Empty bottles

I'm in the middle of a writing project, and it's kidnapping ever spare second that I have. "What's for dinner?" the kids ask, and I forage in the fridge for the chicken sausages. (Healthy, right? At least they aren't REAL hotdogs.) But the quiet afternoons are blissful, and I look forward to getting the twins in bed and situating myself at my desk. I get lost in a blizzard of books and papers, and the clock stares me down for the hour and a half I have to somehow think of something meaningful to say. My prayers as I sit down are admittedly very hurried, sounding something like this: "God, don't have a lot of time. You gotta work quick. Praying for your words and your thoughts." And some days, like yesterday, the words are steady, the thoughts cohere, and I close the laptop feeling like something happened. Other days (like today) I feel tired and sluggish. The words limp along, my energy wanes, and I quit before the finish line.

Wanted to share another great read for kids: Winn-Dixie, by Kate DiCamillo. (I've already recommended The Tale of Desperaux and The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by her.) She has a wonderful character in this book, Gloria Dump. Gloria lives in the house with the overgrown yard - the neighborhood kids think she's a witch. But Winn-Dixie, the dog for whom the book is titled, one day gets away from the narrator, Opal, bounds into Gloria's backyard and when Opal finally catches up to him, he's eating a spoonful of peanut butter at the hand of Miss Gloria. She and Opal quickly become friends. Opal herself is a lonely little girl; she and her dad, the Preacher have just recently moved to Florida. Her mom, an alcoholic, left the family years ago. 

Several chapters later, we come to find out that Miss Gloria Dump was herself an alcoholic. And here's the haunting image I just can't get out of my mind. In her backyard, she's strung up empty wine, beer and liquor bottles in a tree. One day she asks Opal, "What do you think about that tree?"

'I said, "I don't know. Why are all those bottles on it?"

"To keep the ghosts away," Gloria said.

"What ghosts?"

"The ghosts of all the things I done wrong."

A great book for talking to your kids about guilt, forgiveness, loneliness, loss, and redemption.

Lipstick?

I am a delinquent blogger. My last post was over two weeks ago. I haven't managed to form any coherent thoughts of late, I guess. And our days have taken a very predictable shape now that school has started. What on earth is really interesting to relate?

Bah humbug to coherence and being funny. Here's the gist of what's going on.

Audrey's now in 2nd grade. "We do a lot of reading and writing, Mom." And other facts of interest about 2nd graders: 2nd graders sit at desks, 2nd grader do timed math tests, and 2nd graders have spelling words like, "meadow." I don't know about Audrey, but I'm liking 2nd grade.

Nathan's in kindergarten. As Camille and I were working the other day on a reading lesson, Nathan notes, "You could be teaching kindergarten because we do this same stuff." OK, so kindergarten's not Harvard, but it's fun. Nathan told me about Evan the other day, a crippled boy in his class. "His legs don't work the way ours do." From there ensues a discussion, tied to our earlier reading of the story of the Good Samaritan, about being a helper. And I thank God for inclusion.

Camille's in preschool, our first to go. Last week, she told me about Michelangelo. They did the most creative project, painting on their backs underneath tables to simulate what it must have been like for Michelangelo to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. We got a book for the library to learn more about Michelangelo, and she soaked it all up. As for the letter for the week? I show her the "w," and she stares blankly at the paper. "Y?" she answers quizzically. More work to do here.

Andrew and Colin: Colin has been officially crawling for a month. Andrew is content to sit and play with his toys. He's not as happy when Colin bulldozes him and steals whatever is his hand. They're at such a fun stage.

And it's getting easier. Never easy, but easier. Here's a glimpse at a typical morning. 7 a.m., everyone's up. I start feeding the babies their cereal, and Nathan unloads the dishwasher from the night before. Audrey takes cereal orders, and Camille demands Honey Nut Cheerios. "We don't have Honey Nut Cheerios," Audrey explains. Camille insists on Honey Nut Cheerios a few hundred more times, and Audrey says "Fine, you're not having anything." Meanwhile, Nathan's built the leaning tower of Pisa with the cups he's unloaded from the dishwasher. I goad him to finish the job. I take a break from the babes to pour the apple juice. Everyone wants straws, and I give in, a move I later regret when the apple juice bubbles over the rims of their cups and makes a sticky mess on the kitchen table.

I'm back to feeding the babes, everyone's got their cereal, everyone that is but Camille. "Where's Camille's cereal?" I ask Audrey, who explains she's not eating this morning because she wanted Honey Nut Cheerios and we don't have any. Nope, not an option, everyone's got to eat. Camille agrees to Shredded Spoonfuls. 

