Twins, the Cross & Community

(A stomach bug arrived at our house last week and returned again today, wreaking havoc on my writing plans and life in general.  So, I thought it might be a good time to re-post this one from the archives, from back when the twins were just 18 months old and we lived, daily, in a sea of chaos both deep and wide.)  

Looking at Stars

The God of curved space, the dry

God, is not going to help us, but the son

whose blood splattered
the hem of his mother’s robe.

- Jane Kenyon

“You know you have blood on your shirt, right?” my husband asked.

I was getting ready to meet a friend at a restaurant after a long, exhausting day and my husband was concerned with the bloody stain on my shoulder. 

“No,” I said, “I already changed my shirt once.  Did you see his clothes?”  I led him over to the laundry basket and showed him our eighteen-month-old son’s clothes, streaked and stained with splotches of red.  It had been a bloody day. 

That morning I stood at the bathroom sink holding Levi who cut his finger on a can he looted from the recycling bin.  I turned his body out away from me, hoping to avoid staining my new shirt.  But while I rooted through the medicine cabinet, looking for a band aid, blood gushed out of the tiny cut. 

It ran in a bright red stream
     down the hand that held him,
          splashing onto my pants and shoes as he waved his little hand around.

It drop,
      drop,
          dropped
                    to the beat of his pulse, 
falling onto the white counter-top like so many crimson beads off of a broken necklace.  I felt it clinging to the hairs on the back of my hand and marveled at its rich scarlet hue. 

I called my four-year-old to fetch a washcloth while Levi's twin, Isaiah, wandered in anxious circles by my feet.  Finally, we all sat down at the dining room table and I doled out band aids with great liberality.  I put two or three on the finger that still gushed and two or three on other fingers and on his other hand in hopes of distracting him from pulling them off.  Then, of course, Isaiah needed some too and my assistant, the four-year-old, as well as the little girl I was babysitting. 

It wasn’t until later that I noticed Isaiah had blood on him too, places where it had splashed and splattered as he stood nearby watching me tend his brother. 

Looking at Isaiah’s splotched clothes, I thought, “When your brother bleeds, it gets on you.  This is what it means to be a brother.  This is what community really is.” 

*   *   *   *   *

Blood is messy and vital, rich, and yet we talk of it so complacently.   Somehow, in our dainty sipping of communion cups, we manage to miss the mess and I wonder if, in missing it, we don't also miss the communion.

Christ came and died on the cross, where blood drop,
                                                                                  drop,
                                                                                       dropped out,
splattering onto those who gathered near.  This is the community that Jesus establishes, a blood-splattered, blood-drinking communion of sinners turned saints.   

 *   *   *   *   *

The stomach bug hit later in the week.  It started with Levi in the middle of the night standing, crying in his crib and we went through layer after layer of sheets and pajamas, as my husband and I tag-teamed the dual tasks of comfort and cleaning.  Isaiah stood in his own crib, just a few feet away, looking-on, bleary-eyed and curious and each time we laid Levi back down to sleep and crept our way back out of the room, Isaiah laid down too. 

By the next day they were both down with the bug and I sat holding them on the couch while John took the older kids to the store to stock up on saltines and Pedialyte.  I sat in the corner of the couch with Levi in my left arm and he drifted into a deep sleep, exhausted and drained.  Isaiah fussed, tossing and turning in my right arm, slipping off, then turning and begging his way back up into my lap the second his feet hit the ground. 

Levi slept on through it all, so I didn’t dare move and just about the time I was getting frustrated with Isaiah he turned, suddenly, and threw-up all over me and his brother.  Levi woke, of course, as I grabbed a changing pad and laid it across my soaked chest.  But then, just like that, they both dropped off into a heavy sleep. 

When my husband came home some forty minutes later, we were sitting there still, the three of us covered in Isaiah’s vomit and I thought, again, “This is what community is.  When your brother, throws up, it gets on you.” 

