He Danced (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

 

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A community is only being created when its members accept that they are not going to achieve great things, that they are not going to be heroes, but simply live each day with new hope, like children, in wonderment as the sun rises and in thanksgiving as it sets . . . The beauty of humanity is in this fidelity to the wonder of each day. - Jean Vanier in Community and Growth

Twilight fell and the campfire flickered. 

A small, clear voice rose, “The floooo-wer grooooows, and the house, and the stooooop signs, and the caaaars.” He was just getting warmed up.

Later, his body twisted and turned, arms in the air, waving, then down at his sides.  His hips wiggled, feet stomped.  He spun, swooped, shook, with a far off look in his eye, his body responding intuitively, impulsively to the sounds of the singer, the acoustic guitar. 

Four year old Isaiah stole the show last night.

His twin brother, Levi, drifted off to sleep, tucked into the nest formed by my arms and legs, a fleece blanket pulled up tight around his cheeks.  Sleep hits him like a freight train come seven thirty.  Seated on the ground by the fire’s warmth, I swayed like a cradle and watched his eyelids drift.  Lifting his face, he said, “I’m going to sleep now for a little while.  Wake me up when they clap because that means it’s the end.”

Isaiah danced so long and so hard he finally flopped right down on the ground, huffing and puffing.  Then he was up again, moving and shaking and running over to his Daddy and I every minute or two, a desperate look on his tired little boy face.

“Is it almost done?” he asked.

Afterwards, he was proud.  

“Someone told me ‘Thankyou,’” he said, “and someone else patted me on the back.”

It was a big and important thing he did, that dancing.  He danced with serious abandon, every move an extension of his soul. 

Over fifty people came to hear John Francis perform in the lap of our great, wide yard, underneath the dark night and stars. 

Kids tore in every direction on wheels of every shape and size. 

Our dog, Coco, chased kids and chickens like it was her job. 

Donations were collected and we raised $400 to help provide hot, home-cooked, Thanksgiving meals for local families in need. 

We huddled close around the fire in the surprisingly cool night air.  We shivered and laughed, shrugged under blankets.  We sang along and clapped our hands and I felt the goodness of a frequent smile on my face. 

But the best part of it all, by far? 

My son – he danced.  

*   *   *

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.       

This is My Confession (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

A small group of women sat in a circle.  The question was greeted with silence and I didn’t dare tell the truth.  What would they think?  It’s just not the kind of thing you admit in public.  And besides that, I felt guilty. 

But maybe it’s time now I owned up.

I’m not busy, not in the way most people are.

And, I’m not terribly productive.

I’m happy.

My life is incredibly fun.

I play all of the time.

 //

After listing seven attributes of play, Laura Boggess, author of Playdates With God, asked the women in our small retreat circle to name ways they already play. 

I thought of my kids – the way they invite me to join them on our hammock-turned-pirate-ship, the games of fishy-fishy-cross-my-ocean that form in the yard.  But it’s not just the kids’ fault.  When they’re gone – at school and preschool – I cut flowers from the garden, I paint and color, I design and make Tiny Books of poetry. 

And I write. 

In the silence that followed Laura’s question, I offered, “Writing's a form of play for me, I think. . . . cooking too.”

Women nodded, smiled.  I didn’t dare add about the coloring, painting, yo-yo fun and Ukulele experiments. 

//

It’s a miracle really that I’m having so much fun. 

My personality type's represented by a worker bee and yet, here I am flitting and fluttering about like some kind of butterfly.

Last summer God told me, “I'm going to restore your joy.”

This past weekend, a year and a half after God’s revelation, one of the retreat attendees noted on her evaluation form, “The leaders had a joyful countenance.”

Some secrets can’t be hidden.  The shine, like a light, like a smile on our faces.  If you’re happy and you know it, you won't be able to hide it for long.

That’s why I’m here confessing.

Miracles CAN happen.  Even worker bees can learn to dance.

(And, for your Monday morning happiness boost, click on the video below.  Dancing around is encouraged.)

*   *   *

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.       

The Player

The Player

My husband wanted 
a record player.

Why? I asked.

We don’t have ROOM for a record player. 

We don’t NEED a record player. 

We don’t even OWN any records.

Still, every time I browsed local thrift stores 

he asked, Did you see any record players for me?

An icy no was my standard reply.

Where would we PUT a record player? I asked.

Why don’t you ask for one for Christmas? I offered.

 

One night we wandered the Salvation Army 

before heading out to dinner.  I turned my back 

not one minute and, of course, you know what he found.

A record player.

A brown record player.

In a portable plastic case.

He crossed the store grinning, 

that contraption hanging at his side 

like a briefcase. 