7:45 by this time, and I think, Great, we've got some time. Don't have to leave until 8:15. Mistake. I send Audrey to practice piano, and I work on getting the babes changed and dressed. From upstairs, I simultaneously wipe a dirty bottom and call down to Audrey, "Those are quarter notes, aren't they?" Audrey needs help with the metronome - I run down to adjust it, run back up before Colin's found the stairs. He's managed to pull the trash can on its side, and that's not the place you want to be putting your hand in the babies' room.

I forgot Andrew on my way up, so I'm back down to get him. I hear a muffled, "Mommy, can you wipe me?" Camille's calling for me. If I were Ryan, I'd yell back, "Wipe yourself!" but I dutifully run to the basement with Andrew in my arms, juggle him to one hip, wipe her with my free hand. I wash the offending hand (the other one I need) and run back upstairs. "Staccato with the left hand, Audrey!" I yell down as she continues to practice.

"Five minutes, and we gotta go!" 

We make it out the door on time, and if there's a spare 30 seconds, I brush my teeth. As for lipstick, well, who's got time for that?

'

Bull in a china shop

I spoke way out of turn tonight in our book club. A group of women has gotten together over the summer to talk about the book, Emotionally Healthy Spirituality. A good read, I think, and I'm taking from it some wisdom. I've learned things I didn't know about myself. Like, I'm really comfortable with anger, not so much with sadness or disappointment. I'm decent at conflict - seeking someone out when there's weird tension, trying to talk in through, but I'm more of an avoider that I think. God's growing courage in me - courage to be who He wants me to be, courage to disappoint people, courage to speak truth when it's called for.

But courage wasn't called for tonight. Compassion was more in order. Someone shares her struggles with trusting in God's goodness. She admits stumbling over the process of forgiveness, and tonight shares that what's most difficult about forgiving. It's acknowledging that God has not spared you from whatever offense it is that has caused such deep pain.

I don't remember what her exact words were, but I felt her accusing God of injustice and evil. My blood started to boil. I wasn't angry with her. I was angry at Satan, angry at the lies he keeps feeding God's people, that somehow God's intentions towards His people aren't completely good. 

I'm writing an issue for Today in the Word now, a study of Exodus. And what's become clear to me is that one of the most fundamental questions each of us has to answer if we want to walk with God is, "Can God be trusted?" Those of us raised in Bible churches know the right answer. But does our heart agree with our head on this one? When pain is real, it's that much harder to acknowledge God's goodness. But it's all the more necessary.

Realistic expectations.

We successfully returned from another road trip this past weekend. Successfully, I say, because there were no angry exchanges in the car, no hurdling over seats to squeeze cheeks and utter threats. Why was this trip different from the last? One reason: realistic expectations. 

Everything is better when I'm realistic about life and about myself and about others. 

I've been starting my days with thoughts like, "This day is going to be hard. There's a lot of work to do." The babies will be fussy, the house will be chaotic, and I'm going to be exhausted. Period. Don't expect more than this. And if God grants a quite cup of coffee in the afternoon with twenty peaceful minutes to read, embrace it as a gift. But don't demand it.

Second, I'm getting more realistic about myself. "I'm a screw-up," is what I decided my most recent mantra should be. Which has sent me into a tailspin theologically. I've started to wonder, What's the most important thing we are supposed to acknowledge about ourselves? Is it that we are unconditionally and fully loved by God? Or is it that we are fatally flawed at the core of our being, sinful as the Bible puts it?

For me, I find it helpful to remind myself that I'm going to screw things up. Yes, thank God, He's changing me, rooting out some of the ugliest parts of who I've been for these part 34 years. But I'm still a screw up. No longer should I be shocked when I fall short of my own expectations. Ideals are good. Goals are important. But the truth is, try as I might, I'm failing. Each day that I acknowledge that, I'm closer to relying on God's grace.

And if I can acknowledge my own shortcomings, perhaps I can give a little bit more grace to those around me. Let them fail me. Instead of anger or buried disappointment, maybe there could be patience. 

Anniversary

It's quiet at our house this morning. The babes are taking their morning nap, and Ryan took the older three camping last night. My mother-in-law called last night and left a message with a note of concern in her voice: "You won't be lonely tonight, will you?" The quiet is a gift, a lifeline. I fight the anxiety to spend it well!