*   *   *   *   *

I wonder sometimes about how we do community these days, all distance and convenience, all house-picked-up and table-manners-please.  Community, real community, is a cracking, bleeding thing.  It’s the voice that breaks into a sob on the phone without holding back and the “oh, thank God, you stopped by because I didn’t know how I was going to make it through this day.” 

Maybe we settle for something less because we’re afraid that, if anyone gets too close, we’ll vomit our messy lives all over them.  But isn't it possible, my friends, that this bloody, messy communion, this breaking open of our lives like so many loaves of of bread, is what it’s really all about?

Outlaws and Rebels, Every One

Butch Cassidy and The Wild Bunch (Photo Source)

(To celebrate my new web page and in honor of Valentine's Day, I'm re-sharing some old posts this week focusing on the topic of love.  Today's post is from February 2013. Stop back tomorrow for another look at the many ways love finds us.)

*   *   *

"They crucified two rebels with him, one on his left and one on his right." Matthew 27:38

*   *   *   *   *

My 18 month-old twins saunter through the house with swaggering bravado like two black-hats straight out of the lawless west.  Working together, they form a mafia-esque crime-ring, a rebellious conspiracy against law and order and decency.  Trafficking in black market goods pilfered from the pile of floor-sweepings in the kitchen corner, they gather on the back of the love seat, perched in the window to inspect and trade their haul.  

They rip the heads off of their sister’s dolls and leave graffiti on the living room walls and every time I kneel to zip Isaiah’s coat, Levi circles around behind me and roots through my purse.  A gifted pick-pocket, he snatches my wallet and phone with such speed, stealth and precision that even I, the victim, have to marvel.  

When one is finally caught red-handed, and placed in solitary (ie. the corner) the other comes quickly to the rescue, crouching down beside him, chattering what I imagine are plans of daring-escape and revenge.  Like true accomplices, though, they quickly turn on each other when caught together at the scene of a crime – a mutually enjoyed destruction turns all finger-pointing and tears when the fuzz shows up.  

The other day I watched Levi running through the house with what appeared to be a little shiv.  It sported a jagged, plastic tip and looked capable of inflicting real harm, so I quickly confiscated it, tossing it into the trash.  

As we lay in bed at night, my husband and I hear a “scritch, scratch, scritch” on the bedroom wall near our heads.  Levi’s crib sits just on the other side of the wall, so we sleep head-to-head, divided only by a few thin inches of plaster.  We tell ourselves he’s rubbing the nubby bottoms of his footed pajamas against the wall, but as I lay listening late into the night, I think of that little shiv and wonder if he isn’t tunneling his way to freedom one tiny scratch at a time.  I picture him tumbling through into our bed some night, his face full of surprise and delight to find us there waiting.   

These boys are outlaws, I tell you.  Even so little, so cute, they have a rap sheet a mile-long.   Looking at their round faces, their hair all downy-fluff, I'm reminded that we’re all thieves, all outlaws of one sort or another, every last one of us.  We’re all Davids and Delilahs, Judases and Peters, bent on greed and self-preservation.  We're all convicted, but not condemned, chiseling our way toward freedom, one tiny crack at a time, until at last we fall through the walls built of our own resistance.  Imagine our faces, then, full of surprise and relief to find ourselves landing in the lap of a love so wide and deep even our darkest sins can never exempt us from its reach.   

This is Four (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

Almost to the library's exit, he stops and leans in the office window.  He’s Dennis the Menace with a buzz cut.  His puffy red winter coat hangs unzipped and flapping, bright blue rain boots peak out from under brown fleecy pants.  Two library books travel tucked under an arm. 

“You organizing things?” he asks.  The hand he talks with flaps along with his words.  I hang back, watching to see whether the librarian will untangle his garbled words without my intervention. 

She does, and a short conversation ensues.  He’s all charm and delight and she’s grateful for an interruption. 

Then, “Mom?” he asks, in his overly loud serious voice, “What’s that heart shaped thing?” 

It’s a whiteout dispenser, not exactly heart shaped, but close enough.  The librarian demonstrates its abilities before the twins who peer in wonder. 

“Mom?!,” he shouts again though I’m standing only a few feet behind.  He’s done with casual conversation and pushing through the door.  “Can you get me one of those?  I can use it in my office.”