It’s only $10, he said.

It’s not even attractive, I whined.

Are you kidding?  

It’s portable.  

It’s awesome, he said.

Then, of course, we had to buy 
some records.  

Come Gather (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

It's a quiet, gray morning here.  

The super moon and its eclipse were hidden last night by wavy white clouds.  

And I was glad.  

Glad we could send the kids to bed, glad we could send ourselves to bed, without feeling like we missed a thing.  

Coming off of a wonderfully full weekend, I want to offer this space to you as a gathering place while I myself rest in silence for a bit.  

Please come, gather, leave your words.  

I'll be back later in the week with a few of my own.  (If you want to hear a little about the As a Little Child Retreat, pop over to Laura Boggess' place.)  

*   *   *

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 Feel Insecure (and What My Husband Has to Say About It)

I sat at the kitchen island prepping brown paper bags with the words, "Beloved Child of God."  Over and over I wrote with permanent markers in one color after another.  

Everyone who attends the As a Child Retreat will get a bag. Meant to trigger memories and fun, each bag holds playdoh, a bouncy ball, a lollipop and a colored pen.  

For months, I've been planning, praying, gathering materials for this retreat and now the day is almost here.  But last week, as I wrote those letters over and over again, I felt a creeping dis-ease that multiplied throughout the day.  By evening anxiety was spinning a sprawling web through my insides as I tried to explain to my husband how I felt. 

"I feel insecure," I said.  

Naming it helped, giving words to the way self sometimes crumbles in on itself, searching for something, anything solid to stand on.  

Finally, tired of sinking in my own stew, I asked my husband, "Is there anything you can say to make this better?"

Without a second's pause, he replied, "You're a beloved child of God too." 

Simple truths have a way of cutting right through the haze, don't they?  

I gave my husband a small glare.  By that point I was fairly attached to my pity party and, in the end, I envisioned a bag of chips being involved.  

But he was right.  

Later he told me how funny it was, watching me writing the same words over and over again, but not letting them sink in.  

"Beloved child of God."  

Yes, that's the heart of it.  Isn't it?  

Those four words offer the most solid ground I know.   

The Marooner's Stone (#SmallWonder Link-up)

(Welcome to #SmallWonder.  I'm happy you're here. This week I'm re-sharing an old post as I put my time and energy into preparing for a retreat this weekend, co-led with Laura Boggess, "As a Little Child.")  

Wendy knew the story of Marooner's Rock. It was named by evil captains who abandoned sailors there. They would drown when the rising tide covered them.  

*   *   *

Soon after the dinghy was gone, two feeble cries drifted over the lagoon. "Help! Help!" Peter and Wendy lay on top of the rock. Peter was wounded, and Wendy was tired and weak. . . .

"We have to get off the rock," Peter said. "The tide is rising. Soon we will be covered."  

"I am too tired to swim or to fly," Wendy said weakly. 

"And I don't have the strength to carry both of us," Peter moaned.  

"Then we will drown," Wendy said.

They put their hands over their eyes to shut out the horrible thought.

Something touched Peter's cheek. He opened his eyes. A kite hovered over the rock. Its lone tail had brushed Peter's face. "Michael's kite!" Peter exclaimed. "He lost it the other day, but here it is!" He pulled the kite toward him. "We shall use it to carry us home."

                                                        - from Peter Pan, by J.M. Barrie

It's only Monday, but, already, I feel the water rising.

There’s too little time, too little money, too little of me to go around and I’m stacking sandbags in my mind, guarding against the scarcity of my own limitations.

There are days when it feels like I live on Marooners' Rock, days when it feels that the tide is constantly rising, slowly licking at the small space I've secured.

But at least I'm in good company, because so many of us live this way, don't we?

Believing the lie of too little, we hold our breath, shrinking back from the shrinking shore, moving from crisis to crisis as, surely, the water rises.

Like Peter and Wendy, we are tired, we are weak and many of us are wounded.

"We will drown," I say with certainty as I seal the envelopes that carry the checks to the electric company, the phone and natural gas.

"I am too tired," I say as I climb the stairs again to face the fussy child who will. not. sleep.

"I don't have the strength to carry both of us," I think, as I look at the long and weary face of my tired husband whose head aches nearly every night of the week.

Isn't it illuminating that deliverance for Peter and Wendy comes not in the form of increased strength or personal exertion, but rather in the playful and gentle nudge of Michael’s kite?   

Most often, when I grow weary of my self-imposed exile on Marooner’s Rock and finally, at last, lay my head down in surrender, grace and deliverance arrives disguised as the gentle voice of playfulness, the invitation to imagination and creativity.   

