His Sword

A sleepy Malachi curled up by the fire at 8 am Friday morning. Why on earth I had arranged such an early dental appointment for the best sleeper in the house baffled me. Our prompt 8:30 am arrival revealed the strange truth that though I'd been reminded three times, the 10:30 am appointment had stuck in my mind incorrectly!

"Home? or coffee, groceries and the bookstore?" I announced to my cheerful companion, as his fervent nod answered the obvious.

The tantalizing aroma of ginger, cinnamon and chai invited us into the warm, energized atmosphere of a nearby coffee shop. We settled down into a nook sharing the only chair available. Malachi munched gingerbread and I enjoyed a steaming latte, a sweet contrast to the original plan of dental work.

En route to the grocery store we noticed a stranger carrying a cardboard sign. The chance to offer a bit of sidewalk hospitality entered our unexpected free hours and we welcomed it. With our own groceries tucked away, we placed our extra special bag containing hot chili, fresh bread, juice, oatmeal cookies, chocolate and mints ("You know Mommy, he probably has no time to brush his teeth", voiced Malachi, particularly aware of dental hygiene this morning!) in the passenger seat.

Our errand was suddenly interrupted by another sign-carrying person, this time not a stranger. J was headed for the opposite corner and I've met her many times. I know what she likes and I know what she grieves. She is broken and broken people often speak in fragmented truth, for the source from which they draw is usually fueled by wounds never allowed to heal. Where human love was scarce with J, I believe hurts were plentiful and perhaps, still are. Her words must be sorted and as I listen, I must retain the good, releasing the not-so-good. I choose to recognize her through eyes of love and compassion, speaking value into her spirit, while I offer what I can. Only God can fuel us to listen in this way, His way. J has been away for many weeks and I'd been worried, I believed the chili was meant for her. Incidentally, this is the first time I had introduced my younger children to a homeless person. Since my interactions with J have been many, and we were in an open area, I allowed Malachi to meet her. He was polite yet confused that the stranger across the way would possibly remain hungry.

So off again we went. This time we grabbed fast food, with dessert and coffee to be our offering for the original recipient. Malachi sat in the car as I approached the stranger only 10 feet away. His face was radiant and kind, different from any homeless friend I've ever met. His thankfulness for the meal overflowed and I almost felt embarrassed by it. He spoke of his love for Jesus and though his life was not as he'd planned, his opportunities were wide to share his source of joy and proclaim that this life is short, while eternity awaited; joy forever, no more tears, no more struggle. His earnestness moved me for he spoke not in zealous words of an eccentric revivalist, his were quiet thoughts spoken from a life of surrender, without a single word of complaint or fear. Just before leaving, I asked him if he needed anything. His immediate response was, "A NIV Study Bible, someone took mine and though I have a King James, I just miss the other."

Yes, amazingly, our plan to fulfill his request was already in place. So it was no surprise when there was not only the exact Bible he had requested (at a regular bookstore), but pens, highlighters, the breath mints and a lovely cover into which everything fit.

We drove back to the spot, parked and hand in hand, Malachi and I ran up to the corner. I placed the covered Bible into the hands of Mr. P. "What's this?" he asked bewildered. "Your Bible of course", I voiced, excited at the quick outcome of our errand. Mr. P gripped the Bible to his chest and began to sob, "I've got my sword back!" he whispered, as I hugged this amazing man. He shook Malachi's hand and told him it was the best gift he'd received all year. "Who are you?", he asked. "Malachi and Grace, and we'll see you again!" I called, as we hurried to our next appointment!

Kayla

Thursday's crisp morning air reminded us of sweaters, cider and pumpkins. Fall is upon us, yet I am reluctant to release the warm bright days.

Salome' and I sat on the front porch, side by side enjoying a quiet moment. To our delight a bright orange and black butterfly flitted softly into our view. She stayed longer than we expected, but was gone in a breath.

Butterflies move us. Who, in seeing a prickly caterpillar meandering about, is not careful to avoid crushing it, aware that someday it will miraculously transform. Fragile, soft bodies relinquish themselves to the quiet darkness of cocoons, trusting that in time they will emerge again, changed and free to fly. As planned, after ages of patience, the loveliest of creatures emerges; the symbol of resurrection. Life is orderly, seasons pass the baton in perfect time, and so we must wait for Spring, then to our thankful, longing hearts, come butterflies again.

This beautiful butterfly we met today reminds me of a precious child we know.

Her name is Kayla. The joy of her smile, the depth of her poetry, the brightness of her artwork and the bravery of her spirit, are beautiful. She is the kind of person who brings out the best in those she loves, or even in those she barely knows, like me. When I look at the sparkle in her eyes from this past year's Christmas card I see that which I long for, a joy in the moment and the satisfaction with that which we are given in life. I believe she is saying to us," hold life loosely and hold those you love closely."

