Skinny Soul

God bless coffee.
As a mom of four, going on five, boys in seven years, I heartily endorse it.  The first cup of joe is a necessary dose of medicine for early mornings when the little ones hit the ground running.  Which they do.  Momma can't be far behind.  Ahead is better.

"Tired" is in the description of motherhood.  Pregnancy, the odd baby schedule, then the rambunctious toddler years, the precocious pre-schooler, the inquisitive kindergartener, and the chattery elementary school kid can leave a mom a wee bit exhausted.
Times a hundred.
With a thousand million things to do that can't wait till tomorrow.
Plus the billion other things that can wait, a bit.
It's tough.

I'm using up calories and running through hormones like nobody's business.  So there are times I just need to eat an egg or up my magnesium intake or get off the computer and that'll give me a healthy kick in the pants to keep going till (the blessed hour of) bedtime.  But sometimes I must take stock.

Is it my body that is truly weary - or my soul?             

When was the last moment I paused in the day to thank God for something?
Did I pray for the child before jumping into discipline?
Am I breathing out impatience or encouragement?
Is there a verse in my head I'm pondering, or a complaint I'm harboring?
Why haven't I smiled today?
Can I really blame the rain for my attitude?  Or the finances?  Or the squashed bug under my barefoot?

I may be grumpy because this life is wearing, tough on joints and limbs and metabolism.  Maybe I need to sit down because the blood in my ankles just needs help to fight gravity past my bulging tummy.  It could be that my mind is spinning from the last dozen questions the 5 year old asked about reproduction.  Perhaps lugging the two year old around the garden for an hour really did do a number on my back.  It might be that I just don't know what to make for supper, and if it's healthy then nobody's gonna like it no matter what I choose.
But really, are my weariness and short temper a result of something beyond the skin-deep fatigue?

As the deer pants for the water brooks, so pants my soul for You, O God.  My soul thirsts for God, for the living God."
Psalm 42:1-2

Perhaps my hunger is for something deeper than buttered toast in the morning.  It's my soul that feels thin.  Worn.  Craving.
I might try to satisfy my longings with donuts and too much Facebook.  They taste good, for a moment.  But there is no sustenance.  Need goes unmet.

The pure hearty laughter of a two year old jolts me from numbness back to awareness of some deeper desire.  No, I don't have hours to spend in Bible study; not for now.  But I don't need to.  Four course dinners are nice, but not practical during rush hour...

I don't have deep, hours-long serious discussions with my husband every day.  But I talk to him often, laugh with him over the antics of one of our shared descendants, smile over an inside joke we share at the dinner table.  I can have that with God too.  Even better, since I can talk to Him in the night while my husband snores oblivious beside me.  I can find joy in His creation even while my husband is at work.  I can trust to Him my tears, my worry, while arm deep in dishwater.  I can remember His tender hand on me when I feel a parenting failure heavy on my shoulders.

O my God, my soul is cast down within me; therefore I will remember You...  (verse 6).

And, incrementally, I am revived as I turn my eyes back to Him.  My soul feels refreshed.  I throw out the remainder of the kids' peanut butter from lunch while my own chicken salad sits neglected on the counter until I have a moment to touch it, and this time I remember to praise Him for provision of food, and the invention of mayonnaise and pickles.  Deep within, before I ever get to that first bite of actual food, substance starts to meet hunger.

Deep calls unto deep at the noise of Your waterfalls; all Your waves and billows have gone over me.  The Lord will command His lovingkindness in the daytime, and in the night His song shall be with me - A prayer to God for my life.
(verses 7-8).

There are moments when I get frustrated with this life I lead.  There's so much pressure to do it right.  But my understanding is pivoting.  This life I lead - aren't I supposed to be following instead?
He - my Guide, the Lamp to light my path, the King of all the earth, my Father, my Friend, my God - He is the rightful Leader of my life.  And I must say, He does a far better job of it.

Why are you cast down, O my soul?  Why are you disquieted within me? 
Hope in God;
For I shall yet praise Him, the help of my countenance and my God.
Psalm 42:11

Daddy always shares.

