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.  

Who Needs Your Mess?

This is not my laundry pile.  But it could be . . . if you multiplied what's here times three.

Her house wasn’t just small, it was tiny. 

The shower was quirky and a litter box sat behind a curtain in the bathroom. 

The kitchen wasn’t much more than a hallway and we met outside seated in a variety of plastic and canvas camp chairs. 

What I mean to say is it wasn’t fancy. 

I’d never been to a writer’s retreat before, so I’m not sure exactly what I expected, but these were things I noticed.    

I want to say it didn't matter, but it did.   

The little bits of mess and imperfection were some of the main things I carried away from the weekend.  Her mess was a gift to me and rather than being overwhelmed, I drove home thinking, maybe I could do that too.  Welcomed into the REAL of her life, litter box and all, I found the gift of freedom from perfection. 

//

Six months later I invited my new writer friend to lead a retreat at my house. 

My house isn’t tiny, but it does have litter boxes in conspicuous places and the shower isn’t just quirky, it’s dirty.  Participants sat in secondhand Ikea furniture and lined up on an old leather couch I’d dragged off the side of the road a week before.  I can’t tell you how many times I thought of my friend and her gracious example in the days and weeks leading up to the retreat, how much I clung to the gift of freedom she gave.

// 

Tonight I’m welcoming a group of seven people to our house for a brief workshop.  Some are complete strangers, others good friends, but only one has ever been inside our house before. 

Some will sit around our dining room table, the one we bought on Craig’s List and I’ll do my best to make sure the hardened remains of a month’s worth of meals are duly scraped away.  Others will line up in plastic folding chairs (thank you Target clearance) along a plastic table which will be oddly placed in the winter room.  I will write with broken bits of chalk on our handmade black board.  I’ll do my best beforehand to de-clutter surfaces, sweep the kitchen floor and clear a pathway through the mudroom. 

But the laundry will still be piled high on the washer and dryer, the litter box will sit ramshackle in the corner.  The kitchen ceiling will still be peeling and the ceiling fan’s blades lined with greasy dust.  Paint will be chipped in various places and the record player my husband had to buy will sit in a heap of records in the corner. 

There’s only so much I can do.  Only so much I can ask my family to do. 

But when I look at the mess, the glaring imperfections staring me in the eye, I think of my friend and the gift her mess was to me.  Maybe it’s enough to do something well in the midst of your mess.  And maybe someone will leave here tonight thinking, “I could do that too.”    

Next time you have someone over, try to worry a little less about your mess, maybe it will be a gift to someone who needs freedom from perfectionism.  Maybe, even, it will be a gift to you. 

My friend, Andi is a writer, editor and writing teacher and hosts a number of amazing events on her property, "God's Whisper Farm."  She also runs an online writing group on facebook.  I only dare write about her "mess" because I know she knows I love her!  Maybe I'll see you at her retreat next year?

Love Leads (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

Photo Credit

In the rush between dinner and dessert, in the harried press to Get-These-Kids-to-Bed, four-year-old Isaiah remembers.

Running through the house, he shouts, "Guys! We need to do our yeaves!"

//

My family is growing leaves again this Thanksgiving. 

Last Tuesday I cut contact paper into the shape of a large, barren tree and stuck it to the wood paneled wall in the living room.  Then we cut a bowl-full of leaves.  Every evening we each write what we’re thankful for on a leaf and stick it to the tree.  By Thanksgiving the tree will be full and green, vibrant. 

//

Isaiah doesn’t remind us to do our leaves because he’s so very grateful.  Most of his leaves proclaim anticipatory gratitude for the handcuffs he hopes to receive for Christmas (heaven help us).  He reminds us because after the note’s written, he gets to color his leaf and Isaiah is a big fan of coloring.  He’s been known to spend a whole afternoon coloring at the kitchen counter.  He loves it.

And his love leads us, even if it has nothing at all to do with gratitude. 

That’s the way love is. 

Love opens doors, makes way and helps us remember what we set out to do, who we wanted to be, when we ourselves have forgotten.  And if we don’t have enough love of our own, all we need to do is follow someone else’s, to sit for a while in the glow of their passion and delight. 

I don’t love coloring like Isaiah does, but his love for it cuts through the evening rush, spurs memory and reminded, we follow in its wake. 

Do you have special family practices for the season of Thanksgiving?  I'd love to hear about them 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.  

      

Broken Beloved (for everyone ashamed of the pills they take)

Photo credit

Often, it’s a restless night and bad dreams that tell me I forgot.