He has an office he built himself, under the laundry table and, naturally, he keeps it well-stocked with office supplies.  These he keeps separate from his tools which are stored in a wide variety of tool boxes ranging from metal to cardboard to plastic.   And the tools and office supplies are never mingled with his “weapons,” which he keeps in stashes in the living room and his bedroom. 

He’s my little “worker man,” the one who casually announces how he will split his time as an adult, between working and helping me out at home.

Before the brief window conversation he stood exploring the library’s vestibule while I checked out a tower of books. “What’s this?  What’s that?  Where’s the light switch?” he yells.  “Where’s the light switch?!  I found a light!”  Like some little grand inquisitor, he surveys every new environment, hunting out any unknown gadget or machine. 

In the children’s section, he hovers near the board books.  He chooses a bible story book, because it has a handle, a Dora book (because of its flaps) among others.  His selections baffle me.  I don’t want to bring home board books, they’re boring and so small they’re too easily lost.  In a compromise, I sort through the pile, paring it down to a manageable mole hill and suggest we sit for a few minutes to read the ones we aren’t bringing home.

For once, they accept my suggested deal without negotiation.  We pile together in a big, red armchair forming a mountain of people, boots and coats.  The twins rest, one on each leg, leaning back against me as I lean back into the chair.  The weight of their bodies on me is a welcome comfort, the heat and pressure of presence like I would imagine a hot stone massage might feel. 

Their weight in my lap feels like coming home, always, and in the midst of its joy and comfort, I'm aware of this season's ending. 

We wander through a sparkly princess book about friends and then two more picture books snatched from a nearby windowsill.  The boys bake on top of me, zipped up fully in their winter coats.  They grow still under the soothing waves of words and I feel first one then another yawn expand and then deflate Levi’s barrel chest. 

I'm caught here in this time between where one moment my lap is filled with drowsy little boy and the next he's amicably chatting up the librarian and collecting resources for the next time he needs to "work for awhile" in his office.  

This is four, this moment between inhale and exhale that lasts only as long as you can hold your breath. 

But the truth is, it never lasts, nothing does. 

Rather than holding my breath, I’m learning to breathe deep, to lean-in to the blessing of each moment as we move along together, these boys, these blessings and I. 

*   *   *

Guess what?  We finally have a #SmallWonder button!  If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.  

Are you or do you have writer friends local to the PA, Maryland, New Jersey area?  If so, would you consider attending or sharing the information about the upcoming writing retreat to be held here at the farm house?  You can find more details under the Writing Retreat tab.

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for the 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.   

Twins, Terrorists and Vulnerability (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

        When the twins were first born they both fit in one single stroller and routinely fell asleep tangled together.  

They sit side-by-side on the paper covered exam table, ready for their annual pediatric well-visit.  Clothed only in their Super Hero tightie-whities, they're “skin-skin-skin” everywhere.  Impossibly long legs dangle, long arms stretch, and bright little-boys faces gone round and full again in a growth spurt, shine.  They're barrel chested, broad shouldered men-in-the-making at four-years-old. 

Levi asks about the narrow extension at the head of the table.  “Is it for your head when you lay down?  Will it hold me up?” 

“It’s the plank,” I say, invoking the image of a pirate ship.  “If you’re bad the Doctor makes you walk it.” 

His face shines with delighted disbelief. 

“Is that true?” he demands.

When the doctor comes in she begins by asking them questions and they jostle and jockey between themselves to be the first to reply, the one to give the most detailed answer.  Part way through the questions Levi pipes up out of turn.

“Wait!  If she’s just talking to us, why do we have our pants off!”   

My husband and I laugh, he’s right.  The doctor assures them an exam will follow.  

While they talk the boys, first seated at separate ends of the table so the nurse would be sure not to confuse them, shift closer together.  Levi skootches the length of the paper sheet until he’s snuggled in at Isaiah’s side, nearly knocking his brother off the table.  Half-naked they huddle there, skin to skin intuitively finding comfort in each other in the midst of their vulnerability.   

