Sleepover Two

Sleepover Success!

Meaning:

Sleepover buddies had a blast . . .

Jellybeans, popcorn, fruit snacks, ice cream . . . (yikes!)

Kids went to sleep before eleven . . .

Two siblings included in the playtime . . .

House thoroughly a mess . . .

Friends at the end!

Blazer: "I wish you could stay 10 thousand days!"

Friend: "But then I would miss my mom."

Blazer: "Then how about another day?"

Friend: "I am!  I'm staying two days!"

     (well, hate to break it to you . . .)

Later . . .

Friend: "Can I come back tomorrow?"

Friend's Mom: "You wait until you're invited."

Friend: "Can I be invited?"

Blazer: "YES!!"

Compared to a junior high/senior high lock-in . . . this was a breeze!

Here's to more sleepovers!

(just not tomorrow)

The Sleepover

Oh my goodness.

It's here.

Blazer's very first sleepover.

       (And mine too . . . as the mom.)

So far, so good.

     But as Ryan said,
                                 "That's a pretty long time, isn't it?"

            Is it?

                     Uh oh.
                                 I guess we'll see.


I remember sleepovers.  There was the moment when you had enough . . . and just wanted your friend to go home  (or go home yourself.)

       That lonely, missing, sad moment -- when you just want your house and your parents and your toys to yourself.


I must say, it's about the most adorable thing ever to hear kindergartners have conversations.  And watch them give tours of your house.  And introduce them to their siblings.  And decide what to do next.

       And the poor younger brother . . . who wants to be part of it all . . . but gets kind-of beat up in the process.  (emotionally and physically)


Ahhh, sleepovers . . .

      Let the fun begin!

Paddle Time

It suddenly hit me today:

            I miss my husband.

    Why does it feel like I hardly ever see him anymore?

Ahhh . . . I know . . .
                               Because I don't.


We have flipped a complete 180 from seven months ago
                          when we were together 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

A change like that can be pretty shocking on the system.

We used to share . . . well . . . everything:

a job, an office, the smooth flat plastic thing our roll-ley chairs rolled over, a computer, a file cabinet, books and Bibles and ideas and deadlines.  We did puppet shows with Dude-eronomy, the chicken.  We planned youth group and children's sermons and trips and events.  We'd take turns -- back and forth -- during our teaching times with the kids.  Heck, we even used to share a cell phone!  (it got kind of difficult calling each other on it . . . )

For nearly five years we were always together.

Together at church, together at home, together with our kids, together grocery shopping (well . . . that was before kids, I guess.)  Together at staff meetings, together at dinner.

    That, my friends, is a lot of together.

And it was good.

                (and challenging at times . . . as you can imagine)

    But really good.


And now we are like ships passing in the night . . . or day . . . or afternoon.  Well, all three, really.  He's with the kids while I'm at church; I come home and he takes a nap, or a shower, or what-have-you.  I go to bed before he comes home.  I'm nearly gone before he wakes up.  With three different shifts in a week, he's coming and going and . . . now it's time for transition again with a new schedule at work.

It's kind-of crazy.


But we're sneaking in moments here and there -- (thanks to the fabulous advice from some of our MOPS moms . . . )

• Date Night is now a game of crib (as in, the card game) & making our grocery shopping list together.  
• And Date Day is lunch out and grocery shopping together -- which is just as fun as before kids, when we shopped together all the time.

Pretty wild n' crazy, eh?

As a MOPS mama shared, 

        Marriage is like sitting in separate canoes.  If you're not paddling toward each other, you'll drift apart.

Grab those paddles!  (and don't forget the grocery list.)

Paddling . . . back when we worked together at church.

 

Thrivival Mode

I'm spent.

I just finished filing our taxes and now my brain is fried.

And now my mini-Hawkeye wants to be mini-Iron Man and can't believe I'm taking so long to take his costume off.

"Why is this so taking so long?"
                        he asks, in a little whining three year old voice.

Because taxes take a long time.
             Deal with it.

But two thumbs up for me . . . it's not even April!  Perhaps a new record!