Hope in God.  He's got this.
As for the other stuff, well, there is a reason why God invented drive-through coffee places.
There when you need it.
Take advantage.

Just a Season

I went ice skating today.  The first time in over ten years.  My feet hurt now; I think they've widened (or my skates got narrower in storage in grandma's basement...)
I remember the cold January afternoons, trudging across the field from my house to the frozen pond in the neighbor's horse pasture.  I was fifteen probably; my little brother ten.  Second hand skates slung over our shoulders, and maybe warped old hockey stick tangled through the laces.  We'd lace up, quickly, fingers numbing.  I'd try to figure out how to glide backwards, fast, or spin on one foot like they did so effortlessly at the Olympics.  I wasn't so effortless.  My tailbone would ache after some afternoons of hard falls.  Still, we'd be back out in another day or two.  Sometimes we'd bring shovels after an overnight snow.  Sometimes the sun warmed the top layer and we'd carve through a layer of slush around the edges.  Our boots would serve as goal posts.
I met my husband, a hockey player up through college.  We bought a house close to several rinks.  He played a few pick up games from time to time, but we got busy.  Jobs, new house projects, then I was pregnant, then the baby, then another and another and another...
Suddenly it has been more than ten years since I laced up my skates.  Maybe twelve.  And I'm pregnant again, of course.  But today was my husband's day off.  My six year old, my five year old, and my three year old convinced grandma to bring over her stash of yard-sale-find-kid skates, and to watch the two year old for an hour.  And we went to a local rink so my kids could feel ice beneath their blades for the first time.

They tell me it's just a season.  This time when the kids are small and so needy; it won't last.  But I've been hearing that for seven years.  I'll keep hearing it for at least several more.
"You'll sleep - when they're older."
"You'll have date nights - eventually."
"You'll go out shopping with your own friends - when they can be home alone."
"You'll go out for coffee - when they are all in school."
"You'll have time to do all those things you can't - when the kids are grown."

I know they're right.  I'll miss these days, the days of small things.  The cuddles, the funny quotes, the innocent giggles, the early mornings when I don't get my coffee until I've gotten everyone else dressed and fed - they won't last.  I'll reminisce.  And I'll do things on my own - like go to the bathroom without interruption - and it will be quite pleasant.  
But this season, it is somewhere between long and endless for me.  I keep having kids.  I homeschool.  I don't work outside the home.  I have a child with a handicap.  So this season, I can't treat it just like a summer or a winter that will pass with a spring thaw, or when the school bus comes to pick up the youngest for kindergarten and leaves me suddenly alone on the doorstep.  I can't look at it as an interruption to my real life. It IS my life, the fullest part.  It is not incidental.

I don't want to just endure these humble years, counting the minutes till I'm "free."  I might almost claim to have more purpose to living now than in any "season" previous to little children.  There are moments it feels like diapers will never end; when their bedtime can't come soon enough for me to get to the quiet "me" time after it; when I can't imagine life beyond Cheerios under the table.  But I'm not living each of these moments just to pass the time until I can take up my "real" life again.  This is it.    
It is true I can't do everything while I have little ankle biters.  But I couldn't do everything even when I had no kids.  So instead of considering all the things I'm unable to do, it is time to get creative to figure out what I can.
I always used the excuse that I was too pregnant or had a little one so I couldn't go ice skating.  I can't carry a baby around the ice safely, and if I fall hard, it could be damaging for the bun in the oven.  But I'm always pregnant, and I always have a little one.  So today, grandma happily watched the 2 year old at nap time.  And I was always holding a little someone's hand on the ice so a tumble involving dangerous speed or force was more unlikely than getting in an accident in the car on the way to the rink.
It was fun.  It wasn't like it was fifteen years ago, but I don't want to go back in time and miss the joy on my five year old's face as daddy guided him all the way around the rink.  Or the three year old's excitement when the zamboni past the glass just inches from his upturned face.  Or the sparkle in my husband's eye as he grabbed my hand and told the six year old to take a picture of us on this long awaited "skate date."