Watching, I am reminded it has always been this way.

First home from the hospital (and for months to come) we laid the twins to sleep together in a bassinet or crib.  Unable to roll, to move really at all, like every newborn, we were careful to place them swaddled a foot or so apart, worried they would somehow suffocate each other.  

Returning to check on them in the night, though, we almost always found them tucked close together, their heads turned into the familiar scent and warmth of the other.  Unable to move hardly at all, unable really even to see, they each somehow shifted until their faces touched, their warm, milk-scented baby breath mingled together. 

This morning I am sitting with the wonder of these boys, the way they allow vulnerability to draw them closer together rather than push them apart.  In the wake of this weekend's terrorist attacks, in the light of so much fear and struggling world round and in our very own hearts, I am left with some simple questions . . . 

What will I do with my vulnerability?  

What will we do with our vulnerability?  

Will we allow it to draw us closer together or push us further apart?    

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the 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.  

Questions We Carry (#SmallWonder Link-up)

“How will them love me?”

This from my little boy with big brown eyes, like a puppy.  Standing in front of me this morning in his new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt, backpack on, he adds, “I have a new shirt.”

//

“I feel . . . what’s the word? Not scared . . .” 

Blond hair, blue-green eyes, he scrunches his face in the morning sunlight.  Gears turn as he searches for the new word he’s learned in the days leading up to the first day at a new preschool.  The new word gives name to something he’s known up until now only by its bodily sensation. 

“Nervous?” I offer.

“Yeah!” he says, “Nervous.”

Naming it eases the tension in his face.  For now, naming it is enough.

//

“I feel scared.  What if I don’t know all the letters?” Isaiah asks.

The older two have boarded buses headed to separate schools and the twins are strapped into the van.  Then we too are off.  Just down the road, we pass the old preschool.

“When will we see our teachers again?” Isaiah asks, in a tone of melancholy.  “Them really loved us.”

//

These little boys of mine will be fine, but oh, their honest, transparent hearts.  Their simple words, their freedom to be utterly vulnerable with me.

In their openness, they open a window to my own heart – to each of our hearts.  For we each carry within us similar questions, similar fears. 

How will they love me?

What if I don’t know enough?

This day, I hope you will take time to tend to the child within you.  The one that asks such simple, clear questions.  I hope you will remember that each person you meet also carries similar questions.  That within the eyes of a stranger you will see the eyes of a little boy, a little girl, who simply wants to know they are loved. 

And you?  Yes, you?

Oh, friend, you are loved.  You are enough.

May you hear the voice of the One who calls you Beloved.   

*   *   *

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the 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.  

    

Two is Greater Than One (A Bike, A Stroller and the Things We Think We Know)

Bare chested, my three-year-old twins ride, stacked, in the low-rider bike.  Isaiah can’t pedal and Levi’s legs are too short to reach, so they tag-team.  Isaiah sits in the back - a place-holder, and Levi in front - the engine pulling them forward.  Flesh pressed against flesh, they zip around the driveway, giddy with speed, shouting their little-boy slogans, planning to take over the world.

I pulled out the double jogging stroller this morning, preparing to sell it.  They climbed in and begged me to push them around.  I walked them up and down the driveway, flat tire and all, remembering the feel of the handle on my hand and the presence of my older son as we walked all over town in the early days and years of their lives.  Day after day they sat facing the world together in that stroller, side-by-side, a binky-toting, onesie wearing, unified front.

This is back when the two of them were small enough to share one single shoulder.  They often slept tangled together in a cozy knot.

Pretty quickly they graduated into the double stroller.  Look at those sweet little bundles!

There they are - a "binky-toting, onesie-wearing, unified front."

//

Yesterday, rolling through the grocery store, side-by-side again in a giant cart, they made a joint decision to move their birthday to Spring.  “You can’t do that,” I said, “your birthday is what it is.  It’s the day you were born.”

Passing customers grinned as they often do – these boys talk with their volume set on LOUD all. the. time.  