I just read in a parenting magazine (well, Parenting magazine, actually)

         "when you have two in diapers, the family's day-to-day life is more about survival than about enrichment."  (March 2012, page 23)

I'm not sure if they mean literally in diapers (which we qualify for . . . thanks to my almost 3 1/2 year old who yells at the top of his lungs: "I'm not gonna use the potty!  I'm gonna go in my diaper!"  Go for it, kid.)

                  or if they mean having your children less than two years apart.  (which mine are actually two years and two weeks apart, so I guess I don't technically qualify at all.)

Anyway . . . survival more than enrichment . . .

I've been thinking about that statement the past few days.
       
              Am I just in survival mode?
     
                        Like the bikini-clad amazon women who fight for their lives on Survivor?  (I reference the very first season, since that's the only one I remember . . . remember how they all shared the same toothbrush?   Huh . . .)

             Am I changing diapers and barely potty training and feeding and cleaning up and dressing and undressing and bathing and carrying these little ones
                                   without time and space for enrichment?

Or is enrichment deep in our days . . .

             through child-directed drawing and art, dance parties, songs to sing and instruments to pound, floors to sweep and tables to set, books to read and throw and chew . . .

    Maybe instead of survival mode,

                                       we mothers are in thrivival mode.  

        (Get it?  Thrive, not just survive? . . . Thrivive, rhymes with revive?)

Thrivive might be a holy combination of revive and survive and thrive.  A trifecta of mothering awesomeness
             made possible not by our own selves,
                          but by the one who fills us  --
                                   an outpouring of love and grace
                                            so that we can spill out on others.

      (I'm talking about Jesus, of course.)


Here's to Thriviving!

Cheers!


(now I just have to figure out potty training.)

Meals Two

I didn't even know gifting meals was an actual thing, until it happened to us.

In the days after our first baby was born, a family from church delivered a red basket full of sub sandwich makings -- bread and cheeses, meats and mustards -- a smorgasbord of goodness.

It was a humbling experience -- to open our doors and receive a gift of nourishment and love.                                       (Thanks Reiersons!)



Beware of side note:
Now that I look back, it's almost odd that we received only one meal -- we were woven into two church families at the time.  And with babies number two and three, in a different congregation, only one non-MOPS church family brought us a meal both times  -- --  Our Bible study group just recently had a conversation about this too -- no one offered to bring a meal to a church member, a friend, who had recent surgery.  Not even us!  Her Bible study partners!  Not even me.  Terrible.  This is something we really could work on. . . I should work on.


But back to the root of the story:

Baby number two brought a handful of frozen dinners one day -- gifts from MOPS mamas.

But the real grace poured out with baby number three -- when seven different MOPS families brought a warm meal to our door -- ready to eat at that moment.  Fresh . . . warm . . . like breaking bread together -- sharing a table across town -- becoming a community -- a family -- through a meal . . .

The outpouring of hospitality was immense -- and humbling
 
                             a free gift

                                         that you don't know how to say thank you enough.

    That's grace.
                     Isn't it?


I'm ready to share that grace with others.

              I hope I don't forget.

Meals

Even though I'm ridiculous, I love taking meals to people who may need one.

This is a very new thing for me.

Loving it, I mean.

I like the drive.  I like the evening air.  I love "the moment"

I haven't delivered meals too many times in my life . . . but I can distinctly remember "the moment"of each meal delivery: walking into the house . . . greeted with smiles (well, except once) . . . a quiet, peaceful exchange of sustenance and good cheer.

I like that moment.

I don't just like that moment for myself.  I don't do it to make myself feel good or pat myself on the back.

I like that moment because it is when two worlds collide -- the world of my home and the world of your home . . . the world of my family and of your family.  We become one family for the evening.  We break bread together -- at separate tables and in separate houses -- but together nonetheless.

When I climb back into my car and walk inside my house, the smell of simmering soup and freshly baked cookies still lingers.

                                   And we are connected.


It is a gift
       to use my hands
                 and make a meal
                                    as a prayer for someone else.

I hope I never stop.

Worn Out

Yesterday I didn't have the energy to be a mom of three kids.

Today I don't have the strength.


It usually happens around mealtime.  Last night it was dinner time.  Today it was the combination of wrestling three kids home from church and lunch.  A bona fide circus.


And three days ago (exactly) I realized I have way too many things on my plate at church.  It all just plopped down in one big mass and I'm trying to wade my way through it.  I need to cut back.  Back to where I was a couple weeks ago when it was all more manageable.


