because I'm the mommy here.

It was enough.  

I still had a headache.  I still had the goodie bag I wouldn't have chosen.  I still had no new jeans.

But I also had my children, hugging me, overflowing with news from their day, and my Farmer, offering me bites he had saved from the supper he made.

I am loved.

And it is enough.


and p.s. - my goodie bag is growing on me...!

to be a mother

crocheted white lace placemat.

aqua glass of white-bell'd lily-of-the-valley.

smiles.

homemade cards.

"'oooh' over MINE, Mommy!"

eggs they made, and toast, and coffee.

the gift of 'go.'

a parking-lot pause, to breathe.

sun-filled car & friend.

drumbeats, goatskin under palms.

mushroom and goat cheese and spinach between bread.

downpour.

coffee again, and calories just because.

fingering all that beauty - beads & cloth & stone & wood.

talking lost & found, conflict & surrender.

home.

quiet.

breathe in.

hugs.

gingerbread pig dough and supper soup to make, and letting them stir.

bed made up with fresh sheets, by daughters.

ducks outside (mostly) where they belong.

piano music to Spanish crooning.

contentment.

I am a mother.  Somehow, they love me, those little people whose lives depend on mine for so much.  Somehow they forgive my faults, and - oh God! - forget them, besides.  They say I'm fun, and cheerful, and pretty and they truly see that in me.  These are gifts I never deserved, never thought to ask for.  

I've learned about God's love by watching Him form it in me for those little ones, growing so fast into what He made them to be.  What I didn't know was that He's also teaching me about His love .... by loving me through them.

and to top it all off, a rainbow after supper, interrupting dishes and baths-to-be.

Happy Mothers' Day 

to all of you who mother.

"...the moon sees me"

The moon outside the window rises round and white, so bright it throws shadows on the ground beneath the pecan tree.

An hour just passed. And in that hour, ordinary enough, a little boy bounced on a trampoline. Two little heads pored over a book and a magazine. A daddy paged through a tool catalog. A mommy smiled at her children over the top of her novel. A little girl catered to her brother's wishes, spreading blankets over sofa cushions for him to tiptoe over.

My Farmer read a tiny board book to Lil' Snip. Sugar showed us children's artwork from her magazine (while being tickled by Lil' Snip, who is always learning something new & useful), and read us horse poems, and the good jokes. (“Knock-knock. Who's there? Cash. Cash who? No thanks, I prefer peanuts.”).  Nice tried to distract Lil' Snip off of the trampoline (so she could use it) by teaching him how to open drawers in the filing cabinet.  Spice read aloud from her book of stories, dramatically, to anyone who would listen. Lil' Snip sat up straight beside her on the cushionless chair. 

On the elliptical, I laid aside my novel to listen to Spice's story, and gave Lil' Snip a ride till my arms begged for mercy. He's heaviest after supper.

Then we all kissed Lil' Snip good-night and my Farmer tucked him in. Coloring books and crayons came out till second bedtime was announced.  We sang and read and thanked God for the good, and now they're all tucked under their covers, tissues close by for the sniffly ones.

The moon is up in the pecan branches now, high over the house, full.

I'm full, too.

                    I see the moon and the moon sees me,

                    Hiding under the old apple tree.

                    God bless the moon, and God bless me . . .

drilling deep

We were getting dressed for bed in that cold north bedroom of ours, the heater doing what it could.  I don't remember the events of the day, except that it had been restless.

I had been restless.

And it showed.

We were talking, voices low, guarding the sleep of the children with sharp ears.  I said something about joy, I think - or about joylessness, more probably.  And that's when he looked at me and said:

"God loves you.  I love you.  The children love you.  What more do you want?"

I didn't answer.  I still haven't answered.  I don't know the answer.  I don't even understand the question, I guess.

But it points to somewhere that I want to know.

: : :

And now today.  Monday.

The "baby" (who's really a toddler, I know) cries into my tired ears about cutting molars and not wanting to sit in his highchair and no one understanding what it is that he is trying so hard to do.  And the laundry whirls and the daughters bicker and the stack of papers tap-taps at my brain and the baby cries.

And I'm fasting today.  I want to focus on God and so many things tear me away, over and over.

And the baby cries.

And suddenly I see that even this chaos, this cacophony of neediness, is enough to sustain me.  The tears well again to think of it, but it is:  enough.  Their love for me and God at my side in the midst of the laundry and the baby, is enough to nourish me in this moment.

 ... and the restlessness dissipates in the music of the mundane.

: : :

Every tune composed is made up of notes.  The same notes, available to every songwriter.  It's how they're put together - and the spaces in between - that make music sublime, or not.

Lord, let me string these notes you've given me today into praise ...

: : :

# 780 - 789
            Spice's compassion for the homeless
            prayer:  light in fear's darkness
            my very present Help in trouble
            grace to obey
            that a Bible can be pretty, too
            luxury (responsibility?) of choice
            piercing question, drilling deep:  "God loves you.  I love you.  The children love you.  What more do you want?"
            tears
            abundance from His hand
            my fearless Farmer, who sees possibilities instead of problems

tense

In my Past lives ....

.... I ate simple meals, whatever I was hungry for, at sometimes random hours.  Or elaborate meals, that had no deadline, start or finish.

.... I hopped on my bike on a whim and ride along the ocean road, watching Japanese grandmas collecting seaweed.

.... I cleaned when I noticed dirt - which wasn't often.  Clutter was a single stack of papers on my desk.

.... I sat on the porch, watching the sun set and letting my brain play around with ideas.

.... I ran errands when I needed something, without planning or forethought.

.... I slept in on the weekends.

.... I planned a garden in January, and then in the spring I planted it.  I enjoyed taking care of my garden and took pride in its appearance.

.... I took long walks with my husband on country roads.  We talked about the future and dreamed big dreams.

.... I taught myself to can meat in my spare time.

.... I read for pleasure, not escape.  I stayed up late to finish a good book.

.... I envisioned my future offspring cheerfully following me as I did my work, enriching the experience for us both.

.... I had houseplants, knew their Latin names and their peculiarities of care.

.... I basked in solitude on a regular basis.

I enjoyed my Past, but casually, not cherishing the Present that I had.  People (usually much older than I) tell me that when those days come again in the Future, I won't enjoy them as much as I anticipate doing, the second time around, - instead I'll be missing my children, even their mess and their noise - a different Past.

The Past and the Future beckon with such a deceptive glow.  The Present chafes; I am so unlike the person I had hoped I'd turn out to be.