  

I remember sitting at a lunch table once, discussing twins with friends.  A kind-hearted soul bemoaned how difficult it would be to never have a birthday of your very own – to always have to share that day with someone else. 

This is how we see it in our culture, isn’t it, a loss to have to share something?  But I wonder if we aren’t the ones missing out.  Maybe these boys are the lucky ones, always having someone to share with, someone to pedal when you can’t. 

//

Yesterday was the last day of their first year of preschool and they arrived home, oblivious of the brief evaluation tucked into each of their little backpacks.  They don’t know their letters or numbers, cannot identify common colors or shapes – apparently, they’re behind.

But I am learning from them still – the way they know instinctively, two is greater than one.

//

Earlier this week I purchased a fifty pound bag of chicken feed.  After trying, unsuccessfully, to hoist it over my shoulder, I walked to the car with it wrapped precariously in front of me, a bulging sack cradled in my spindly arms.  I remembered then, as I often do, how I gained about sixty pounds when I was carrying the twins and the mere thought, the mere memory, of walking under all of that weight was enough to cause my pelvic floor to groan.

I carried those boys, tangled together, Isaiah holding his place at the bottom and Levi riding on top.  For nine months, they led me, bulging out in front, their flesh pressed together, growing in their knowing.  And they lead me still.

Steadfast Love (#SmallWonder)

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. - Lamentations 3:22

The field, the road, the driveway were covered when I crept down the stairs in early morning dark.  Dry white flakes drifted all morning long, through devotions and breakfast battles and the big out-the-door rush.  Slowly my own plans for the morning fell apart – the roads looked bad and bundling the twins to pick up the sitter felt like more than I could handle.  

I don’t do well with that – the letting go and shifting of agendas, the surrender of a planned escape.  Fortunately it’s a move I’m privileged to practice over and over again. 

The snow finally stopped by late afternoon and the sun broke out like a warm smile, so the twins and I headed out to investigate the altered landscape.  It was all there – the natural beauty of white laid out, like powdered sugar coating everything.  The sky was blue, like it hasn’t been for days this side of the New Year.  Then also, there was the joy of work, the fun of scraping the shovel along the side-walk and driveway, the satisfaction of exertion that didn’t involve the sink or laundry or sweeping the floors. 

The twins – two three-year-olds with their hoods up and mittens on, clomping and stomping along in their winter boots – were a joy to behold.  All morning long they ate snow by the fire indoors, scooping it into their mouths from a cup I filled again and again as they waited to go out and play.  Outside they shoveled railroad tracks across the driveway and turned a little plastic mower into a snow blower. 

Then they remembered snowballs and scooped up handfuls of dried fluff to aim at my knees and shins.  Levi spun around in a full circle with every throw, not noticing the snow had fallen before he even began.  Dry snow clung to my corduroys making bright white stripes against navy blue. 

I shoveled a path to the road for the older two coming home later on the bus then, infiltrated by the cold, we walked back up the driveway to head inside. 

Blessing was there, the entire day, as it is every day and the harder I clung to disappointment, the harder it was to find it.  The deeper surrender set-in, the more I let go of what might-have-been and sank into what was, the more I could sense blessing hovering on the periphery like a small white dove. 

I wanted it bad – wanted to feel the joy of God’s presence, that falling-open and dropping into place that comes when I stand flat-footed on the ground that’s solid, always, right where I am.  Walking toward the garage, under the blue sky and sun, I thought, “It’s almost there, but not quite” and for the briefest of moments I was disappointed. 

Then it seemed clear to me, clear like the light blue sky, that it didn’t really matter. 

The blessing of love and acceptance, of guidance and care are there, always, whether I can feel it quite completely or not.  The steadiness, consistency and presence of God’s love is neither dependent on my awareness nor diminished by my unawareness. And that, is no small wonder.  

*   *   *   *

Welcome, friends, to the #SmallWonder link-up.

What if we chose to deliberately look for the 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 would gather together here each week (or as often as we're able) to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days. 

You're invited to link-up a brief post of about five hundred words or less 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.

Looking for Unforced Rhythms?  We're a community in transition.  We invite you to consider whether this new link-up meets your needs and to participate as you're able.  

