Be Littled

Oh, to be a kid again!  Or at least, to be like a kid...

The Bible says that's actually something us old folks are supposed to attempt.  I have had a fair amount of opportunity to study kids.  (I read once that to truly be considered a master at something, you have to spend at least 10,000 hours doing or practicing for it.  If you only count the 2+ years I've parented a minimum of 4 boys 24/7, then I have over 18,000 hours under my belt.  Yes, I counted night time in there too.  Plenty of humble mommy-ing happens in the wee hours.)  A fair amount.
By now, I have noticed a few reasons why Jesus might have encouraged us to emulate the children.

1. Kids are naturally happy.
My children automatically tend to look at glasses as half full - even if for no other reason than that makes it more fun to dump out.  They aren't generally depressed.  They embrace life, as if it's an exciting adventure.  Even going to Walmart gets their heart pumping (It does mine too, but not from joy.)  It's infectious (Ever been grumpy around a three year old giggling uproariously?  It's not easy.)  
Rejoice always.  1 Thessalonians 5:16

2. Kids wake up eagerly.
"It's five a.m.?  Yay!  What are we waiting for?  Let's get this day rolling!  C'mon, sleepyhead brothers, let's sing!  Help Mom get moving so she doesn't miss out."  (Honestly, they have to stay quietly in their room until 7, but especially the littlest ones don't get this for a while.  Maybe it's just in my house...)
...She also rises while it is yet night...  Proverbs 31:15

3. Kids trust.
Parents have to teach their kids not to talk to strangers.  Why?  Because their natural tendency is to want to trust.  Really, more often than not, this is to their advantage.  My boys have gotten free balloons, candy, money, attention, cheese, and puppies (ok, no puppies... yet) simply by holding out their hands and believing the big people in charge of those things would share the good they had. Surprisingly often, they're right.
The children of men put their trust under the shadow of Your wings.  Psalm 36:7

4. Kids ask for what they need.
Even babies grasp this concept.  Want food?  Cry for it.  Need comfort?  Hold up your arms for a hug.  A kid doesn't sit around worrying about not having it.  He goes right to the source (in his mind) of everything he needs.  And he expects an answer.
Ask, and it will be given to you...  Matthew 7:7
    
5.  Kids are curious.
They are humble enough to admit they don't know "why" or "how."  So they try to find out.  This is similar to the former point.  It goes beyond asking, though.  They experiment, they poke, they test gravity and Mom's limits.  They want to know what "exterminate" means, and why you can't usually see the moon in the daytime, and which kind of ice cream can they have for breakfast.  (The kind with oatmeal and nothing from the freezer, fyi.)
I set my heart to seek and search out by wisdom concerning all that is done under heaven... Ecclesiasties 1:13

6.  Kids touch.
Up here in the northeast, natives are fairly reserved.  We don't hug a lot, link elbows for a stroll, caress in public, or even poke people on Facebook.  Our west coast friends teased us constantly in our college days for being so physically inhibited.   Maybe it has something to do with the cold weather; we're just cooler in our interactions.  Most folks I know will bend over backwards to help someone in need, but don't expect backslapping or sharing a sofa with only one cushion.  I remember in the early days with the first baby, laughing about how much constant contact a newborn afforded.  It was foreign (though not unpleasant.)  My kids have no such inhibitions.  They hug, they cuddle, they keep each other in almost constant headlocks.  My four year old is ninja master of attack hugs from behind.  The two year old isn't an ankle biter, he's more of an ankle clinger.  They literally need physical contact to grow, both bodily and mentally.  So - they touch.  They reach out.  They grab and cling to me.
Love the Lord your God, serve Him, and cleave unto (cling to) Him...  Deuteronomy 11:22

7.  Kids are so tough.
My boys aren't very breakable.  They've fallen down the stairs.  They've gotten up close and personal, at high speed, with the pavement beneath their bikes.  They've been bumped, and scraped, and smushed, and strained - all within just the last week.  My two year old son has had a handful of surgeries already - spine, brain, the nether regions...  The surgical wounds healed in days.  I would be a miserable helpless ball of pain for weeks if you did that stuff to me.  I think often they must be made of rubber.  They feel pain, certainly, and cry, and come limping to Mom for a hug and a band aid.  But within minutes, even if they're still bleeding, they are back to giggling and playing.
Be strong and of good courage... Joshua 1:6

