The School of Love

She has something to tell me and we head upstairs after dinner, leaving the boys in our wake.  Flopping onto my soft, floral bedspread, surrounded by windows and light, she flops too, glowing with bright beauty.

“I like ****,” she says, the words escaping like a happy bubble, a delicious secret. 

I thought we were heading upstairs to talk about chores, to escape for a few brief minutes the din of boys.  With those words, though, the scene changes - I'm transported from the daily to a china shop of delicate wonder, precious, and I’m cautious lest I be a bull.  She is like a beautiful flower unfurling in front of me in one swift movement. 

We lay on the bed facing the ceiling and I ask gentle questions about the boy in question, the one she “likes.”  I’m careful to keep things light – to show interest, but not too much – to honor and reflect her interest and joy.  This is the first of what I hope will be many conversations and I navigate it cautiously, like a young surgeon performing a delicate maneuver.    

She has handed me a gift – her heart in outstretched hands and I’m awed by her trust and my own sacred responsibility to handle with care. 

Sitting together on the porch swing a few nights later my oldest boy, who’s been more snuggly of late, leans into my side.

“This isn’t anywhere near as romantic as I am at school,” he boasts.  Surprised, I ask him to tell me more.  This boy, this lover, has always had his eye on someone and this year is no different. 

“We pinky-swore to be Valentines,” he tells me, of the girl he likes who’s “little and blond.”  A few nights later he's at a loss to remember her name, but still swears he's in love.

They're young, I know and so we are practicing, as we have always been, the sacred art of holding each other’s hearts – the intimate steps of revelation and receiving, the holding together of dreams, hope and longing.  I am practicing, practicing opening room for their growing, changing love; practicing the art of a gentle, steering word, shared smiles and silence. 

Of all the gifts that children bestow this one - this long, slow lesson in learning to love well - is the one that strikes me most.  

God Mothers Us (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

Getting found almost always means being lost for a while. – Anne Lamott in Small Victories

Too high.  Too great.  Too marvelous.

 

These are the kind of things my heart was snagged on this morning.  My eyes were lifted up toward the future, toward a time of change which I sense is coming and cannot yet see. 

We need extra income.  I need meaningful work aside from mothering.  And yet I cannot seem to get the two things to align. 

//

We left in the middle of the sermon this morning after I turned to my husband crying, worrying over past decisions and anxious for the future.  Outside the sun blazed as we sat in its heat, unenlightened, circling again the same questions without answers.  Then we went back inside the still-new-to-us building to get our kids. 

No one stands around talking at this new church, the parking lot and Sunday school classrooms empty in seconds flat.  Alarmed at having been the last kids left for several weeks now, Isaiah made me promise this morning to come to get him “fik” (quick) when the service was over. 

Today I was the first one there and his face beamed.  “That’s my Mom,” he said, buoyant with his own unique brand of happy love. 

We stopped at Home Depot on the way home and I ran into the garden area while the rest waited in the van.  I was looking for perennials to fill the two permanent pots out front, but most of what they had were flashy annuals.  The perennials sat in the back, discounted and dry, so I left without buying anything.  I didn’t want a bargain just because it was cheap and I wanted something that would last. 

//

By the time we got back home, my heart had found its footing again.  I can't tell you exactly how it happened, but it had something to do with my OneWord for the year – small – and something also to do with this Psalm, the one I shared last week in stillness.

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.

But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.

O Israel, hope in the Lord from this time on and forevermore.

(Psalm 131)

I studied this Psalm in seminary with well known Old Testament scholar, Patrick Miller.  As a Psalm of Ascent, Psalm 131 is associated with the pilgrimages to Jerusalem.  From what I remember, it’s believed that these psalms were written and sung or prayed on the journey.  Miller suggested this psalm, because of its intimate reference to “the weaned child that is with me” is one of the few we can reliably conclude was written by a woman. 

A woman walking.  A woman on a journey, praying.  A woman looking at her child and seeing in the child’s face a mirror for her own soul - the calmness, contentment of a child trusting the one with whom it walks. 

//

Earlier this week Isaiah lost his sister’s helium balloon.  His little hand opened for a second and the balloon shot up into the air with its ribbon tail trailing behind.  

“How will we get it?” he asked.

“We can’t.” I said, with finality.  Then I knelt and hugged him as he raised his hands to cover his eyes.  I would’ve given a lot to be able to reach up and grab that balloon. 

The balloon was unfettered, lost. 

//

That’s how my soul felt this morning.  I was looking too far ahead, worrying about decisions already made and before I knew it I was somewhere far away like that balloon, lost.  I forgot the One I am walking with, the One who bears me on the journey, the One I trust to get me “fik” when I am waiting.

God does not leave us lost for long, though.  Like a woman sweeping, like a shepherd with its sheep, like a father with a son – God seeks we who are forever getting lost.  God plucks us out of a wide sky of fear and worry, out of the lofty heights of ambition and anxiety.  God mothers us on the journey as we walk together, side-by-side.     