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

Outlaws and Rebels (for "Black Hats" Everywhere)

Don't you just love this old picture I stumbled across online?

[The holiday break's officially over and as I headed out to wait for the bus with the older two, the twins were ecstatic to have a few moments to themselves to "steal" something from the kitchen.  I knew this because they announced their plan over and over again all morning long, eagerly anticipating the moment when they would scavenge for gum and candy in the kitchen cupboards.  The thought of getting away with something gives them such a thrill and, since half the time it's a bag of bread from the drawer or a giant stalk of broccoli when my back is turned, I often let them get away with it.  Ah, such is the luck of youngest children.  

This weekend we shared dinner with friends who also have four children spread in age just as ours are, but their twins (girls) are about a year younger.  It's always good to be with them, good to remember how it was (just a year ago), to feel that things have gotten a little easier and commiserate on how hard it all continues to be.  All of this brought to mind this old post from 2013.  Enjoy!]

"They crucified two rebels with him, one on his left and one on his right." Matthew 27:38

 

My 18 month-old twins saunter through the house with swaggering bravado like two black-hats straight out of the lawless west.  Together, they form a mafia-esque crime-ring, a rebellious conspiracy against law and order and decency.  Trafficking in black market goods pilfered from the pile of floor-sweepings in the kitchen corner, they gather on the back of the love seat, perched in the window to inspect and trade their haul.  

They rip the heads off of their sister’s dolls and leave graffiti on the living room walls and every time I kneel to zip Isaiah’s coat, Levi circles around behind me and roots through my purse.  A gifted pick-pocket, he snatches my wallet and phone with such speed, stealth and precision that my frustration is mixed with marvel. 

When one's finally caught, red-handed, and placed in solitary (ie. the corner) the other comes quickly to the rescue, crouching down beside him, chattering about what I imagine are plans of daring-escape and revenge.  Like true accomplices, though, they quickly turn on each other when caught together at the scene of a crime – a mutually enjoyed destruction turns all finger-pointing and tears when the "fuzz" shows up.  

The other day I watched Levi running through the house with what appeared to be a little shiv.  It sported a jagged, plastic tip and seemed capable of inflicting real harm, so I quickly confiscated it, tossing it into the trash.  

Lying in bed at night my husband and I hear a “scritch, scratch, scritch” on the bedroom wall near our heads.  Levi’s crib sits just on the other side of the wall so we sleep head-to-head, divided only by a few thin inches of plaster.   

We tell ourselves he’s rubbing the nubby bottoms of his footed pajamas against the wall, but listening late into the night, I think of that little shiv and wonder if he isn’t tunneling his way to freedom in a scene straight out of The Fugitive.  Chipping away, one tiny scratch at a time, I picture him tumbling through into our bed some night, his face full of surprise and disappointment to find us there or, more likely, delighted.  

These boys are outlaws, I tell you - how can ones so little, so cute, already have a rap sheet a mile-long?   Looking at their round little faces, their hair all downy-fluff, I'm reminded that we’re all thieves, all outlaws of one sort or another, every last one of us.  We’re all Davids and Delilahs, Judases and Peters bent on greed and self-preservation.  We're all convicted, but not condemned, chiseling our way toward freedom, one tiny crack at a time, until at last we fall through the wall to Love.   

//

What's the worst trick you played as a child?  Did you get away with it??


Linking with the community at Unforced Rhythms.

Impossible (Advent Week 4)

The Annunciation by Henry Ossawa Tanner, 1897

In the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent by God to a town in Galilee called Nazareth, to a virgin engaged to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David. The virgin’s name was Mary. And he came to her and said, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.”  But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.  The angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God.  And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus.  He will be great, and will be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David.  He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”  Mary said to the angel, “How can this be, since I am a virgin?”  The angel said to her, “The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you; therefore the child to be born will be holy; he will be called Son of God.  And now, your relative Elizabeth in her old age has also conceived a son; and this is the sixth month for her who was said to be barren.   For nothing will be impossible with God.”  Then Mary said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” Then the angel departed from her.     - Luke 1:26-38

I don't have any new words, friends, for this old, old passage seems too full of light for me to grasp.  Although Mary has been my Advent companion for the past several years, this week I find myself out in the dark, cold fields with the shepherds, out somewhere in the wild darkness still, waiting for the light, yearning for a star and a song to rend the night.  But I can share a few old words of my own, a story written back in the early days of being a family of six, when the shock of a surprise pregnancy of twins was still wearing off in the summer of 2012.  May you be blessed wherever you find yourself this week.  