8.  Kids are powerful.
Arrows filling up my quiver.  Children are often looked at as lumpy, snotty baggage in our culture.  They are expensive, time-wasting, whining debt makers that only the people who've already lived the good life are supposed to condescend to birth, twice, maybe three times, and then raise them to school age, at which point they can finally get back to their real, meaningful lives and careers.  (That may be a bit overblown; I'm trying to make a point.)  I'll admit, when I think of my kids, I don't always look at them as gifts, rewards, and or even as particularly useful.  Arrows?  Arrows are tools, exactingly made for a purpose.  They are mighty.  Arrows have the power to kill; they can be used to start or end wars, to make provisions, to hit a mark.  I've seen my littlest kids melt the stern demeanor of the most stoic old women.  Careless hard living men have had their seared consciences smote by innocent eyes of children staring up at them.  They've certainly been used to shape my life.  They've helped define my purpose and priorities; their very weaknesses make me bolder to fight, and gladly.  They are gifts, precious, costly, and I will defend them as such.  I hope God uses each of them to show the way into the joy of His kingdom for many more.
Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, so are the children of one's youth.  Happy is the man who has his quiver full of them; they shall not be ashamed, but speak with their enemies in the gate.  Psalm 127:4-5


I wouldn't go back to being five again.  Those were fun days of running around in tutus, playing Barbies, catching frogs, and being generally amazed by puffy clouds, graham crackers and apple juice.  I reveled in the good that God did, taking it for granted.  I wouldn't go back, because I want to be the mommy and wife that I get to be now, but I don't want to forget those innocent days.
Jesus liked to refer to himself as the Son of Man.  He didn't say he was King of the World, though he was.  He didn't say he was the Man of all men, though he was.  Not the macho-ist, or the wisest, or the richest, strongest, or nicest, though he definitely was.  He identified himself as a son.  One who was younger, simpler, humbler than the grownups.  Though he had it all, knew it all, was it all, he became a squalling helpless infant.  A dirty, tousled, sniffly preschooler.  An awkward, bucktoothed 8 year old.  An acne-prone, hormonal teenager.  And he did it on purpose.
...For of such is the kingdom of God.  Mark 10:14

That settles it.  I'm digging out a graham cracker from the stash in the diaper bag and going to spend some time with my Father.  Every Bible can handle a few crumbs between the pages sometimes.  It could be the forgotten secret to making 5 a.m. look a bit brighter now that I'm so old.  If not, there's always Cheerios...


      

Seven year switch

November 7, 2005.  A day that will live in - well, not infamy, but it was a big deal in my little world.
It was the day my husband and I promised the bank we'd pay them for the next 30 years.
We signed lots of papers to prove it.
And they let us put our name above an address.
And we turned the key in the lock and began to claim it with paint, and bleach, and a new toilet to replace the old baby blue one.

I was five months pregnant, in nursing school, and juggling two part time jobs.  He was working full time already, and had never really run a skill saw before and didn't know anything about plumbing or tiling.  That all changed in the next several months.
It was in those days when we really started to realize our parents knew more than we had assumed in high school.  They came, scraped wallpaper, hauled over their own power tools for him to practice with, let us borrow the pickup truck for loads of gravel for the driveway, stopped by to reprimand me for lifting heavy things I shouldn't, and donated houseplants which I have summarily kept at the point of death by dehydration for years now.  We spent  that first Thanksgiving in our bare living room.  On the first piece of furniture we'd ever bought.  A futon.
I wasn't satisfied; but hey, it was a starting point.  We'd fix it up, let its character show through, chase the bats out of the attic, refinish the floors.  I would be happy in our first house.  Eventually.


It is seven years later.  This little two bedroom house is the only home all four of my children have ever known.  Every other year there's been a new baby, and the house seemed older and smaller and I was discontent.  I wished the wallpaper wasn't torn and I could afford better curtains.  I wished for bigger closets.  (Heck, any closets!)  Turns out, you need money to fix up a house, at least a little.  Once a policeman turned up at our door, a warrant in hand for someone once connected with the address.  We bought a new deadbolt.  Twice we (ok, he) chased bats out of the bedroom at midnight.  I've still never refinished the floors.

 Well, we determined to try to sell it, and sometimes people could see past the six person clutter against the walls and would try to buy it.  Each time, it didn't happen.  We stayed on.
I sighed and started to take the hint.
We talked about the possibility of having to build an addition.  And of making the place more handicapped accessible.  Of having 4 teenage boys fit around the table.
He got more gravel to make the driveway fit two vans.
I planted a garden on the side lawn postage stamp.
He cut down some trees so we could see from the deck to the old steeples across the river.
I stopped worrying about showing the house to perspective buyers.  The boys took advantage by ferrying Grandma's collections of train tracks, building blocks, books, and dress up from her house to fill every available inch of wall space I hadn't ruled out.

So now it's been seven years.
We've settled in.
The house is cluttered with my pack rattiness and memories.
With crayons.  Papers.  Books.  Life lived 24 hours a day not in offices or school halls, but within these crooked, chalk-streaked walls.
There are Crayola pictures proudly scotch taped to wallpaper.
There are my own sticky notes slapped haphazardly around the kitchen sink.
There's the woodstove filling the kitchen with warmth as the dishes drip dry on the sideboard.
My grandmother's old piano is wedged into our dining room after it was delicately removed from the house my grandfather built around it forty years ago.
Hanging askew, family photos are gazing benevolently over primary color maps and hand made calendars push pinned into walls below them.

Almost, almost - when the toys are picked up into their baskets and the tick of the clock is audible again in the evening calm - almost I am content in this little house.

We are warm and safe and have running water.  I must humbly acknowledge I am rich compared to 95% of the world.  So what if my curtains don't match my eyes?  (Or, ahem, even each other?)
My children are with me 24/7 - and (most of the time) I really like that.
My husband can wield a drill with a fair amount of skill, and build good fires and good bookshelves, till a garden, dig out the basement, tile, roof, and shows a flair with duct tape when all else fails.
I have a place to hang laundry; I am queen of my kitchen.
The boys have local playmates.  They've learned which way all balls will roll in the un-level kitchen.  They find forgotten little trucks behind the baseboards.  They dig for treasure in the slope behind the hill, bringing me old blue glass Milk of Magnesia bottles and Moxie from 100 years ago.  Laughing recklessly, they wrestle with Daddy on the mattress we graduated to upstairs in the bedroom.  At night they snuggle, bunk beds, crib and toddler bed, together in the cozy little room with the blue carpet.  The curtains Grandma made sway gently in the window.

Maybe we will sell this little slice of real estate at some point.  Or maybe our kids will inherit it in 60 years, and have to figure out how to get Great-Grandma's piano back out the door to their own house.
Maybe it doesn't matter so much.


This home sometimes seems to encompass my whole world.
I have to remind myself this world is not my ultimate home.


No matter how content I am, this world will never satisfy me.  In fact, if I let them, these passive inanimate objects can own me.  And do, sometimes.  Why else would I dissolve in tears when the washing machine breaks down?  Why be so depressed when the Google Maps car gets a snapshot of my house with all the kids' toys piled on the front lawn? And the throw rugs drying on the porch railings?  And there were doubtless some scantily clad brothers chasing each other will realistic looking water guns in the background.  The moment is rather etched in my memory.  Why?  As if I believed for a moment it really was such a big deal.

We were not made for this world.
I can not be content, not truly, until I am in the place my Savior is preparing for me to be, with Him, forever.

My kids tell me the house God is making for them for someday is made out of jello.
Whatever.
It'll be good.
And it won't take me seven years to accept that.

"Mary" Me

"Mom, are you ever not busy?"
My six year old queried with a sigh one day.

Is that a hypothetical question?  I am a homeschooling mom with four young boys.  I am wife.  I am homemaker, daughter, friend, occasional blogger.  I am busy.

