Amen

As our three youngest babes prayed with me yesterday, I saw laced fingers and tightly shut eyes and heard a resounding finish of, "Amen" to the God they know is listening. Just days before, Gabriel had written in a letter, "...today I received my dog tags - it is moving and stirring to see them hanging around my neck as I lean over the bathroom stall...I know it is a morbid thought, but if something ever happened to me, I would like Elias to have them." The reading of Gabe's words felt like a foreshadowing of Friday when one of Gabriel's classmates died in an field training exercise. It was the same day that almost 100 Norwegian youth were murdered. I felt the weight of so much sorrow, and ached for the grieving families of each of those precious teenagers.

In the garden, a picture of hope came to my mind. There is a stunningly beautiful clematis climbing the lamppost. It surprises me each Spring when the courageous vine seeks to survive in a treacherous part of the yard, where little good can be found. Ages ago, when I planted the shoot, I'd hoped for instant beauty. Until last week the scraggly remnant yearly had produced only leaves on a thirsty stem. When the buds finally appeared I did not expect huge, exquisite, deep purple flowers from a living thing that had known such struggle. I looked at those flowers today with new eyes. God kindly has been teaching me to be thankful for the privilege of difficulty and sorrow, and to trust His promise in the end; that He will wipe away every tear, that joy comes in the morning and that good can come from evil. His book of Truth is the Living Water for our thirsty souls.

Gabriel also wrote these thoughts this week, "God is indeed good. He is terribly good...terrible in His goodness, meaning that the force and power behind his shaping would overwhelm us, were we not able to behold the mercy and love that guides those hammer blows, the heat of the forge and the freezing waters. For they fashion me into the weapon, yet give me with that the strength, the wisdom to allow myself to be wielded."

To yield to The Maker and thus, in surrender, be wielded by Him, is to face a world wrought with tragedy as a ready soldier. A soldier of the highest King armed with weapons not of this world, no, the only ones which can defeat evil; love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Dog tags are for flesh, but the flesh is merely stem bound to earth. We are created for eternity and it is there we will fully bloom. Hope springs eternal, and to this we can say, "Amen!"

All Aboard!

It is early and a pile of little ones chatter away, as I cling to my few remaining inches of bed. If Ezra joins us I will surely be the first to drop to the floor. It is a peaceful invasion...well, relatively so, but like everything in parenting, complete surrender of all lesser things is the only way.

And so with morning hopes of quiet time to think and write given over to motherhood, I must find a way to celebrate my task. A toast perhaps? Yes, toast in bed and "Bob the Builder: Construction Site" on the small white computer, then I will steal a moment to breathe and speak with my pen.

As I wait for their simple breakfast to warm and crisp, Pax, our chocolate lab, needs a bit of company. So out beyond the herb garden I stand. It is raining again, but the yellow rose beside me doesn't mind, she blooms. This has been a month of tears. How desperately I desire to look to heaven and receive my heartache with thankfulness. To bloom in the rain of my life is what I want, but it is hard.

Our oldest children are walking the steep path to adulthood. Gabriel began the brutal phase of Cadet Basic Training two and a half weeks ago. Elias will soon enter his senior year of high school and anxiously anticipates life beyond. Magdalene's 9 years of home schooling has come to a close as she will begin high school with her brother in the fall. They are seeking their way in a world less kind than the one I might imagine through my rose colored glasses, you know, the ones so easily misplaced. This coaching phase of parenting is perhaps the most difficult. To watch the refining process is to sometimes feel imprisoned by the finality of a job well done...well, at least done, yet covered on all sides by God's grace and filtered through his hands.

Last night Malachi called to his younger siblings, "All Aboard!" He and Salome' arranged the seven stools on their sides, on the floor, as train compartments. The unruly bunch came to order quickly when they realized the conductor was doling out his first round of snacks. Their game reminded me of a quote from Corrie Ten Boom which I have taped to the inside of my pantry, "When a train goes through a tunnel and it gets dark, don't throw away the ticket and jump off. You sit still and trust the engineer."

My white-knuckled fists would hold tightly to our first three children if I did not trust The Conductor. Each of their unique adventures must be laced with struggle, sorrow and suffering. Why this is, I will never know on this side of heaven. Yet it is true, the soul who suffers and refuses to swallow bitterness, will taste the sweet fruit of thankfulness and humility, necessary traits for a spiritually healthy life. Love and truth invested in children in the daily white-flag surrender of parenting will also equip our next generation. We must trust our children to wield the tools we give them well.

As I weep and pray I settle my spirit in these words, "They that sow in tears shall reap in joy." Psalm 126:5. In this I fix my mind and ask my heart to bloom in the rain as I sit tight on this train..."Snacks please!"

I am

Here I am, this strange little person, sitting in the corner of the couch. If a star were to gaze down at the earth, I would be too small to be seen. But I see the stars, their magnificent presence grounds me. I feel tiny, I am only this. I am no more, no less, neither grand nor unnecessary. My Father said of His name, "I am". So when I wonder who this person I live as, happens to be; I realize in humble confidence that I am the child of The I am.

The Color of God

Malachi spoke brightly from the backseat of the car, "Mommy, do you wonder about the color of God?"

I answered simply, to get myself out of the way, "No, do you?"

"I think God is black," he stated, "He is every color of everyone, all the way to the deepest shade."

I waited and there was quiet, then he began again,

"No, actually, I believe God is medium brown, because when God looks around Him, He sees all the colors, of all His children, and He is in the very center of them."

Perhaps, this is why we are to be like children.

Available

As I tiptoed into our bedroom last night at the end of the evening's tasks, I came upon a precious sight; Dennis, Malachi and Salome' sound asleep after only a few pages of reading, "My Father's Dragon". With Gabriel in Norway, his room has become a haven for us when little ones overtake our bed. The expansive picture window, where Zion first met the moon, is an inviting space for some thoughtful moments before sleep's insistence will no longer be denied. So I slipped into the vacant room, crawled between the sheets and breathed in deeply the delicious breeze pressing through the open window. Yet, to my my dismay, just beyond the house which separates us from the street, the bright lights of an ambulance and fire engine caught my attention. Silently the vehicles arrived and several rescuers alighted from them. The surrounding darkness shrouded any other details from my view. The shadowy figures disappeared from sight, then departed within 30 minutes. Sadly, I knew neither the savers nor those in need of saving. I can meet our homeless friends on the corner, or chat with the cute gal who sells me shoes, but who are those neighbors just a few houses away, whose evening erupted into possible tragedy as I watched through my open window, a curious eavesdropper.

To be known is a choice of transparency and trust, but to know another is a privilege which requires an invitation. The doors of the neighbors I do not know appear large and foreboding, I have not been brave enough to knock on many of them. To pursue a relationship seems daunting to me, but if I had cared enough to try, I might have known the need, and today I could have given compassion.

A decade ago, our sweet Elias, seven years old at the time, was given an opportunity. We were visiting my special needs girlfriend who lived in a care home. Between us and the door, an elderly woman sat. Her hair was matted in long tendrils around her face and her spindly fingers were marked by dirty, long nails. Her sunken eyes looked hungry for attention, but the stench of urine from her wheelchair seemed to create a barrier to compassion. I smiled at the woman and gave my three children the chance to scoot behind me and out of her reach. Elias, did not walk away, but instead he stood close to her wheelchair and bent his smiling face within inches of her sunken cheeks. Her eyes shone as he reached his arms around her bent shoulders and hugged her. Time stood still for me as I watched in wonder at the love our boy lavished on this precious, needy child of God. Our little boy seemed so brave to me that day, but I think a better, truer statement would be: available to love. The elderly woman needed someone and his tender heart said, "Here I am!"

Life is hard, but less hard when we are available to each other.

And just as I speak this to you, my tired spirit rests in the truth that God, who loves us deeper than we can even begin to imagine, is our ever present source of love, compassion and wholeness.

Good night, Sweet Friend, I will tiptoe somewhere now for sleep, and between the two of us, perhaps these words will encourage our simple ability to be available to someone who needs love tomorrow (or today).

Rebels in the House

Yesterday, rebellion almost won. In my house, in my heart and in my head, everything appeared broken. Yet today, as I write this, I smile. It is my intent for you to do so as well. My sweet husband always says, "Time is the great differentiator." And on this side of yesterday, I must agree!

Salome' is learning letters. In a heated moment, she has expressed her newly discovered abilities, "I have two words for you! N! O!" She also stated on one angry morning not long ago, "I am so mad, I want to hit someone, maybe even a mommy or a daddy!" Well, my passionate little Latino beauty says things I'd sometimes like to say!

The dictators of yesterday's mutiny were an unlikely crew, whose presence in my life is usually one of deep devotion and servitude. Yes, I will type this quietly so as not to rouse the computer's possible allied relationship. The culprits were the appliances! The lovely subject of laundry must be addressed first, I know it is generally uninteresting, except in commercials; then you'd be delighted to think of me smiling radiantly, in sleek white jeans surrounded by perfect piles of pristine linens in a laundry room the size of Maine. The boring reality is that yesterday the washer, perhaps in jealous competition with those TV- star appliances, took center stage in its own ballet...spinning and spinning and spinning without ceasing. Meanwhile my perfectly disastrous angels (dirtier then usual for the sake of my mood no doubt!) kept requiring multiple changes. The heaps of dirty clothes mounted beside the obstinate stainless-steel toaster who had given up the ghost last week. Instead of tossing him out, I'd perched him on the side of the laundry room sink, reticent to accept his untimely death. The unplugging of the toaster resembled the shutting down of water supply to the refrigerator, whose leaking tube had damaged the floor. Though this dilemma was several weeks old, yesterday, the crack through the refrigerator's fruit drawer split down the middle and a large, metal bolt appeared from nowhere leaving the door ajar. Lastly, the dishwasher, whose inadequacy had been ignored for far too long, joined the ranks of stubborn stainless-steel subjects and initiated her own strike. Certain that my desperate plea to the "Same Day" appliance service would result in an appointment the following week, I plopped into a chair to steal a moment for a reviving cup of coffee. There was no question of the loyalty of my beloved espresso maker. The first soothing sip was lovely, but that was it! A sad, little, brown lump floated on the surface, no reviving aroma for him. The fat, drowned fly had certainly had a rougher day than me! (Was that steam or snickering coming from my Benedict Arnold coffee maker?)

To my amazement, Mr. D, the appliance repair man, sauntered in at 4 o'clock. He seemed to have all the time in the world, and the confidence of an Old World sheriff. Zion, the resident bull-dog, met him face on with a kindly word, "Go Home!" But the steady professional only smiled broadly. I was glad he had no pocket doggie-treats like the mail carrier, for Zion had already eaten a bit of cat-food that day, to which he'd rubbed his tummy and said, "Yum!"

Mr. D tackled each problem with a steady hand and the wisdom of 36 years of job devotion. "Began when I was 12!" he stated proudly. My unruly dependents submitted to his abilities, and the live little rascals watched with great interest and subdued attitudes.

With everything working, a few replacement parts on order, and a bill I would pay only on job completion, Mr. D tipped his cap and drove off into the sunset.

It is good to be humbled by the mundane things I think I need. And it is a deep joy to be blessed by another's talents.

We need each other and God is good to create us so utterly dependent.

Today

Today I stole away to a secret place-the sunny place, where quiet lives. The sun-soaked bench, tucked out of sight beckons me often, but I am a long lost friend. These moments are sweet reunion with solace, a wise and faithful companion. My days of mothering are vibrant; tugging on every emotion, enveloping my heart, as our children live out-loud. The dance is beautiful and confusing, I confess the two left feet often take the lead. It is then we fall, and to regain our footing requires soft words of repair for which I must dig deeply, from the Source far beyond my inadequacy. The Source is strong against the bombardment of chaos. Here now the solitude welcomes my spirit to pour out the struggle, from weary flesh, and sit and breathe. The gift of God's lavish grace drenches my parched soul as confession and repentance make room for the mending and renewal. God is good, available and waiting. He never sleeps or turns His face. He is in your solitude and in all that threatens to consume, He is the living hope and you are precious in his sight.