Tomorrow is our anniversary - 12 years. How do 12 years go by so quickly? It feels like we've lived several lives in this short span - a lifetime ago it was that both of us went to work in the dark hours of the morning and came home exhausted. We lived then in such separate spheres: Ryan, studying for his exams, working; me, teaching, coaching, grad school. I remember how easily it could have all fallen apart, this marriage of ours. I remember God's mercy in preserving us and protecting us. There's no doubt there are three people in this marriage. 

When I married Ryan, I knew he was "the one" because he was the only man I'd every truly admired. That is true still today. I love this man, I respect his man, and I admire this man. Yes, there are faults and shortcomings. Read past blogs and you'll find mention of some. But what's most true is that I depend on Ryan for so much. These past seven months have been full as we've grown to a family of seven. I expected sleep deprivation and stress: I didn't expect the laughter. If for nothing else, God gave me Ryan to keep me from taking myself and life too seriously. 

 They leave for camping yesterday afternoon, and Ryan turns back to say: "If I call you, it's for one of two reasons. Either Camille has lost a leg, or you need to come and get her." (God bless her, Camille is hell-bent on testing every fiber of our parenting resolve.)

Or when the family conspires to cut my step-father's comb-ups. Ryan sends me a hilarious Dilbert cartoon, picturing Dilbert's boss with his own version of comb-ups. The subject line states wryly, "Guy on the left." That sends me into hysterical laughter for a good 10 minutes. 

When the family is coming apart at the seams, he asks, "OK, so who's getting voted off the island?"

For the serious actuarial type that he is, this guys is pretty darn funny.

 

Twelve years can race by, and you can still be in love with the same man. 

Birds and Bees

"Somehow, I didn't picture having this conversation over dinner." And neither had I. Earlier this afternoon, I'd seen Audrey in the basement, reading a book from our teach-your-kids-about-sex series (God's Design for Sex - Stan Jones). I thought it was the first book in the series, the one that sort of eases them into things like the proper names for anatomical parts, etc. It also introduces basic concepts of Christian marriage and family. We've already read this book together with all of our kids. But we hadn't yet gotten to book two, the one that tells about S-X. Book two is suggested for ages 5-8, and this summer, Ryan and I had agreed we needed to read it with Audrey.

She beat us to the punch. And right in the middle of dinner, she started talking about how a baby begins as small as a little dot. I asked, "What book were you reading down there?" She runs downstairs to get it, and I see it's the S-X book. Oh boy. Here we go.

"Let's read that book together after dinner." The other four get bathed and tucked into bed, and Audrey and I go upstairs to snuggle up with the S-X book. (Cozy, isn't it?) I'd never pictured feeling awkward about this moment. And honestly, I really wasn't. The book does all the hard work - you just have to read it. As we read the part on puberty and your body changing, she insists (looking down her shirt), "that's happening to me!" I explain that the changes the book was describing don't happen until you're closer to 12, 13, or 14. Then she looks at my chest and asks, "How long does it take to grow those?" "A couple of years." YEARS??" she asks incredulously and with great disappointment.

Moving on, the book describes S-X, and it doesn't mince words. (God forbid, my daughter's going to be the one at school setting everyone straight that S-X isn't just kissing and hugging!) We finish, and I say, "You will be curious about this and will have more questions. I definitely would prefer you asking me rather than your friends who may not know the right answers or God's way." She asks me a few questions, a little giggly and awkward. And we finish our conversation with a short prayer, that God would protect her and prepare her to love her husband, that she would be faithful to God and to her husband by choosing God's way, etc. 

August 2nd, sex talk, check!

Protection

Ryan put the prayer book by the bed last night. If you read my last blog, you might well imagine that I was hardly in the mood for prayer. But I opened the book anyways and starting reading aloud.

"Because you have made the Lord your refuge, and the Most High your habitation, there shall no evil happen to you, neither shall any plague come near your dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways. They shall bear you in their hands, lest you dash your foot against a stone."

The "retiring prayers," as they're called, are the same for the month. Monday's prayer is read every Monday in July, etc. So as I read last night (Monday), I was remembering having read the same words last Monday. . .the day of Ryan's car accident.

He was on 294, traveling 60+ miles/hour in morning traffic, and a car started fishtailing and swerved right in front of him, clipping his left front tire and sending him careening into the next two lanes. Miraculously, those lanes were empty. Providentially, his car did not slam into a concrete barricade (which extends through most of this construction zone) but in a grassy ditch.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, I prayed when I hung up the phone with him early last Monday morning. I know we're not always spared tragedy in this life, but I'm grateful for this rescue.

"For he will give his angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways."