Tuesday, December 25, 2012


Merry Christmas from us!

And to the One who created life, who Is life, and who makes new life - Thank You.

(P. S. - Did you happen to count the socks? :)

Thursday, December 20, 2012


(Any similarities between this and an older Christmas poem are purely intentional.)

'Twas the week before Christmas; chaos reigned in the house,
Every creature was whining and mom was a grouch.

The stockings were flung 'cross the floor without care
In hopes that the laundry would just disappear.

The children were nestled in a heap of legos
And I winced when a piece crunched under my toes.

And I in my yoga pants and he in his socks
Had briefly sat down on the sofa to talk.

Then away to the kitchen I flew like a flash
When I heard the crying right after the crash.

The child, on the breast of the overturned chair,
Had reached for the cookies and had crumbs in his hair.

When what to my reproving eyes should appear
But the whole plate of cookies destroyed, as I feared.

And my little old temper so lively and quick
Revealed in a moment at my wrath button's click.

More rapid than than anger, nothing courses the same,
I erupted, and shouted, and called him by name:

"Henry!" My tone made his little eyes glisten
For punishment that he knew he'd been fixin'.

"To the top of the stairs!  To the top of the hall!
Now get your self up there, Mister; I mean haul!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with their mother's wrath, wish they could hide,

So up to the bedroom he trudged, loathe to go,
With a heart full of dread, and mad mommy in tow.

And then in a tinkling, I heard behind me
Glass lights shattering under the tree.

I whipped round my head and went running back down
To capture another small crook with a bound.

He was covered in pine sprills, from head to his feet,
And little glass splinters surrounded his seat.

A fistful of decor he'd grabbed off the tree;
Small bells and and plastic snowmen were a treat.

His eyes, how they twinkled! His giggles, how merry!
He reached up in a branch for a plastic toy fairy.

His droll little mouth was stuffed full with a bow
And the drool on his chin was as wet as the snow.

The stump of the light he held tight in one fist
And the string of them wound his arm up in a twist.

He had a sticky face and a little round tummy
And as I shook the glass off, he thought it was funny.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly young elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.

As I shook off his pants and swept up the mess
I soon had the feeling I was passing a test.

I spoke not a word, but continued the work
Knowing that this week I'd been acting a jerk.

I laid down the broom and took up my young sons
Remorseful to miss the sweet moments and fun.

I fell to my knees, to my boys gave a tickle,
And away my prayer flew that He'd make me less fickle,

Then I hugged them amidst broken cookies and lights,
Christmas is next week; I'll prepare for it right.

Saturday, December 15, 2012

Nursery for heaven

I hugged my squirming babies and breathed in the scent of innocence and dirt.  I sniffled over the chopped carrots and garlic.  Onion was nowhere to be seen.  I hollered at a child to clean up his mess for the 7th time and sighed with pleasure at the simple fact that he was there to holler at.  My heart ached to think of the mommies and daddies who were in the midst of planning Christmas presents and activities over the weekend for their little six year olds.  Activities they'll never do.  Presents they'll never open.
"Why, God, why?!?"
The world seems dark and hopeless.  The value of life decreases daily with the legal murder of babies in the womb.  They have little hearts pulsing real blood by six weeks old.  Life blood.
Children wither away from neglect or abandonment in some countries.  For some there isn't enough food to sustain their growing bodies.  For some, terrible war signifies the cold end.
And dark red stains cold linoleum in the quiet halls of a school in Connecticut this morning.  Life blood.  Irremediably spilled.  Life done.

I have such plans for my children.  I hope that they will grow taller than me (not tomorrow, but soon.)  I want them to master riding a bike without training wheels.  Camping under the stars with Daddy.  Knowing their multiplication tables.  Reading chapter books for fun.  Staying up too late with their friends.  Driving a car - well.  Learning tact.  Cutting a straight line.  Cooking.  Doing their own laundry.  Treating girls like princesses.  Holding their first paycheck.  Graduating.  Bringing home the woman of their dreams to meet the parents.  Giving me my first grandchild.

But perhaps they won't.  Perhaps these are just my plans for my sons.  Perhaps God's plans for them will be complete sooner than I expect.  Jesus welcomes little children into His arms everyday, saying, "Welcome.  I'm expecting you."  Even then He holds the pieces of the mother's broken heart tenderly in His hands and abhors along with her the evil that caused the end.
To Him, it isn't a life cut short.  It is simply the end.  Complete.

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.  
Jeremiah 29:11

Rather than "hope," some versions render it "an expected end."

We cannot surprise God.  We cannot get away from His ultimate plans.  I think I can sometimes.  Jonah tried.  Even in the bottom of the ocean, surrounded in the darkness by gastric juices and partially digested fish, God was there.  David wrote about it.

My frame was not hidden from You, when I was made in secret, and skillfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth.  Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed.  And in Your book they were written, the days fashioned for me, when as yet there were none of them.
Psalm 139:16

God has planned out every second of our lives.  It is written and set in stone.  Six day's worth for some.  Six years for others.  Sixty for others.  Each life, prepared in advance.   Each life, purposeful.  Each life, precious.

There's an old Puritan prayer the Pilgrims likely knew at the inception of our nation.  It was the cry of my own heart early this morning.  But they said it better.

O God, I cannot endure to see the destruction of my kindred.
Let those that are united to me in tender ties be precious in thy sight and devoted to thy glory.
Sanctify and prosper my domestic devotion, instruction, discipline, example,
that my house may be a nursery for heaven.

(From page 209 of The Valley of Vision, A collection of Puritan prayers and devotions, edited by Arthur Bennett.)

O that I would treat every day of my and my children's life with the same purpose and preciousness that You intend, Lord!

Thursday, December 6, 2012


First smile.
First word.
First tooth.
First wheelchair.

Never thought that would be in the baby book.

Last night, I watched my five year old at his first basketball practice ever.  I don't think we own a basketball.  Yet.  He stood, alone in the midst of the general mayhem of kindergarteners on the court, trying to dribble a ball.  Bounce. Smack. Bounce. Repeat.  If sheer will could have forced the ball to submit to his untrained fingers, it would have been easy.  But will isn't enough, no matter what the movies say.
It's not glorious.  In the sport, dribbling is merely the littlest accomplishment.  It doesn't earn you any game points.  But you must start there.
Baby steps.

Tonight, my almost two year old concentrated as he took his halting first turns of little tires.  Older brothers squabbled for a turn to push him, but we had to hold them back.  Let him do it.  Let him feel movement of his own labor.  Alone in the midst of adoring older ladies at a store, he glowed with the accomplishment of moving forward.  A whole tire rotation.  Baby steps.  Baby wheels.

At home, he crashed delightedly into the refrigerator.  What a lovely feeling of power.
It feels like there is a little toddler in my house, for the fourth time.
He will get himself stuck like every toddler (only this time, mostly in the laundry room, because the house slopes that way.)
He'll realize he's tall enough to knock things off shelves, crack his head against the dining room table, empty the contents of mysterious drawers that had always before been just over his head.
He'll get fast enough to steal toys from his brothers and take off.  He'll get stuck on the thresholds, but the brief chase will be glorious.

So today, my baby's learning to wheel.
I am so proud.
Time to toddler proof after all.  And, as a friend said, invest in steel toed boots for the whole family.