No, I can't just sleep in whenever I want these days.  I can't just take a long road trip (the potty breaks would be maddening).  I can't just stay out late with friends.  I can't just live for myself.
That's good.  Enough with the "I can'ts."  I can live for others.  I can do a lot of stuff that I don't consider when I treat this as "just a season."
This is life.  Time I figured out how to live it fully.  And see if I can cajole a foot rub out of my very sweet husband.
We'll just have to see if I can manage that.

Exhale sharply

My two year old fed my one year old baby a piece of his bread and jelly.  Baby was sitting on a library book.  On the rug.
I sighed.

Somebody unrolled the toilet paper to find their perfect piece.  It was apparently at the end of the roll.  I re-rolled it.
I sighed again.

There was dried yogurt on the window.  The baby got stuck under the piano again.  Three pairs of muddy boots were shaken off on the freshly vacuumed rug.
I breathed out in despair.

My husband asked me if I could make him a cup of coffee as he sat down to start a homeschool lesson with the kids.  Navigating blindly behind the ample laundry pile in my arms, I responded with a muffled "Uh-huh."  Sure I'll  be the good little housewife and add one more thing to my to-do list in the next five minutes.  He caught the exhale that followed.
"Sigh!" He mimicked emphatically.  "Your life is so miserable, huh."

I frowned as he hit the nerve, but let the sensation linger.  I was sounding pretty depressed with life.  A few minutes later, bearing a warm mug of coffee as a peace offering, I plunked down next to the boys as he finished reading their Bible story.  He accepted the cup, eyeing me gently.  "You didn't spit in it, did you?" he smiled at me.
"No." I returned.  "I guess its not so bad."
"Bad?" One of the minions questioned.  "Its bad to spit?!?"
"Only outside!"  Mommy started the etiquette lesson and the day moved on.

Do not grow weary in doing good.  2 Thessalonians 3:10
I read it this morning; it was a reminder, but I should have taken it as a warning to be more careful.  I know sighing can be destructive and sapping.  I sigh to celebrate a pity party.  It robs me of joy as well as anyone else who is the recipient of my attitude.  And I let it.  

My home should be a peaceful haven for my family.  Its not always happy, light and bubbly.  Its definitely not always (well, ever) quiet and clean.  But I can, and do, set the mood of the busily humming life within these walls.  Its my great and sacred purpose as a housewife to be the heartbeat of the home.  Thats not easy, but it is a wonderful job description.  I am not a slave or a prisoner in this house.  I am Mom, and I wouldn't trade that title for any position, wealth, or power.  

But if I forget how noble and sweet even the menial parts of my work are, bitterness seeps in.  Eventually, it seeps out too, and it poisons the whole atmosphere of my home.  No matter how much laundry I do, or diaper changing, or vacuuming, or homeschool teaching, or meal planning, or even planning quiet evenings with my husband, it is not particularly helpful if my home is still full of bitterness, unrest, and oppression.  

Jesus, the king of the universe, served His friends and family daily, in menial ways.  Was he any less a king because he washed his disciples' grime-crusted feet?  He touched the lepers, the dead bodies, filthy demon-possessed men, the bleeding women, the snotty children.  He hung out with smelly, sweaty fishermen.  Did they feel his bitterness at his servanthood?  

No, he didn't sigh at their neediness.  Daily, even when he was tired, hungry, hot, frazzled by the crowds, he loved them.  He served them.  He died for them.

I should be able to re-roll toilet paper and make my husband a cup of coffee with a joyful heart.  Jesus would do it for me, King of heaven, Lord of all men.  I, queen of my castle, can do it for my own ankle biters.  And I get to teach them to spit.  Who else can?  That's just special. 

A Rejoicing

This was mostly written the day before Thanksgiving, but someone threw up before I could finish.  I haven't had a long minute in front of the computer since.  I'm going to post it anyway.

This is the day which the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.
Psalm 118:24

It was Wednesday.  I was making stuffing for our Thanksgiving feast.  It was snowing.  My two year old was rearranging our velcro calendar so the fourth Thursday of the month would never come this year.  He stuck a velcro sunshine on the current day, and a rain cloud where the date should be.   He had buttery fingers from his bagel.  Now all of November was buttery too.

