Multitudes on Mondays {621-630}

#621…

#622… hot, sudsy dishwater

#623… the art table that is always a mess

#624...

#625…

#626… fresh-from-the-butcher meat

#627… humility of the woman who reloads my grocery cart when her food stamps wouldn’t go through

#628… the book that is kicking my hiney

#629… a relaxing evening on the patio

#630… the sacrifice made by all those who have served our country.

Five Minute Friday: Opportunity

It’s the first official day of our summer and I’m already later than usual with my Five Minute Friday post. The Girl went to the eye doc this morning and she is getting glasses, the cutie patootie; I had a phone call from the school that led to a mini mental-crisis over the impending Kindergarten scenario, and the boys pulled down the living room drapes rod and all. Hello, it’s summer. So, I cheated and took scraps of a post I’ve been working on for I-didn’t-even-know-what and reworked them (for way more than the intended five minutes. *sigh*). The summer to-do list has been constructed and I am so looking forward to some fun and lazy days with my kidlets, but the anxious, whiney me wants to know just when she is going to squeeze in some writing time? I know, I should lay off the mother’s-summer-angst at least until after Memorial Day.

As I have children who need to be fed (again. how many times a day do these things eat?), here is my five(ish) minutes on:

Opportunity…




“Are you even listening to me?”

“No.”

Anger snaps through me, a lightning-hot whip. I grit my teeth and grip the steering wheel. God, help me.

She is eight years old and she has the power to undo me with a word.

When I ask her about her day and she responds by shoving her nose deeper into her book, when I ask again and she serves the rejection up cold, I swear I see white spots. I utter a primal prayer and try to sift through the intensity of my feelings because shedoesntevenknowhowluckysheisIcantreachherandthatcopyofPippiLongstockingrightthisverysecond.

Thankfully, the quiet minutes behind the steering wheel and the lack of arm’s reach give time for a little divine insight—my anger throbs not because I am wronged but because I am hurt. The strength of my reaction is not to her disobedience or disrespect, but to her rejection. I’ve offered myself, been measured, and found wanting. Thanks, but no thanks, Mom.

This time, I can hear the alarm—Holy insecurity-issue, Batman!—and I can see her refusal is not so much about me as it is about her. Her and her need for solitude. The lens re-inverts and the small-stuff-turned-big-stuff is small again. I am able to correct and direct her, sans 1.21 gigawatts of anger coursing through me. When I’m done she hugs me hard and bounds out of the van, and I’m pretty sure I learned the bigger lesson.

Multitudes on Mondays {612-620}

#612… the wave of sadness at the last preschool program,

#613… and the secondary wave of comfort at how much is yet to come

#614…

#615… cheering her on from the bleachers

#616… bare feet in the grass

#617… garage-sale finds

#618… the friend who pops by with the book that has a long waiting list at the library

#619… the rare splurge on ice-cream-truck treats for the family

#620… celebrating ten years as a body, worshiping all together in one mega-service

Five Minute Friday: Perspective

 
When she forgets the “r” for what feels to her like the zillionth time, she growls and throws her head back against the wooden chair.

I lay the list in my lap and move in close until our knees touch. I tell her that her mama never won a spelling bee in her life, never even placed second or third in her small-town school. Her mama who reads and writes and loves the written word has difficulty spelling aloud without substituting g’s for j’s and c’s for s’s.

“I am proud of you when you work hard and give it your best.” I hold up the list. “And when you practice these, you are working hard.”

It’s not just some feel-good statement meant to inflate her self-esteem. It’s the truth. I’ve had eight years to watch her little brain at work. A spelling bee ribbon won’t convince me of her smarts; of that I am already convinced.

Fifteen hours later I think back on that conversation and my brain hard-tilts. What if I believed those words were true for me? What if I believed in my gut that my worth is not about the win—the grades, the stats, the contracts? That if my heavenly father sat knee-to-knee with his daughter, he might offer similar words of encouragement?

Work hard.
Do your best with what I gave you.
I not only know you and of what you are capable, I created you and of what you are capable.
You don’t have to prove your worth.  Of that I am already convinced.

Multitudes on Mondays {601-611}

#601…

#602… a game of Battleship with my girl

#603…

#604… birthday sushi

#605… carrot cake

#596… presents!

#607…

#608… when I pick him up while he is asleep and he throws his arm around my neck

#609… a sunny day walk with my boy...

#610… and one with my girl

#611…

Five Minute Friday: Identity

When you snuggled and soothed and bounced and rocked your screaming, colicky baby girl…

When you read to the little toddler who couldn’t get enough of books…

When you sang “Jesus Loves Me” and all the verses of “The Old Woman Who Swallowed the Fly”…

When you baked snickerdoodles, spread PB over J, and broiled Velveeta cheese sandwiches…

When you served pajama-clad preschoolers their bowls of Lucky Charms on the front porch…

When you sat through endless elementary school plays…
        mediocre middle school band concerts…
                wet and miserable cross-country meets…

When you were in the laundry room at 10:00 at night…

When you forgave the chips in the knick-knacks, the stains in the carpet, the dents in the car …

When you respected my father.
When you served your family without complaint.
When you lived your beliefs at home.

You weren’t just raising a little girl—you were shaping a woman.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
I love you.


Linking up with Lisa-Jo for Five Minute Friday and Ann for the 1000 Moms Project...

Multitudes on Mondays {591-600}: God's Affections

I had been struggling for weeks to find the right words, and when they finally came, they came in a rush of fingers and a torrent of tears. After weeks of scrounging through all the wrong words, to have the right words fly from my heart to the screen with such speed and ease, I knew they weren’t from me alone. And when I typed the final word, I bowed my head over my keyboard and gave thanks.

I’ll often pray before I write—for God’s direction and protection. Sometimes I’ll pray as I write, particularly if it isn’t going well, sending up those desperate, SOS-type prayers. But I don’t often enough bow my head when I have finished writing. I fear those are days I am taking credit for what He has allowed me to do.

Please don’t misunderstand. I don’t think my writings Pulitzer-prize-worthy, Ann-Lamott-esque, God-breathed pieces of prose. Anyone who knows me knows I am a recovering-perfectionist with a bent toward fear and discouragement, (the hubs and I disagree over whether this is pessimism or realism, but potato-potahto), and anyone who knows the writing business knows that there is more rejection in it than is probably healthy for a human being. So a day I can walk away from the laptop feeling good is a precious day indeed.

That was the gift of The Mother Letter. It was meant more for me than for anyone else, in more ways than one.  The words were not perfect—they were not even great—but they were good. They were the right words. Before I had any response from readers or family or friends, I felt His pleasure.

This past week, some of my best girls and I have been on assignment to see God’s love. To open our eyes to the lavish and perfectly individualized ways He loves each of us. To accept those gifts, gestures, and God-moments for what they are—pure affection.

This is my testimony; I felt love this week at a keyboard. And to those of who you who were so generous in sharing encouraging words and stories of how those words touched you, you multiplied God’s love. Thank you.

And the list goes on…

#591...

#592… one field trip with my girl and one with my boys

#593… rubber cricket on the sinks

#594… and on the ceiling

#595… catching up with the BFF and her sweet baby belly

#596… fresh lilacs on the table

#597… an evening of reading outdoors

#598… Muppet movie-night

#599… shadow-dancing with my boy

#600…