Photo Credit.

*   *   *   

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.  

I Was Afraid . . . and I Hid (Genesis 3 and Matthew 25)

I was afraid . . . and I hid (Genesis 3; Matt. 25)

The old habit dies hard,

the fear that drives one

like a hare, hunted, pursued

by God-only-knows what terror,

darkened shadow, lurking nightmare.

I was afraid, Adam said, because I was naked.

Vulnerable, exposed, like the soft clay he once was

before the great hand scooped mud from mud,

molding in intricate detail the figure of humanity.

Oh Adam, God sighed.  God’s hands hung low and lifeless,

weary, at the great heaving sides, heart-broken,

heavy.  Adam’s flesh tingled at the sight of those hands,

at the thought of their touch, but he mistook his own body’s

longing for fear and later, his descendants would do the same

when God came, clothed in flesh and mud and walked among them,

the great hands hidden in human form.

I was afraid, the servant said, his one talent held in an outstretched,

shaking hand.  I knew you were a harsh man . . . so I hid. 

Memory played the scene as he spoke, the anxious weight

of the coin in his hand, the feeling that it watched - the master

watched - through the coin’s cold, unblinking eye.  The waiting

and absence, the dread - too much to bear.  In the dark

of night, he fled carrying the coin’s shining light into darkness where

still the moon caught and glimmered on gold.  Half-crazed, he dug

with bare hands, a hole.  It was not the coin he wanted to hide,

but himself.  Bits of clay and dirt clung to his hands, lodged under

his fingernails, the damp earth clung, claiming him as its own.

Rising and walking after the deed, dirt stuck to his clothes, his knees.

Still the coin’s light shone in his mind’s eye, the pursuing light

pressing after him even in the darkness.     

We are a people forever misinterpreting the light, the presence,

for we are afraid and so we hide.  Still, God pursues.  The words,

Where are you? echo, reverberating, as God, the great, love-sick lover,

with hands as gentle as they are wide, seeks we who are his own. 

Photo Source.

Still (#SmallWonder Link-up)

Friends, I waited and watched and listened yesterday but by the time I slipped between the sheets last night, I had no words to offer you.  Instead, this morning, as I am recovering from a long, intense week, I want to offer you the stillness of Psalm 131.  May you find yourself be blessed with some small moment of wonder this week.

"O Lord, my heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high; 
I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.  

But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.  

O Israel, hope in the Lord from this time on and forever more." 

*   *   *   

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.  

My One Super Power

Every day we battle, literally and figuratively.

“Stop arguing with me,” I say.  Then, as he continues in protest, I declare, “I’m not going to argue with you!”

Meanwhile, he points his little finger-guns at me and “pchoo-pchoo” in my face.

“Put your fingers away,” I say and he does, but his hazel eyes are still alight with the fire of battle.

Off he runs to man a pirate ship, kill a bear and battle the household pets.  But before long, he’s back in the kitchen, a little gnat buzzing circles around my legs.    

“Me have Super Powers!” he says, his arms raised and fists folded like a boxer.  “Me a bad guy.  Me destroy you.” 

Sigh.  This is almost-four-year-old boy through and through.  He wants to “take over the world.”  He “has a plan.”  I am the only one standing in his way.

Leaning down, I scoop him up by the armpits and snuggle him in as he wiggles and giggles.

“Me have Super Powers too!” I say.

“What’s your Super Powers?” he asks, leery.

“Me have Love Power,” I reply, triumphant.  “Me have Hug 

Power.”  Then, with finality, I declare, “Love Power always wins.” 

He’s pretty sure that love is NOT a Super Power, but surrenders anyway.   

Linking with #TellHisStory.

The Center #SmallWonder Link-up

It's been a rough week here.  

On Wednesday my parents stopped by on their way home from wintering in Florida and by Thursday my Mom was in our local hospital having tested positive for both type A and B Influenza.  They hope to move her out of the ICU today, but it will be a long road to recovery as she is a cancer survivor and transplant recipient - her health is often precarious on the best of days.   

After rising to the crisis (she went into septic shock that first night), I found myself whirling and wrote to a friend, "I'm having a hard time holding on to my center."  In the writing of those words, this thought came like a love note slipped into my pocket. 

Truth has a way of flipping perception on its head, revealing the inside-out of a circumstance or, if you will, the often wrongness of my thinking.  Maybe you also are in need of such a reversal?  

//

You do not hold
the Center,
it holds you.
Do you see
the difference?

It is not your job
to grasp and cling.
Yours is to rest,
aware.  

Each sorrow,
each joy is a
passing breeze
swaying the 
hammock 
that holds you. 

//

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.  


  

When the %$*& Hits the Fan (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

Prince Humperdinck, "First things first, to the death."
Westley, "No, to the pain."
- The Princess Bride

O, I believe,
fate smiled and destiny
laughed as she came to my cradle,
know this child will be able,
laughed as my body she lifted,
know this child will be gifted,
with love, with patience and with faith,
she'll make her way. 
- "Wonder" by Natalie Merchant

Last Friday I sent up a call of distress. 