I am unsure to where Thursday's butterfly disappeared, but I know where Kayla is. On May 4, 2010, Kayla, whose physical heart was too weak to continue beating in the cocoon of her earthly body, stopped, but her spiritual heart beats on- strong, vibrant and in-tune with the Creator of her precious life. And so she is the one transformed, waiting now for us, in the beautiful Spring of Eternity, in the presence of the God she loves.

HOPE

When I get a feeling,

it's just an ordinary feeling.

But when I'm with you

it starts to change.

It changes into hope and care,

And joy and love.

I believe in you.

You.

You are the great one.

The Holy One.

You can save us all.

by Kayla Gucciardo

All I Need

My hos-ta plants endured a difficult summer. Now, in the fall, thanks to the feasting of the slugs, they are dwarfed. I could sugar coat my gardening methods and say, "They have a lace-like look!", or, "Well at least they still have a few blooms!" The reality is, I hid the slug-bate from my little ones so well that I've never found it. The hiding of it followed Zion's pouring of a huge pile of slug-bate granules on the couch! He was delighted with himself, "A Tower!" he cried. I grabbed him in one arm, the bate in the other and read the label, "Safe for pets and wild animals." Whew, well there you go, it is safe for toddlers! So, though the slugs and snails happily dine where ever they please, they will never dare step foot on that couch!

It isn't necessarily a worry that Zion will eat uneatable things, it is the question of just what he will do with them. Helpful as ever just the other evening he fed the dogs. They were each given a cup of food, minus one piece which Zion stuck in his ear for later.

Emmaus is also extremely helpful. He is quick to grab whatever he needs, then conscientiously closes the baby-safety lock behind him, just in case any wayward toddler may appear!

I know the odd mix of encouraging ability, holding tightly to sanity and keeping everyone alive, sometimes pushes me precariously close to the edge of my limits. Supposedly, I am naturally a patient person. However, relying on my own abilities to handle extremes with patience can be an unsafe-safety-net. If I am too self reliant or place expectations on myself or my crew that are unrealistic, I set us all up for failure. Our gifts balance our flaws. It is the way we are made. The beauty of failure and inability, lends weight to our humility, which gives gravity to our earthbound lives and keeps us seeking the God we need.

This morning dew drops clung to a huge spider-web fastened across the deck. I could see the powerful threads holding together the intricate pattern, one end to another, perfectly planned, an exquisite filter. If I open my eyes to God's presence in my life, I can see him this way, as my strong shield and filter. Just a moment with him and my balance is restored. On this side of heaven my flaws will often appear to be my hindrance. But they are a gift, as are many difficult things in my life that keep me steadily relying on the perfect provider of all I need.

Sunbeams and Such

Ezra followed a sunbeam down the stairs and into the entryway. With palms wide open and arms stretched as high as her tiptoes would allow her to reach; she jumped, raced, danced and giggled, oblivious to anything in the world but her sunbeam. They both seemed to laugh at the camera I aimed toward them, nothing would detract or suspend this beautiful moment of delight. And all too quickly, as often our best moments do, the sunbeam left her. But our sweet Ezzie, after a moment of searching the shadowed floor, radiantly looked into my face, glad for the joyful time of soaking in the light.

Two nights later Zion awakened in tears. In his sleepy, husky voice he asked me to come find him, as if he felt lost. I scooped him up and brought him to Gabe's empty room. We lay on the bed, side by side, faces reflecting the light of the moon shining through the window. Under the glow of moonlight, Zion peacefully slipped back into sleep.

Daily, our children invite us to see life through their eyes. Ezra's joy and Zion's comfort came in following and resting in the light. They remind me, it is God's light shining into the dark places of my life that changes everything.

learning to walk

Outstretched hands, teetering on unsteady feet, and so comes the first step...then another or perhaps a stumble, but soon the baby learns to walk. And in a blink, the baby is 19 and all that has been poured into his life comes to fruition. The first of so many good-byes in this precious role of parenting is heart wrenching.

Gabriel has now begun school in Norway, the same school to which I went 25 years ago. He is ready, armed with Truth, full of hope, excitement and a vigor for life. Dennis cared well for our seven other children while I accompanied Gabe on his journey. My last glimpse of our oldest boy was at dawn as he stood in the doorway of his dorm with tea light and Bible in hand. He kindly thanked Dennis and me for everything and told me he loves us. This set off my tears that flowed for twelve of the 24 hours it took me to get home! I blubbered through airline security in Norway, forgetting a sharp wine bottle opener in my purse! The security gal took one look at me and let me through! The man seated beside me on one of the flights shifted uncomfortably, perhaps he wondered if I were having a nervous breakdown. I tried to explain why I wept, which left him dumbfounded and likely questioning my mental health. How does one explain a broken heart over the joys in life? It reminds me of something George MacDonald wrote about love, "life would not be worth saving except for the tears."

