Free-Range Summer Days

Isaiah (age 8) has taken up baking. He bakes like a happy drunk, tripping around the kitchen, leaving a trail of small disasters in his wake. He dives into each recipe like a boulder dropped into a pond, no caution, all energy. We may or may not have all the ingredients, he may or may not add them in the correct order. He scoops two cups of flour into the one cup measuring cup and scrapes the excess off with a casual flick of his wrist. Flour coats the counter, the floor, his clothes.

 

Often, all of this happens before I’ve stumbled downstairs for my first cup of coffee.

 

The other week while I was out (napping possibly or at the store), I returned to discover all three boys had established vegetable gardens IN-THEIR-ROOMS. They scrounged containers from the recycling bin and planted seeds in soil they found God-only-knows-where. Solomon offered me a pride-filled garden-tour and the twins boasted the convenience of midnight snacks being so close at hand. They love their gardens and water them daily, but I’m having a hard time getting past the act of hauling dirt INTO their rooms. 

 

Speaking of dirt, we’re in the middle of installing an above-ground pool and, in the process, we’ve moved a bunch of soil from one place to the next. It turns out a dirt pile in the yard is even better than in your room and may just be the hottest toy of summer 2020. I’m only hoping they get as much use out of the pool.

 

The other day Isaiah was sitting on the edge of a once-buried cement goldfish pond, a treasure left by the previous owners. We’d planned to dig it up to make room for the pool, but it was built like a cold war bunker, all concrete and rebar, and after going through two jackhammers, we admitted defeat and moved the pool a bit further down the hill.

 

Isaiah, though, sat on the small concrete wall one morning, cutting at a piece of metal with a hacksaw. I guess I should have interrupted that activity, but he was so happy and it was his father who suggested the hacksaw after all. A friend was due soon for a playdate so I called form the back door, “Maybe you should put the hacksaw away. Your friend will be here soon.”

 

“Why,” he asked, looking up from his labor.

 

I paused a beat, then replied, “Well, some parents don’t let their kids play with hacksaws.”   

 

It was later in the kitchen that my daughter repeated the line back to me, laughing and I heard the absurdity. I posted about it then, online and people loved it like they love most of my free-range children's outrageous activities. Some friends comment, "Your kids are having the best childhood." By which, I guess they mean my kids have lots of room to play and explore and test their wills against the wild, wild world. 

I always laugh internally, though, when others (usually mothers) make comments along the lines of, "I admire how much freedom you give your children to create." 

Hah, I think to myself, You're assuming I have a say in the matter. 

On Boundaries and the Necessary Magic of the Word, 'No!'

no

is a necessary magic

no

draws a circle around you

with chalk

and says

i have given enough

- boundaries

(anonymous)

//

I was walking down to the garden the other morning, when a line from Maurice Sendak’s, Where the Wild Things Are ran through my mind. A friend had texted, asking if I might bring flowers in to work. I had paused before replying – I didn’t know if we had flowers left in the garden or not.  More importantly, though, I didn’t know if I had it in me to bring flowers or not.

I texted back, “Lemme see . . .”

After the boys got on the bus, I did a quick internal scan. Did I have it in me to bring in flowers? Yes, I did. Plus, the act of walking through the early morning dew, scanning stems for suitable blossoms, and arranging them in a vase would be good for me.

//

I am someone who grows and cuts flowers to bring into the office. I am someone who spreads poetry in the world, who writes, who tells jokes, and listens, and gives, and gives, and gives.

Most of the time, people like this about me. “We appreciate you,” they say. “You bring something we need.”

Most of the time, I like being liked.

Maybe you do too?

//

Liking being liked can be a problem.

Needing to be liked can be a more serious problem still.

It can lead to a giving that depletes so completely that the giver is left with an empty shell of self.

//

“. . . we’ll eat you up – we love you so!”

This the line I recalled from Sendak’s book. It’s what the wild things say to Max when he’s feeling lonely and longing for “someone who loves him best of all.”