There is so much I must do.  There is plenty more I could do.  "Free" time isn't really applicable in this present chapter of my life.

It isn't that I really want to be this way.  Not that I want to be bored, but that won't be an issue for many years, at this rate.  I really would rather be like Mary, dropping everything to sit at Jesus' feet in adoration and wonder.
But somewhere along the line, probably when I was trying to juggle homemaker/wife/mommyx4/etc, life got ridiculously busy, and I turned into Martha.

Ben is a year and a half old now.  He is most content in the midst of the happy chaos his little world is full of.  He's barely aware that most of his peers are walking now, climbing stairs and chairs and falling off them and rubbing their heads, trying to clamber out of their cribs too late at night or early in the morning, and generally giving their parents headaches with all the childproofing toddler worlds require.
I wish, sometimes, that was my headache.

Still, I imagine him upright, chubby legs steadied in orange plastic braces, hanging on trustingly to tall toys, tables or a parent's knees.  Perhaps he will, in time.  But what if he's unable to walk, what if never?  What if I need to carry him for years ahead?  How can I bear this burden?  Will I be holding him at his brother's soccer games?  Will I carry him around the playground?  Will he watch from my lap at his brother's swim meets?  No matter how small his stature, or how big my muscles grow, this sometimes seems too heavy to bear.

It is.  
Martha said so.

Now it happened as they went that He entered a certain village; and a certain woman named Martha welcomed Him into her house.
And she had a sister called Mary, who also sat at Jesus' feet and heard His word.
But Martha was distracted with much serving, and she approached Him and said, "Lord, do You not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Therefore tell her to help me."
And Jesus answered and said to her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things.
But one thing is needed, and Mary has chosen that good part, which will not be taken away from her.
Luke 10:38-42


The Son of God had just walked into her house, probably with a substantial posse of hungry, dirty, tired disciples.  They needed food.  They needed water to wash.  They needed places to sit and cool down.  It was her house.  It was on her shoulders to kill and cook the fatted calf, to not burn the challah or fig pie (I'm guessing at the menu).  She had to be sure there were enough fresh sheets if they were going to stay overnight in the guestrooms, and I'm guessing she didn't have a speed wash or dry cycle.  The outhouse had to be spotless.  She'd been meaning to whitewash the front of the house all summer; Passover was coming and how had she not done it yet?  Milk spoiled so quickly; maybe she could just run over to the neighbors and borrow a jug.  Ack!  So much to do for Jesus!  At least maybe Mary had hopefully thrown the sheets on the line, and if she'd started the roast they might just be able to accomplish it all by dinner time...
Mary?  Why wasn't she in the kitchen?  She loved seeing Jesus; there was no way she would have just gone wandering off like she did in those introspective moments.  If they could just get all the serving done, then they could spend some time with Jesus.  Martha peeked around the corner to see if Jesus needed a refill; He was talking so much, He must be parched.  There was Mary's upturned face, right in the middle of the floor in front of Jesus!  Shirking her duties completely; Martha would have to do it all.  It was just too much!      

But when Martha finally brought her frustration to Jesus, after much fretting, she wasn't initially soothed.  "Mary chose the right thing" wasn't what Martha wanted to hear.  She wanted to be affirmed and patted on the back for wanting to help Jesus.
But Jesus wasn't there because He needed help.
Jesus didn't need food; He'd just fed 5,000 people with a handful of fish and loaves of bread.
Jesus didn't need to wash the dirt from His feet; He'd made dirt; it didn't faze him.
Jesus didn't need clean sheets; He was used to not having a place to lay His head.
Jesus didn't need Martha to carry His load.
He was there to carry hers.

"Come sit with Me." He told Martha.
"I am the bread of life.  I will wash you white as snow.  I will give you rest.
You were meant to have a Mary kind of life with Martha moments here and there.  You've got it turned around.  I'm not here to make a Martha out of Mary.  I'm here to make a Mary out of Martha.