Loving well requires every ounce of our being given in unconditional abandonment of ourselves, our time and all else we value. Loving children is a roller-coaster of teachable opportunities through which we can speak life into rough situations, where obedience replaces rebellion, truth overpowers lies, and love overcomes selfishness. Yet at times we see little fruit for our labor. Strength and encouragement often come through God alone, but we must trust in delayed gratification just as every humble, toiling gardener. There is no way to see the deep, healthy roots unless we dig for them and risk their destruction. 'The days are long, but the years are short.' And every moment is a gift.

I came home to my sweet family feeling sad and weary, yet with the first hug of welcome-home Salome' asked, "Didn't you bawl your eyes out cuz you missed us so much?" Yes, I did...and I will, for every last one of these precious babes entrusted to us. But for now I roll up my sleeves and am thankful for each hand to hold, willing to walk each day we are given, letting go when we must.

Books

A man we know sells books; beautiful, old, leather-bound books. Each one is unique, inviting the curious to enter into an adventure. It is evident that these books were created by quality craftsmanship, designed to last longer than a lifetime. But none of these books is written in English, for they were purchased in foreign lands.

One day I asked the bookseller, "Who buys these books?"

"Everyone!" replied the merchant, "I sell thousands of them!"

"How odd," I responded, "who can read them?"

"Read them!" he repeated, almost indignant, "These are decorator books, I sell them for looks, their stories are insignificant."

I was stunned. Rich, eloquent thoughts, poured out from the passionate hearts of writers were sealed in tombs of leather and paper. Their outer shell became their prison. Their wisdom gathered dust, silently aging, in unfulfilled purpose.

The Author of Life has created each of us far deeper, more vibrant and exciting than any book. We are written in His language of love, gifted and able to choose for ourselves the life we will lead.

Are we bound by self, closed tight, set apart from the fellowship we desire by our inability to communicate or fear of being misunderstood. Have we lost our purpose? Have we given others the authority to value only the way we appear on the outside? We are created to be beautiful examples of the Author's workmanship, yet perhaps we've imprisoned ourselves in some way in which we've lost sense of our value and gifting.

God is the Author, our lives bear the imprint of His love and purpose, and are created for eternity. He has given us each a unique story to tell. The joy, peace, faith and hope which flow from His hand shapes our storyline to end well no matter the struggles. We are to trust Him and be surrendered pages to His word in our lives.

Beloved Faces

Emmaus is trilingual. He is fluent in Amharic, English and Zion. Yesterday, he and his little brother chatted away nap time (to my dismay) on subjects of which I understand precious little. The nuance of Zion's speech is a bit like Pig Latin: always drop the first letter; discard one or two in the middle, and in the end add something, like a giggle, a grunt, a hug or a punch.

My own words and actions can sometimes come back to haunt me. Malachi knows I love caramel, in all forms, as I have expressed to him. On Tuesday of last week, he made scrambled eggs for me and everyone else in the house under 8! Six large plates containing wet, jiggly mounds of pale yellow, filled the table. (There is a cow and a flock of chickens somewhere we should thank.) The kitchen was in shambles, but all was in order on the table. I obediently delved into my plate to discover an odd sweet taste mixed into my eggs. Malachi beamed, "Did you get it Mom? I hid a very special treat in your lunch!" The taste of the hidden caramel had permeated every ounce of my eggs! I dutifully downed the mound to the last bite, glad to be gifted in the skill of eating anything. Since my thoughtful little chef watched my every bite, there was no other choice.

Not long ago Salome' sat on a little chair pulled up to the coffee table. On this pretend desk she placed books, discarded envelopes and junk mail, pens, a purse and her prized possession, a broken cell phone. In the midst of a rather stern conversation with her dolly, the cell phone rang (in her pretend world), as she answered her voice changed completely. She was no longer a cross Mommy. No, she instantly became joyful, using a voice as sweet as honey! She had entered the false world on the other side of technology.

I am thankful and often humbled by the me my children see. There is nothing hidden in word or action from their keen eyes. Their discernments and interpretations are true. If I dare to believe I am the best mother I can be, I must die to the self I think I am and embrace the refining fire of who I want to become! As I see humor in each day, a little laughter reminds me of the replenishing fuel of God's grace and mercy. It is my job to be honest and transparent in the midst of my joys and trials, in language and action, to the beloved faces I see daily and the ones technology hides from my view.