I thought of that line and recognized something in it about the way church work can be; about the way parenting or teaching or any other form of service that involves deep self-giving and sacrifice can be. Caring for young children, tending a sick loved one, feeding a hungry church – all of these have the potential to eat us up, especially if we're looking to them to replace "someone who loves us best of all."

//

I went back and re-read Where the Wild Things Are a few days later.  I read how it’s Max’s realization of his loneliness and need for love that causes him to give up his position as “king” of where the wild things are. Aware of his own needs, Max prepares to leave. This is when the wild things cry, “Oh please don’t go – we’ll eat you up – we love you so!”

Then, a wonderful, magical thing happens in the story: Max says, ‘No!’

Of course, the wild things don’t like this one bit. In response, they “roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.

But Max stepped into his private boat and waved good-bye . . .”

//

I hope you know the power of the word ‘no.’

I hope you see how every ‘no’ is also a ‘yes’ and that choosing self care is sometimes the best gift you can give to the wild things who love you so.

I hope you don’t give in to the “terrible roars” and “gnashing teeth” and “terrible claws;” I hope you have the wisdom to see they love you so and they're just afraid you won’t return.

Go ahead, step into your boat and sail away, “in and out of weeks and through a day” and find yourself home, again, in “your own room” where Someone who loves you best can care for you for a while.

Don’t worry. We know you’ll be back. We know you’ll bring flowers and, probably, a poem or two. We know. Because that’s who you are. 

But that's only part of why we love you so. We love you also for your ability to say, and to help us to learn to say, that magic word, 'no.' 

Origami and God (Fold, Unfold, Refold Again)

Each of my boys has discovered origami sometime between their sixth and seventh year of life.  It always begins with fortune tellers and airplanes, then progresses to boats and paper hats.  Soon, every surface of the house is littered with folded scraps of white copy paper.  Eventually, familiar patterns lose their thrill and we head to the library searching for new patterns to master.  
  

Harder patterns, though, require adult assistance.  Inevitably, I’m called to assist a frustrated child in deciphering vague diagrams and tricky folds.  This, I do, kneeling on the floor by the wood stove with an anxious, eager child peering over my shoulder. 

“Mom!  I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do,” they cry.

“Ok, let me see,” I say.

They want me to be able to look at the picture once and tell them what to do.  But, I need to begin at the beginning, to feel the paper moving through its motions beneath my fingers.    

I follow the patterns step-by-step: fold, unfold, refold again.  Even though I know the desired outcome, the path to completion’s often far from direct.  Jumping ahead is not advisable, so I stay in the moment working slowly, one fold at a time.

Some patterns begin with several steps of folds and creases that are then, one by one, undone.  These folds are preparatory, lining the page with creases that serve as landmarks for the steps ahead.  It would be a tempting but misleading to mistake one of these preparatory folds for a final fold. 

Sometimes I think this may be how God works in our lives – not that our lives are paper, manipulated by God into an unforeseen shape – but every life is filled with folds, some relating directly to the final goal, others only serving as markers along the path.  So much suffering comes from mistaking one from the other – pegging our lives, our identity on something that will, shortly, be unfolded to make way for something else. 

The problem is, from my human perspective, I can’t readily tell the difference between final folds and preparatory folds.  Even the final outcome remains unclear – what are we working toward here, God? A jumping frog? A peaceful crane?

The truth is, I'm not sure God cares nearly as much as I do about the difference between unfolds and final folds, about final outcomes and destinations.  God may be something more like a child, thrilled with the feel of pliable paper, delighting in the joy of shared discovery.

Knowing this, maybe we can learn to move lightly and freely through life, turning and folding, shaped in each moment by what is, rooted in the humility of not knowing, and a deep trust in the goodness of the One in whose hands we rest.  We are being turned, crease by crease, into works of beauty and wonder beyond what we could ever imagine.  This is what redemption means, this folding and unfolding, moving forward, always, toward wholeness.  