The more I tend playfulness through prayer and creativity, the more I’m able to reject the lie of Marooner’s Rock.  The truth is we're not abandoned, we're not alone, there's always Someone waiting to carry us home. 

Playfulness requires trust and surrender, a willingness to live openly and unabashedly hopeful in the sheer goodness of the moment and it’s here that we find deliverance, here that we find a wind strong enough, gentle enough to carry us home.

Is there a practice of playfulness or creativity that helps you find your way home?  I'd love to hear about it in the comments . . .

*   *   *

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.  

Food Assistance (I Don't Feel Entitled, I Feel Grateful)

The Special Supplemental Nutrition Program for Women, Infants, and Children (WIC) provides Federal grants to States for supplemental foods, health care referrals, and nutrition education for low-income pregnant, breastfeeding, and non-breastfeeding postpartum women, and to infants and children up to age five who are found to be at nutritional risk.

I hate WIC.

I’m so thankful for WIC.

These two thoughts follow seamlessly one after the other as the milk, eggs, peanut butter and other sundries pass on the grocery store conveyor belt.

//

We signed up when I became pregnant with our oldest and have been on and off of the Women Infants and Children Supplemental Nutrition program ever since. 

Every time I work – adjunct teaching stints and a year as a pastor – we call and drop ourselves from the system.  Every time we return to one income, we reapply. 

Every few months I cart our kids to the small, gray office and fill out reams of paperwork.  The kids alternate between playing and clinging anxiously.  Twice a year the visits include a weight and measure and much dreaded finger pricks to check for iron count.  

Despite frequent well visits at the pediatrician’s office, the WIC office needs its own numbers. 

At times I feel indignant at the intrusion.  I’m angry for my children who cry at being poked and prodded.  How much blood, how much information do we need to give for a few dollars worth of food?  

Then I remind myself we need the money.  

It’s their office.  They set the rules.  

Does this make me a bad mother?  

Or, would pride that kept us from receiving such assistance make me a bad mother?  I'm never entirely sure.

After these intrusions we squeeze into a smaller office.  I wrangle kids on my knees while answering questions about our food consumption and setting nutrition goals for each of my children. 

At the end of the visit I leave with a ream of checks averaging $120 worth of food per month.  We received the most when the oldest kids were four and two and I was pregnant with twins, we’re nearly off the system now as the twins prepare to age-out next summer at five years old. 

//

Do I look too wealthy?  What will they think of the Marmot ski coat I wear, the $300 dollar coat I got on clearance for $50 after Christmas one year? 

Do we look poor? 

These are the questions I ask myself waiting in line at the grocery store.

//

With just one week left to use August’s checks I head to the grocery store with six in hand – two for as little as $8 each, two for about $30 and two somewhere in the middle. 

I keep the checks in the shopping cart and subtly check and recheck acceptable sizes and brands for peanut butter, grains and cereal as I hurry through the store.  When in doubt, I sheepishly pull out the large white pamphlet that clarifies. 

I hope I don’t run into anyone I know. 

We travel one town over now to bigger grocery chains to use our checks because the small local grocery store requires the cashier to call a manager to approve WIC checks.  The unwanted attention and wait feel mortifying enough to warrant a ten minute drive.

The cashier is unfriendly and I wonder if it’s because of the WIC checks lined up in front of her.  Is she judging me?  I feel myself get snappish, then reign it in.  Maybe she’s just tired, maybe it’s been a long day. 

I planned to get three checks, but ended up with four separate orders on the checkout line.  I feel bad for anyone who gets in line behind me, not knowing I will check out not just once, but four times.  I wonder what they think of my food, of me.  Maybe they’re happy the State gives needy families wholesome foods like milk and cheese.  Maybe they despise the fact that I choose the more expensive brands. 

Who knows?

I group the food by check, separating each with a spacer.  I sign the checks ahead of time to speed the process along.  Still, it takes time and often I fail to get exactly the right product.  Sometimes the rules change and items that were once ok are no longer allowed. 

//

When election season rolls around people inevitably make nasty comments about those who receive government assistance, about people who supposedly feel entitled to benefits.    

Are they talking about me?  Do I feel entitled to these benefits? 

No, mostly I feel embarrassed and hugely grateful. 

Does my family need WIC?  That’s a question I haven’t been able to answer. 

At some point we decided that not accepting the extra help would be a prideful and foolish move especially in the years when the sudden break-down of a vehicle or unexpected home repair left us in debt to credit card companies. 

There’s something about mouths to feed that lowers the playing field for me, that helps make it all a little clearer. 

My children need to eat healthy food, so I do what I can to make it happen. 

Even when it’s the last thing I want to do.