Other times it’s the way I snap and growl at my children in the morning.  It's not that they’re worse than normal, but I’m less tolerant, carrying my own internal agitation which they scrape against like matches, igniting a latent fury.

//

Before bed and after TV, my husband takes the dog out into the darkness to pee.  In the dim kitchen I grind coffee beans for the morning’s brew, adding water and a clean filter to the pot.  Then I open the hutch's glass cabinet and grab the red bottle.  Opened, little oval pills scatter across the palm of my hand like seeds. 

For months, maybe even a year, I cut them precisely with a pill cutter.  Then one day, in a pinch, I realized they could be broken by hand. 

One and a half pills daily seems to be enough to do the trick.

//

Toward the end of summer, for various reasons, I decided I wanted to cut down to one pill, decreasing the dose by a third. 

It would be simpler, I told myself. 

Maybe I’ll lose weight, I thought (as though the daily consumption of potato chips couldn’t possibly be to blame for a recent weight gain). 

I’ve been so sleepy lately, maybe I’m over-medicated, I considered.    

The psychiatrist, hearing my plan, looked at me with surprise. 

“Usually the dose that works is the dose you should stay on,” she said.

“Well,” I said, “I want to try.” 

What I didn’t say was that I didn’t want to be on medicine, I didn’t want to need it.

//

I’d done enough googling to know coming off of antidepressants can be complicated.  I decided to drop the dose by a third every other day for a while and see what happened.  One pill one day, one and a half the next, and so on.

The problem was, I was nearing the one year anniversary of my psychiatric hospitalization. 

And I was preaching again for the first time in a year. 

And we were in the run-up for the annual back-to-school transition which, with four kids in three different schools, lasts well-over a month. 

And transition makes me anxious.

I tried, though.  I did.

What I found is I was more anxious, more irritable, more snappy.

I was a worse mother without that little half pill.  Unreasonably irritable, yelling and stomping rather than “using my words.”  It reminded me of the months after the twins were born, when I struggled so with my oldest son.  He would have been better off if I’d had those pills then. 

//

“It’s only been a year,” my counselor says, “give it some time.”

Ah, but me?  I want to not need.

Only now, what I want more, is to be a mother who doesn’t scream and shout in rage.  I want to be a little more able to go with the flow (which is the only way to go anywhere in a family of six).  Maybe if I had more control, more money, less kids I’d be able to structure my time, my life in a way that kept me from needing those pills. 

Yoga morning, noon and night. 

Health food. 

Meditation. 

For now though, when I look at the real choices before me, I pick up that red bottle and break the pills, like pieces of communion bread - grace I need, grace I cannot afford to do without.    

//

I have a friend who was wounded deeply by someone she loves.  After years of struggle and heart ache she considered breaking the relationship and felt God giving her the freedom to do so.  

Then, also, my friend felt God’s invitation, “Why don’t you try just loving the one who hurt you as God’s broken but beloved daughter?” 

I was thinking about that today.  

Thinking it's true, really, of all of us.  

We are God’s broken, beloved children.  

Maybe it would all go a little better if we thought of ourselves that way, as people who need.  I am God's broken, beloved daughter and I will take grace as it comes, however it comes, even if it arrives in a little, red bottle.     

Choosing Your Groove (#SmallWonder Link-up)

Reaching across the purple loveseat where we sat, I grabbed a hunk of my husband’s wildly overgrown hair and held it between my fingers.  “I have an idea,” I said, “Let’s hold Daddy down and cut his hair.”

The kids, sprawled around the room in various stages of candy consumption, cheered at the idea. 

My husband laughed and shrugged it off.

A second later Isaiah, returning at a run from the kitchen where the scissors are kept, ran up behind my husband and started snipping.

John lunged forward and spun around to face his attacker, panicked at the idea of a four-year-old hacking at his hair. 

It sounded like Isaiah had scissors, but he didn’t.  We all got a good laugh out of it and no one was happier than Isaiah.  His double dimples winked with delight at the trick he played. 

Standing behind John, the twins reenacted the prank over and over again and John followed along responding to every attack with a leap and shout.  It was like they were rehearsing parts in a play. 

Snip. Leap. Shout. Laugh.

They repeated the scene until their laughs were forced, a thin duplication of their initial joy.

Looking on, I was reminded how often little children repeat the things that give them joy.  Tasting a moment of delight, they demand “do it again”, savoring its sweetness, sucking joy down to its marrow. 