Communion (A Five-year-old's Perspective)

The Communion with God is simple, so we will not be dazzled; so we can eat and drink His love and still go about our lives; so our souls will burn slowly rather than blaze.  . . . the Last Supper did not take place on one night in one room, and to eat God's love, we do not have to even open our mouths; we can be walking, sorrowful and confused, with a friend; or working on whatever our boat is, fishing whatever it is we fish for; or we can be running naked, alone in the dark.  The Eucharist is with us, and it is ordinary.  To me, that is its essential beauty: we receive it with wandering minds, and distracted flesh, in the same way that we receive the sun and sky, the moon and earth, and breathing.  

                   - Andre Dubus in Meditations from a Movable Chair

Five-year-old Isaiah loves bread almost as much as he loves his Mama, which is to say, quite a lot.  He also loves juice.  When there's no Sunday school and he's forced to endure the long church service upstairs in the pews, communion - with its tempting combination of both bread and juice - offers a bright respite in the midst of the otherwise boring service. 

Seated during prayer at the service’s beginning on Easter Sunday, he bobs and weaves his head from side to side, searching out the low table at the front of the church.  Then, he exclaims, “I see bread and juice!”

His brother, Levi, sees it too.  “Mom,” Levi says, like someone who’s just discovered cake and ice cream is on the menu for breakfast, “We’re dippin' bread!”

I turn to them, scandalized by their outdoor voices, and stretch my neck forward, my eyes wide, one finger pressed to my lips.  I silently tap my finger to my closed lips.

They settle back in the hard pew to wait.

My boys love communion and my hunch is it’s because they love to eat.  Sometimes this strikes me as sacrilegious, but, mostly, something in their enthusiasm - the way simple appetite and desire breed longing and consummation - also feels right to me.  They're happy to be part, to take part, and receive something good and nourishing.  

When the time comes, at last, I send Levi under his father’s guidance and push Isaiah along ahead of me.  I wonder again, as we exit the end of the pew, about the rightness of allowing children so young to participate in communion, but they’re so happy, so eager, I can’t see holding them back.  We move slowly toward the altar in two lines that bulge and clot the aisle as adults shepherd groups of children.  Seeing my older son behind me, I push him forward too, intending to lean over he and Isaiah both and orchestrate, regulate, their reception of grace.  

Isaiah reaches the half loaf of Italian bread first.  It sits on a plate outstretched in front of his face, level with his big brown eyes.  He reaches for it two-handed, manhandling the loaf which slides forward precariously the slanted plate and the server and I both lunge to stop the fall.  In my mind, Isaiah’s hands are everywhere (germs!) and I grab the loaf to steady it, tearing off a small piece of soft white dough while he wrestles with the dry, flaky crust.  He peels back a sturdy piece as big as his forearm and we turn to the dipping, then back to our seats.  

While the rest of us have quickly dipped and swallowed our own crumbs, he sits in the pew tearing off bite after bite of flaky crust.  When his twin brother asks about the size of his serving, Isaiah replies, with deep contentment, “I didn’t try to get it so big, but it came off, so I kept it.”  

A Word May Come

If you’re lucky enough to be listening,

a word may come in the night while you

wrestle with tangled sheets and

the window unit AC throbs. 

When you’re wide awake 

past your bedtime, 
you might remember 

a line you used to know 
by heart.  

Whether it rises or descends, 

I cannot say, only you will know 

its arrival by a quiet hum

of recognition that strikes 

like heat lightening,

quiet and bright.  

Then you must go

to sleep and in the morning 

the word will still be there

running straight through 

the heart of you, 
like the needle

of a compass.  

You will know, again, the way. 

All that remains is to walk in it.   

We Were Robbed and It Was Good (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

If I were to characterize Jesus' ministry, it would be to refocus people away from a sin focus and onto a life focus.  Where you give your focus, you give your energy.  - Vern Hyndman

Wednesday my husband came home early to take our daughter to the dentist and work on installing a long-awaited dishwasher in our home.  Working to frame a cabinet around the hand-me-down appliance, he trotted out to the garage to cut a piece of wood. 