I am thankful for butter and two year olds.  How can I not be?  On the first Thanksgiving, they probably didn't have butter, and half of the 101 who arrived the previous year on the Mayflower had died over the first harsh winter.  So they wouldn't have had many two year olds either.  Maybe none.  Cold, hunger, sickness, lack of basic necessities had wracked the small community.  Still they had a feast of thankfulness.  In one book I read, I think they called it a Rejoicing.

Over ninety Wampanoag locals came, their chief Massasoit leading them.  They came to the Pilgrim's settlement where their relatives once had a village of their own.  Plague had wiped out so many of them, they had vacated the area before the Europeans arrived.  Still they came to feast with the newcomers.  Harvest time feasts had been celebrated for hundreds of years in their culture.  They thanked their Creator for their provisions - long before they even knew His name.

I couldn't find my counters underneath the food preparations being prepared for Nana's house the next day.  One of the four children whined that he didn't like what we were having for lunch.  Another spat and threw his off the highchair.  I squashed a piece of pear under my foot and sighed.  Nap time couldn't come soon enough; I had so much to do and it was difficult with so many little hands to help.  My little blessings.  Baby's nose was gooey.  He smushed a pear slice in his hair and whimpered to be held.  Little sticky hands reached for me.  I don't care about your apple pie, Mommy.  I just want you.

Did you know the first book printed in America was a Bible?  It was also the first book in the Wampanoag language.  John Eliot translated it thirty years after the Pilgrims came to new Plymouth.
Within a generation, there were so many European transplants that the local way of life was no longer sustainable.  The native Americans were at war with the new Americans.  A decisive victory led to another thanksgiving feast in Plymouth when the new leader, Massasoit's son, was killed and his followers subdued.  Momentous events that defined their future.  My history.

The two older boys were playing roll the hubbard squash across the floor.  A friend called.  Her little son needs surgery on Monday because his bladder doesn't work.  He's already had heart surgery as an infant and lives with Down Syndrome.  She called to encourage me about the surgeon her son and mine share.  We didn't talk about the pain we have to watch them go through, or how our momma hearts hurt for them.  We say, "I'm so glad they're finding answers.  So good to know he can eat pie with you tomorrow.  Thank you for catching up with me."  And mean it.  It is good.  I watched boys' clothes shed sprinkles from the cookies we had just frosted in the kitchen.  I needed to vacuum.  We hang up.  Our lives are not how we planned them.  This is not how they could be.  But God is in control.   I will rejoice with you.

For a while, I left my kitchen to stew in its own mess.  It was bedtime.  They boys splashed happily in the bathtub which desperately needed a scrubbing.  I vacuumed their room while they were indisposed.  The carpet looked blue-er after several passes. Ben kept rolling across their floor, getting stuck in the corner and needing to be rescued.  Everyone wore fuzzy pajamas that night, the snow made us feel cozy inside.  We read books while I nursed Ben on the couch.  The boys snuggled extra close because the couch is broken and sagging in the middle.  They got to bed and fell asleep immediately.  So sweet.  I kept ignoring the kitchen and went out to shovel a path to our doorway before my cousin dropped by en route to her relatives.  It was so nice to see her, if only for a few minutes.  Don't look at my kitchen, I tell her.  "We can't buy that new place." She sighed sadly.  "We can't move yet."  She gave me a hug was was gone.

I don't know what the future holds.  I know there will be pain and hardship, loss and tears.  But I had a buttery calendar because of my two year old.  Worth it.  I had sprinkles in my hair and a dented squash because of my four year old and five year old.  Worth it.  I had snot all over my shirt from my baby son.  Worth it.  My kitchen was a mess because I hung out on the phone.  Worth it.  My arms were tired because I shoveled so my cousin could come inside for a moment.  Worth it.  I have a homeland, long forgotten relatives, memorable traditions, and Bibles printed in my own country through the great sacrifices of those before me.  Worth it?  May I never take it lightly.  Rejoice with me.