Early in the morning in the cold, dark living room I sent a message to a few friends on Facebook,

“Here’s the thing – I’ve become discouraged.  I have dreams and visions of what it means to live where we do – ideas about Spiritual Direction, Retreats and a life close to home filled with writing, speaking and tending souls.  But, and here I know it sounds a little ridiculous given God’s miraculous provision of this place, for some reason lately, I’m losing hope.  We’ve hit some very significant financial road blocks, we’re between church communities and I am weary of piecing things together.  So, will you pray for me, for us?”

//

Last Wednesday my husband called early in the morning to tell me the timing belt broke in his car on his way to work.  Thankfully it didn’t happen on the highway, thankfully it was within walking distance of his office.  But, really – this was just three days after we started urgently petitioning God for financial provision.  See what I mean – this was AFTER we started praying.

With that one phone call and the two or three phone calls after it, it was like someone, somewhere pulled a plug and all of our savings went “whoosh,” down the drain.  The little bit of money we had to help us get through to the end of summer just up and disappeared. 

//

The most natural thing you can do, the worst thing you can do, when stress sets in and life becomes laced with fear, is to seize up.  The most unnatural thing you can do is to relax, to rest, to hold your own peace of mind and spirit.  This is how infants and young children can survive terrible accidents without being injured – they don’t know enough to be afraid, they stay calm, relaxed and flexible.

//

When the %^&% hits the fan, my impulse is to “man up.”

I got out the computer and started a resume.

I organized a yard sale.

I took the little seeds of my own dreams out of my pocket and buried them somewhere in a deep, dark, place.  They no longer glowed with hope and promise – they were as good as dead to me.

//

Thursday night, I dreamed I was pregnant again – a fifth child, still tiny showed up in an ultrasound.  How did we let this happen? I asked.  That baby filled my dream-self with dread – seven more years at home I thought.  Seven more years until I can do what I want. 

In the dream, the baby was also a tiny dragon.  But, you know, that’s how dreams often are.

//

Friday morning I sat on the love seat by the cold, empty stove with tears streaming down and sent up a call of distress. 

“I’ve become discourage . . . I’m losing hope.”

The kids woke up and I built a fire, because wood is free, and we moved into the day while I still swallowed tears down. 

Around eight, my kids started humming and buzzing with excitement.  “Why’s he here?” they exclaimed.  I looked out the kitchen window while my kids ran out the door and saw my friend, one of the few added to that Facebook call of distress, climbing out of his car.

He hugged and toted my kids around, watched them climb the small Japanese Maple tree and we stood in the yard talking about chickens waiting for the bus to come.  After the older two climbed onto the bus, I pulled up Cat in the Hat on Netflix for the twins and we sat in the kitchen and talked over coffee. 

“I’m losing heart,” I said.

“I know,” he replied.

This friend of mine has the look and build of someone straight out of Sons of Anarchy – a giant of a man complete with pony tail, beard and a Harley Davidson.  If he was a stranger, I would be afraid at best to see him approaching on darkened street or even in broad daylight. 

This friend has a Masters in Pain, a hard earned degree in life and loss and resilient hope.

“I could see this coming,” he said and I believed it to be true, because this friend and I resonate on a deep level.  More than anyone else in this world he has helped me understand myself, has given me new words and insight into my own brokenness which often provides just enough of a tweak to set me on the road to healing. 

Here are just a few of the things he said to me that morning that helped clear the fog of fear, things I remembered well enough to write down in my journal a few days later,

“Provision wouldn’t solve the problem.”

“It’s not hard, you can do hard, you’re a hard worker – it’s painful.”

and, “Pain is part of your gift.  You have pain in proportion to your gift and your gift is great, so you experience great pain.”

Talking together I saw that I’m again rounding a blind corner in my journey – I’m being asked, again, to trust. 

To trust pain can be a gift.

To trust God cares.

To live loosely, to lean in to the bend in the road, to believe seeds buried in darkness and fear can sprout and live again and the life that follows death is always greater than the loss.

//

Not much has changed.  Everything has changed.

We had a great yard sale.  There’s the dim prospect of overtime work for my husband.  I put my resume on hold.  We told the kids we would have to pray about a vacation for the summer. 

In the midst of the pain, faith is sprouting again, the tiniest speck of green.

Later that day one red tulip opened in the garden and the rest of those friends on Facebook sent their own thoughtful, compassionate replies, most of which consisted of some gentle version of, “Me too.”

I'm not writing this to garner sympathy.  I'm writing because maybe you also have been gifted with pain.  Maybe you too are rounding another blind corner in your journey.  I won't tell you it's going to be ok, but for now, I will pull back the curtain long enough to give you a glimpse of my own pain.  I will give you my pain, my life as I know it, in hopes that it will help you in some small whisper of a way.  

  

*   *   *   *

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.