The counter in the wood shop was empty, no saw.  He looked around in confusion, walked around hunting.  We’re not always very organized with our tools and, after a while, he asked the kids and me whether we’d seen or moved his equipment.  The more he looked around, the more things he found missing.  Reality dawned slowly, someone broke into our garage and stole several of my husband’s large wood working tools – a chop saw, a drill press, an electric drill, among other smaller things. 

Two police officers came to our house that afternoon and spent a good bit of time looking around.  It was all terribly exciting for the kids who hunted the yard and garage for footprints and other clues.  John and I continued to wrap our minds around the forethought and planning it would take – two people at least and a vehicle – to empty his shop of equipment.  We believe they came in the night, Monday night to be precise, while we slept with our bedroom windows closed against the heat and an ancient window unit AC throbbing out all outside noises.

In the middle of helping our kids not be scared and figuring out what we need equipment-wise to move forward, John and I have worked through the anger and discouragement that follows crime.  We’ve talked about the buttons it pushes, how disbelief is followed by anger and then a pervasive sense of futility (or what my husband calls being glum).  We’ve wondered aloud and privately whether this event might change the way we live and, more importantly, the way we think about life itself (which is always behind the way we choose to live).  In the middle of it all, despite the very real loss of tools we cannot really afford to replace, there’s a part of me that wants to call this event ‘good.’ 

When evil arrives, in any form, two of its ugliest fruits are the lies, “you are alone” and “there is not enough.”  With these two lies, evil sets itself up to multiply, because evil flourishes in isolation and scarcity.  

But when we shared about the robbery on facebook, friends near and far expressed concern, outrage and sorrow.   We were reminded, as a friend said, “You are not alone in this!”  Also, within minutes of posting, a friend sent a private message, “We have a drill press you can have,” she wrote.  This generous offer reminded us there’s enough to go around.    

These reminders were indeed good and we count ourselves as lucky because too many people do experience crime in the midst of real and crushing isolation and scarcity.  But, beyond these reminders, there was, I believe, a goodness in the robbery itself, in it happening to us (or, maybe I should speak for myself here – to me). 

It was good, not because theft is good or because I can imagine scenario in which someone really did really need our resources more than us, but because it is true and real.  Crime is a reality, or maybe I should put it another way – sin is a reality. 

Too often I’m prone to pretend it isn’t.

Before we go nodding our heads, though, and clucking our tongues over the state of the world we live in, it might be helpful to remember the words of the Teacher in Ecclesiastes.  “There is nothing new under the sun,” he says.  Just nine verses in to a ten chapter book, and he lays out his sobering conclusion.  It’s almost as though he concludes before beginning, “It is, what it is.”   

It is what it is – robbery, racism, fear, hatred, isolation – all of these things always have been and always will be.  Sit with that for a while, if you will.  Or, if you don’t want to take the Teacher’s word for it, read elsewhere in the bible.  Take the book of Amos, for example, wherein an unlikely prophet calls Israel to task for conflating politics with religion, for allowing robbery and violence to flourish in their midst, for trampling the poor underfoot in a continual rush toward material greed and personal pleasure (7:10-17, 3:10, 5:11, 6:4-6, 2:6-8) all while continuing to perform empty religious rituals (5:21-24).  All of this, among the people of God, mind you. 

Or, read history.  Chose a time, a place, any one, and you will find sin working in obvious and not-so-obvious ways.  It is, what it is. 

Christians must accept the reality of sin.  Small wrong-doings, like a local robbery or the way you treat your kids when you’re tired or hungry or simply done at the end of a long, hot, humid, summer day, can be good reminders.  Local news, national news, international news, these all serve as reminders too, but not when viewed as extraordinary.  The times we live in are like no other and yet, they are like every other time before this.  “There is nothing new under the sun,” the Teacher says, not even evil itself is new or different than it has even been. 