"Come to Me, all [you] who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

"Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. "For My yoke is easy and My burden is light." Matthew 11:28-30

 Perhaps she got the hint and sat down next to Mary instead of worrying about the perfect dinner.  Perhaps He helped her with the dishes later that night, in characteristic humble servant fashion.  Or perhaps they ate leftovers on paper plates and spent the evening around the campfire singing and laughing instead of sweeping up the kitchen.  

Does this mean I can ignore the dishes?
Perhaps some of these things are so insignificant in His grand scheme that if I could see His big picture, I would indeed feel silly worrying so much about the congealed oatmeal in the bottom of the sink.
Does it mean He will make my son walk?
Perhaps He sees my little son as a grown man at a podium or even in a slum, championing the cause of the widow and the orphan.  Whether he got himself there on his feet or his wheelchair will be inconsequential to both of us at that moment.  He made Ben because He wanted to love his soul; the difficulties with his spinal cord are just part of helping Ben (and me) to realize that.
Carrying him now doesn't seem like such a big deal with the light of eternity in the corner of my eye.

Make me Mary, God.  "Busy" is not my priority.  "Being" is my priority.

Now, I hope you'll excuse me.  I have to go play legos with the kids.

Hypothetical

Ever imagine what it would have been like to have been born in another time period or place?  I wonder why God chose here and now for us.  Why did God choose this era of expensive gas, ridiculous political jargon, frustration over health insurance, too-busy lifestyles, consumerism, and cable t.v.?  Why didn't he choose to have us exist 100 years ago, or 1,000?  What if we'd taken a different road?

I don't know. I won't know.

Certain things might have been very good in a different time.  

I would probably be more prepared to run a home and family if I'd been raised for that specific purpose.  

I'd be better at making bread.

There would be far fewer distractions.

I wouldn't own so much stuff, or feel the need to.

I'd be ok with being dirtier.

I might know the worth and the cost of knowing God, and be closer to him.

But today I am thankful.

Long ago, I wouldn't have been granted an education.  I might not know how to read.

My vision would be so terrible without glasses or laser surgery that I'd barely be able to see.

My teeth would be crooked.

If I'd been born in China, they might have bound my feet.

If I'd been born in India, I might live in a garbage dump.

If I'd been born in parts of Africa, I might be circumcised and married by adolescence.

If I'd been born in the Middle East, my arms and legs would always be hidden from the light of day.

I would never have traveled far.

I wouldn't have friends all over the world.

My parents would have chosen someone else for me to marry.

My youngest would have died soon after birth without surgery.

Without antibiotics, my four year old might have died when the splinter in his finger got infected.

My husband might have died from dehydration when he got a bad case of the flu.

I wouldn't know how to drive.

I wouldn't know how to blow a bubble with bubble gum.

I might not know how to swim.

I wouldn't have named my blog Teenage Mutant Ninja Toddlers.

I might be burned at the stake for owning and reading a Bible.

We are here, now, for a reason.  I could sing the shoulda, coulda, woulda's.  I could wonder "what if?"  But I could be content; get on with living.  Purposefully and fully.  And I've had my morning coffee.  Praise God for the era of morning coffee!  Time to go live the day.  

Give it time.

Five year old, pouting over reading homework and grumbling about an odd phrase, "I don't believe in anything I can't see!"
Me, pouncing on the opportunity, "Oh, well, do you believe you have a house?"
Five year old, "Yes, I can see it."
Me, "Do you believe in the wind?"
Him, "Yes, I can feel it."
Me, "Do you believe I'm your mommy?"
"Yes, because you take care of us every day and feed us and change diapers."  (Yup, that about sums it up...)
"Ok, so do you believe in God?"
Him, still pouting and realizing this is a chance to tell mommy what she doesn't want to hear, "No.  I can't see Him."
I expected this from little Mr. Attitude, "Well, I believe He is real because somebody had to make this earth and the trees and the clouds.  And somebody had to put a lot of thought into making you."
"Nope.  I don't believe it if I can't see it."
"Well, He is real, whether we believe it or not."  I let the matter drop.

The next day, at breakfast, I asked again.
"Gav, do you believe God is real?"

He sighed, but being in a better mood and full of bacon, replied, "Well, maybe a little... It just makes sense."

A day and a slab of bacon can really help with perspective.