* * * * *

Impossible . . .  

Snacks at our house are served in small glass Pyrex bowls - that and baby food and cereal and anything else that needs to be consumed.  They’ve also been used to serve cheerios to pet ants in the back yard and make a perfect bed for my daughter’s small, white beanie-baby kitten.  

We have almost ten of these bowls and go through nearly all of them on a daily basis.  When the twins are old enough to take part in the great American tradition of sitting in front of the TV with a snack in hand we will go through even more of these bowls.  

The other day I ordered four more from Amazon, thinking we’d stock up, but I accidentally ordered the wrong size – 6oz, not 10.  One morning I served my four year old his cereal in one of these new bowls and he noticed the difference right away.  

“Mom, this bowl shrank!  How did it shrink?!”  

I couldn’t resist telling him that I did it.  I wove an elaborate tale about how I was very tired because shrinking bowls was hard work and I’d stayed up all night to do it.  

His questions abounded, “How did you do it?  Can you shrink more?”  

“No, only four – it’s very hard work,” I replied.  

“Did you put them in hot water?” “Can you shrink me?”  

Later, on the way to preschool, he commented from the back of the van, “Boy, you must be really tired if you stayed up all night shrinking bowls.”  

//

He questions everything, but not the idea that it can be done because for him there’s no reason it can’t be done.  There’s also no reason for him to think he won’t be a jungle explorer when he grows up (along with the whole family, and my job will be to stay back at the hut with the babies!) or dig a hole big enough for us all to live in on our next trip to Grandpa’s house (my job, he says, will be to stay at the top and make sure it doesn’t fall in on everyone else).  

He’s too young to absorb the laws of physics which declare that glass bowls can’t shrink (though they do break!).  Too young to separate with clear lines the possible from the impossible.  

A few weeks ago I met a new couple at church who asked, in getting to know me, “Do you have kids?”  My reply to such questions until now has been something like, “We have two kids, six and four, and then we also have twins.”  Splitting them up this way seems to make it sound more sane, less the impossible reality that it is.  But that day, for the first time, I replied without qualifying, “I have four kids.”  

//  

I wander around the house these days, treading water, trying to stay afloat while crunching layers of cheerios under my feet and endlessly ferrying dirty glass bowls from one room to another.  

I tell myself I’m the least likely candidate to be in charge of what feels like a small daycare.  I think to myself, “This is not me.  This is not possible.  How can I be a mother of four kids?”  

//  

Children don’t know the difference between what is and isn’t possible.  Maybe this is part of what Jesus meant when he said we should become as little children if we’re going to be able to enter into the kingdom of God - the kingdom where the lines between possible and impossible and all the other polar opposites we think the world depends on are so deeply blurred.  

God's doing something strange here at my house, something no less amazing than shrinking glass bowls.  God works late into the night – taking my tiny heart, my too small life and cracking it open.   

It’s very hard work you see - with human hearts it’s two steps forward, one step back, as the muscle contracts God reaches out, yet again, to pry it open.   

I’m learning to lean into the expansion, to believe in the impossible and say with Mary, “Let it be unto me . . .”   

God, make me, make all of us, like a little child, like Mary.  Teach us to believe beyond what we can see, grant us the courage needed to live into the impossible things that you have made possible. 

I've been blessed this Advent to journey alongside of John D. Blase and Winn Collier - as we reflect on the same scripture passage each week.  Stop by their spaces to see the story through a different light.  I'm honored that they accepted my request to cast my lot with them this year and my heart has been blessed by an opportunity to walk with others through this darkness toward the coming light.