It all seems rather grim, doesn’t it?   

But this is where I see something glimmer, a small nugget of good news tucked right in the middle of the darkness, which is, by the way where we ought to most often expect to find the gospel. 

The good news is this:  there is nothing new.  Not when it comes to evil.  It is and it is the same, without end.  So if we’re going to get up in arms about anything, let it be this – there is nothing new under the sun save for the gospel which is continually and again inviting us and everyone who does and doesn’t look like us and speak like us and pray or sing like us to pitch in and be part of that which has already overcome.

 

We can spend our energy bemoaning evil, which never changes, or we can turn our hearts and minds to the work of God, the way of God, in the world.  We can open our very lives to the power of God in Christ Jesus that's forever redeeming. 

Sin is not new and (good news!) neither is its cure.  And even sin itself, our own or others', can be an invitation, a reminder that we can choose where we place our focus and how we use our energy.  

*   *   *   *

Only 10 spaces left!  I'm super excited to be joining with Andi Cumbo-Floyd and Shawn Smucker to organize a weekend writer's retreat this summer at God's Whisper Farm in the beautiful mountains of Virginia.  Visit Andi's website for more info!

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

Painting, Playing #SmallWonder Link-Up

Sophia asked for art supplies for her tenth birthday and a friend dropped off a huge bag filled to overflowing a few days later.  “I should’ve asked for art supplies for my birthday!” I said, admittedly jealous.  She opened them that night and sprawled them all around the living room floor.  But in the days and weeks after, they sat in her room untouched.    

“When are you going to paint?” I asked the one night after dinner. 

“When I think of something really good to paint,” she said.

“Then you’re never going to do it,” I said.  She huffed and shot me a deflated look. 

“I don’t mean you can’t make something great,” I said, “It’s just, if you wait until you have something great to make, you’ll never do it.” 

She shrugged.

The next time we went to the library I stumbled across a book, Painting Lab for Kids.  Each project focused on a specific skill set.  The ideas were bright, fun, and encouraged experimentation.  I grabbed it for me among the usual stack of Geronimo Stilton and Super Heroes for the boys as well as Sophia’s stack of Nature Encyclopedias.  I looked through my painting book quickly one night before bed and saw Sophia paging through it later the next day.    

Then one random night in the middle of the week I pulled out the book, some hand-me-down canvases, and dug in.  The project I chose involved layering thick swaths of paint in different colors, swirling, then scraping them to make designs.  I tried it once, it was interesting.  I tried again. 

Dipping and scraping, I used an old driver’s license to smear paint, while the kids swirled in and out of the kitchen.    

“What are you making?” they asked.  

“I’m just playing,” I said.  And I was. 

I took a toothpick and carved elaborate flowers in the wet colors.  Then I painted over it, hoping it would somehow show through.  It didn’t and I moved on.  I found a glass jar and began stamping circles, twisting the jar upside-down in two shades of blue.  I liked it, so I kept going.

“What are you doing?” my daughter said.

“I don’t know,” I said.  “I’m just playing.  Why don’t you pick one of the pages and try it too?” 

Miracle of miracles, she did. 

The technique she chose didn’t work terribly well and she grew frustrated, but I kept minding my own business.  “You can always paint over it if you don’t like it,” I said, over and over again. 

Finally, she loosened up.  In the end she found a color scheme she liked, swirling greens, yellows and oranges on the canvas.  She grew pleased with her painting when she stopped forcing it and started playing.  No longer so focused on the outcome, she began to enjoy the process.

 

We were just playing. 

It’s been a week or two since then and I'm feeling the urge to paint again.  I’m eyeing those canvases, wondering if I have the chutzpa to start all over again, painting over the old with something new.  

*   *   *   *

Only 16 spaces left!  I'm super excited to be joining with Andi Cumbo-Floyd and Shawn Smucker to organize a weekend writer's retreat this summer at God's Whisper Farm in the beautiful mountains of Virginia.  Visit Andi's website for more info!