I’m far more likely to reenact the difficult moments in life, to stand over the kitchen sink come evening obsessively repeating a difficult conversation or the bumpiest parts of my day.  With the remembering comes the feelings and, in the middle of a perfectly fine day, I can find myself sunk in the shame or guilt of an incident that happened some fifteen or twenty years ago.

This is what I thought as I watched my boys running themselves round and around in that groove of delight.  Humans, young and old, learn through repetition and there they stood, giggling, earning a degree in joy. 

*   *   *

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 Hate Skittles

I hate Skittles. 

I do not want to, as the slogan goes, "Taste the rainbow."

If a Skittle accidentally fell into my mouth, I would spit it out.  This is how I feel about most candy.  Except for sour patch kids.

Levi and Isaiah, however, like every other four-year-old alive, LOVE Skittles. 

And M&Ms.  

And Blow Pops. 

And all the other Crack-in-a-wrapper kids get at Halloween. 

After a night of Trick-or-treat, Isaiah started the candy-consumption-negotiations first thing this morning.  I don’t think he was even all the way downstairs before he started in.  In fact, he fell halfway down the stairs because he was lugging his bag of candy along, slung over his shoulder like a little Santa’s sack filled with sugar. 

He very quickly negotiated the potential consumption of one piece of candy after lunch.  I know this because he reminded me of it before breakfast, after breakfast, before preschool, after preschool, before lunch, etc.  

The candy of choice?  A full size bag of Skittles. 

The twins waited all morning for that candy which, for a four-year-old, is basically a lifetime. 

Isaiah’s bag was quickly opened, half-eaten, and spilled and picked-up twice in the five or so minutes we waited after lunch before heading to their older brother’s Halloween parade.  Foreseeing the potential for a disastrous candy spill at the parade, I went to get a zip-lock bag for both boys.  I planned to open Levi’s bag and pour both into separate preschooler-compatible packaging. 

I forgot, however, that a four-year-old tears into a candy-wrapper like a squirrel attacking a plastic feeder full of sunflower seeds.  Place a thin layer of plastic between a toddler and a handful of chocolate M&Ms and stand back – all sorts of destruction is about to ensue.

One second we were ready, almost out the door for the parade, then Levi’s bag of Skittles exploded shooting a rainbow of sugar all over the kitchen floor.  He ripped open the whole side of his bag in one deft, semi-miraculous movement and Skittles rained down, scattering (or would that be “skittling”?) under the island, across the rug, behind the heavy iron radiator. 

This, of course, was a crisis for him – children hunt spilled candy like the shepherd hunting his lost sheep in Luke’s gospel, or the women hunting her lost coin.  Kids hunt lost candy with the kind of determination and passion that God’s hunts lost souls.

Crisis.

This was less than twenty-four hours after confection-ageddon (aka Trick or Treat) and I had already had it up to HERE with sweets. 

Remember the candy-consumption-negotiations that started in the pre-dawn hours of the day? 

And the incessant reminders? 

I wanted to explode like that bag of Skittles. 

One preschooler was crying while the other tried to find and consume as many of his brother’s lost treats as he could and all I wanted to do was hunt down the person who thought it was a good idea to give little people bags of candy bigger than their faces. 

I did not scream, though, like I wanted to, did not stomp on the candy in rage.  I dug deep within, past the part that had it up to HERE and somehow saw for one brief second the rainbow right there in front of me.  I saw how rainbows lead to hidden treasure and rather than breaking the moment further, I reached for the pot of gold.  

I knelt down beside the crying boy and the thieving boy and was thankful the dog at least was outside.

With due diligence, most of the loss was recovered.  

We put the rainbow in a new bag and I zipped it tight. 

Then we ran out the door together, two boys clutching baggies of brightness and one Mama carrying a rainbow in her heart.

//

By the way, we did miss one red Skittle.  This I know, because the dog found it . . . and spat it out. 

Even the dog knows better.          

When the Wood is Wet (#SmallWonder Link-up)

Shift each log.  

Make room for air to move through.

Turn your head away and inhale, deep, through nostrils.

Then turn again toward the dark stove and exhale.

Aim low, for the coals, but not low enough to stir the ashes.

Blow out long and hard until all air is gone.

Repeat.  Again and again.  Listen for the roar,

watch for flames to leap.  

Make each breath a prayer

for all the wet wood in your 

weighted down life.  Breathe out

for you, your spouse, your children.  

Beg the flames to rise 

as you tend them.  

Shifting each log.  

Making room for air to move through.  

*   *   *

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.