Come Rest With Me

 The cornfield across the street preparing for its winter nap.

The only way I can get my three year old twins to nap is by joining them.  

It started last week, the day after a horrid night of fevers and chills that kept the littlest one and me up until well past one a.m.  The fever broke by morning, but we were all haggard with a chest cold that refused to let us go.  I don’t remember how we made it through the morning, but by afternoon I had only one priority: sleep.

My boys gave up napping last spring and since then we’ve instilled a daily practice of “quiet time” which is routinely loud and filled with interruptions, arguments, loud crashes and the daily dismantling of their entire room.  The other day I ventured upstairs to investigate an alarming racket and found one boy hammering the pine paneled wall above his bed with a giant metal hammer.  

Most days I flee to the kitchen during the “quiet” hour, the room from which I can hear the least.  One day a few weeks ago I laid down on the kitchen floor and took a nap on a small rug, right there beside the sink and cupboards; I curled up like a cat.

After lunch last Wednesday I announced my plan – we would be napping, together.  The boys were excited, curious.  Where would I sleep?  Would I have a sleeping bag?  Would we really all be in the same room?

I tucked them in with their blankets, curtains closed, lights out.  They watched me stretch out on the thin wool race car rug with my pillow and a fleece blanket. 

“No talking,” I said.

I lay still, sleep settling like a fog and listened as they each sat up to peer at me as if to call my bluff, but I stayed silent and still and one by one they took it as truth – we were going to sleep.

Isaiah was first to give in and I listened as his breathing deepened, his body relaxing into a restful rhythm.  Levi tossed and turned, fidgeting, then he took up his stuffed kitty with the rattle inside and began shaking it rhythmically, forcefully.

“Levi,” I said, “No.  You need to be quiet.  Close your eyes.”

He laid the cat aside and I don’t know which of us fell first, but two hours later I woke to the quiet of two still-sleeping boys.   

They LOVED that we napped together.

Yesterday I pulled the trick again.  Since the change to daylight savings time our rhythms of rest and wakefulness have been oddly skewed by early morning waking and early evening meltdowns.  My boys were tired and needed rest, so I tucked them in again, this time leaving the room to head downstairs for a much-needed break. 

They were quiet, but restless, tossing and turning and I knew with certainty it wouldn’t be long before the whispering, then shouting began.  Sitting at the computer I could feel my own exhaustion weighing me down and eventually I gave in.  Climbing the stairs with a pillow and blanket in hand, I pushed their bedroom door open to find two bright-faced boys sitting up in bed. 

I sent them to the bathroom, then tucked their blankets in again.  I told them we would all be napping and stretched out on the dirty blue rug with my cell phone on vibrate beside me so we wouldn’t over sleep and miss the bus bringing the older kids home. 

Isaiah fell first again and Levi and I had our usual back and forth, then we all sank together in that small dark room.

I’ve been learning lately about the sacredness of rest; how sleep can be prayer and worship rolled into one.  In the silent stillness of my boys’ room, I felt us all enveloped by the holy, as though returned to the womb of life, the place where we’re nurtured in darkness and formed in our inmost beings. 

I’m teaching my boys the art of surrender, of giving in to the body’s need for rest – here, lay your head down like so, cover yourself, be still, be silent – or is it they who, in their evident need, are teaching me? 

This is what I pondered when I woke before them yesterday and slipped downstairs to stare out at the empty cornfield with a sleepy kitten in my lap  – how rest is a learned behavior, something modeled.

Resting with my boys, I am reminded again that God rested, right there in the beginning of the bible, before all of the other good and exciting things, God took a day off.  Almost as if God was sure we would never figure it out on our own. 

I believe God rests still, with us, when we stretch out long on an old wooden floor or snuggle up sweet like the twins in their big boy beds.  God models rest and invites us in whispering as the silent night settles and wraps her wings around us, "Here, lay your head down like so, cover yourself, be still, be silent, rest." 

This post is linked with Playdates with God , Unforced Rhythms, and #TellHisStory.