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

The Birthday Flock (#SmallWonder Link-up)

We stuffed them into boxes marked “Smirnoff Ice” and “Captain Morgan’s,” small boxes, free from the local liquor store.  John cut air holes on the ride across town, slicing with his utility knife in the passenger seat while I drove. 

When we arrived at the farm, the chickens, still cooped from the night before and anxious to range, were furious at being boxed one-by-one.  Four of us worked together - grab a chicken, tuck it in a box.  Press down and close the lid, folding the flaps one under the other.  Repeat.

We emailed over a dozen times with the owner who was selling a flock of sixteen at the beginning of the week.  She asked for pictures of our yard, our coop, she delayed making a decision.  Frustrated, we joked she was going to ask for tax returns and references next.  “They’re pets,” she said in the craigslist ad and on email, “These girls are loved.”  One by one, though, her free-range flock was being eaten by predators.  It dwindled to twelve by the time we got there.  One night they watched a fox take one out in the field and her son, twelve, ran to get his pellet gun, but it was too late.  

The birds thrashed and squawked and the boxes, weakened by the overly large air holes, gave under the pressure.  One then another bird toppled their way to escape, so we cornered and dove and the birds’ owner grabbed two by the tail feathers and we figured maybe we didn’t need to be quite as gentle as we’d thought.  Finally we had five birds in boxes and five in a borrowed dog pen.  Two baby polish hens traveled in their own cage.  The adult birds settled as soon as we started driving, but the babies cried a steady stream of peeps. 

With the back seats out, we had a van packed to the gills with chickens and it smelled like it too.  Back home, we stuffed a quick lunch in our faces and went to ready the coop.  Coco sniffed wildly and whined at the van, her tail wagging, eyes pleading.  Then we unpacked the girls, unloading all of the boxes and crates into the coop, and opening them one by one.  They settled in quickly, happy to find their old nesting boxes and piled in two and three at a time to lay eggs for the day.  Because the new coop is big enough to stand in I heard, for the first time, the low purring noise, almost like a growl, they make just before laying an egg. 

The Polish Girls, still in their cage, we tucked into our old chicken coop so they could explore the place.  They’re gray and black speckled with an outlandish white bouffant of feathers on their head.  Later, three of our kids came home and met their newest pets.  That night when Solomon returned from a playdate, he squatted in the dark and rain to look at the Polish hens.  “That one’s mine,” he exclaimed, “I love it with all my heart!” 

Today I’ve had second thoughts and I’m not sure how long this egg production business will last.  There’s a lot of poop involved – that’s the main thing.  But John and I talked about our pets on the way home yesterday, the cats and dog and hens. 

“I really enjoy animals,” I said. 

“Yeah,” he said, “I noticed.”

I told him about watching our tomcat Blackie and the dog, Coco, this spring.  When the weather turned warm for a few unexpected days in March, I felt a sudden pressure to be Out and Active.  But I didn’t know how to be in the yard, what to do, and the twins too seemed at a loss.  Perplexed and discomforted, I watched the cat, though, and the dog, how they sauntered out sniffing the air and pausing every couple of steps.  They laid in the sun, rolled in the grass.  They stretched their way slowly into spring, leisurely shedding winter and opening, as the whole world does in spring, toward a new season.  Watching them, I found freedom to do the same.  

This morning I got to church just in time to hear the tail end of the sermon.  I can’t vouch for the rest of it, but the final slide, the one I saw, was about birds and joy and the songs they sing, the songs we sing.  Chickens don’t sing, per say, but I now know they growl and purr over their nests.  That’s what I thought about when we sang Joy to the World for our closing song, when we repeated the line about “wonders of his love” over and over again in the fourth and final verse.     

*   *   *   *

I'm super excited to be joining with Andi Cumbo-Floyd and Shawn Smucker to organize a weekend writer's retreat this summer at God's Whisper Farm in the beautiful mountains of Virginia.  Visit Andi's website for more info!

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God?  

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.