And then, of course, I'm signing up to take meals to families with new babies . . . while I can barely get a meal ready for my own family.


I am ridiculous.

And overwhelmed.

And, well . . . worn out.

Isn't she adorable?

OK, so it's 2 pm and I only have about 7 hours worth of stuff I need to finish today -- without any distractions from anyone or anything (including these three sweet little babies under my charge.)

Yeah.  That sounds realistic.


Lunch dishes, here I come.

Community

It's always better in a group.

cleaning . . . doing dishes . . . yard work . . . paper work . . . conversations . . . lunch . . .

It's nice to have a partner, or two, or three.

As cleaning becomes more joyful when shared, so do our experiences become less daunting, less weighty, when we can share them with others

                      sorrows . . . grief . . . questions . . . musings . . . difficult journeys . . . and the like.
     
          and shared joys become
                                              sweeter
                                                        richer
                                                              delicious!


Today was Spring Cleaning Day at church --
Two years ago I remember just our family slaving away in the nursery together.  I think we missed lunch.  Then we worked in the basement by ourselves and when we came upstairs, all the people were gone and all the lights were turned off.  It was a lonely feeling.

This year, cleaning the nursery (while not a totally fun thing to do) was made more bearable . . . joyful, even . . . because of the community.  One of my high school seniors and I disinfected toys while my three kids ran in and out with a troop of five other boys.  Others came in to ask questions or see how we were doing.  At lunchtime, the message was sent out to everyone -- and we waited to pray as a big group.  I sat with two people I'm just beginning to know -- and community was deepened, growing, blossoming.  It was a fabulous clean-up day.


We were made for community.

As I learned at the 2003 ELCA National Youth Gathering in Atlanta, Georgia:

I am because we are.

          We are because Christ is.

                   Ubuntu!


Now go get your mop and let's get to work.

Miracle on Baby Street

I am so excited.

My brother and sister-in-law are in the throes of IVF (in vitro fertilization)

               and miracles are on the move!


I can't stop thinking about them and praying for them --
           this is one wild and intense ride!

                             Totally super intense.


   It is unfathomable to think about the exact timing and intricacies of creating new life.

Amazing that it happens so easily for some . . . heartbreaking to know how hard it is for others.

And beyond amazing to watch when the pieces fall into place . . . and those without hope begin to hope . . . and you get closer and closer to a miracle.

I pray for this miracle to keep unfolding.

          And I pray for those whose miracle never happened.

                      And I pray for those who long for a child, those who long for another child, those who are in the midst of fertility treatments, those who are hoping to/preparing for/in the midst of adoption, those who know the intimate pain of the loss of a dream -- the emptiness of a womb -- the longing to hold their own child in their arms.

                          God, hold them in your hands.


Follow Joel & Melissa's journey on their blog, Welcome to our Hearts.


Thanks for sharing your story, my dear brother n' sister,
                                       
                                              so others know they are not alone.

Frazzle Dazzle Do

I am frazzled.

Like when those wispy pieces of hair around my face get all sticky-uppy and create a halo of disheveledness . . .

      and my eyes dart back and forth, juggling with no hands . . .

               and I'm wearing turquoise velour pants which go with absolutely nothing.

  Picture it?


That is frazzled.


I always wonder, when people encounter me, if they feel like they've been thrown into a whirlwind.


I'm not a fan of frazzled.



I like to sit . . . letting moments quietly blossom
                                       like tender green shoots
                                                   poking out of deep, rich soil.

      I like time to take its time . . . unfolding gently
                   thick like chocolate
                           quiet as a cashmere shawl
                                                       wrapping around a conversation
                                                                 holding a moment like a pearl.

I like words such as:
        peace,
           stillness,
                rest,
                  linger,
                       soak.


Soak . . . yeah, that's a good one.


Maybe I could do a frazzled soak.
             
                A quiet stillness within the spinning whirlwind.
 
     Peace within the ballyhoo.


I could call it a Frazzle Dazzle Do.

(Which sounds more like a dance move.)

Which would be fun too.
                                                                             

               

Force Field

"I feel so close to you right now
                         it's a force field"

Calvin Harris' Feel So Close has been playing non-stop (either out loud or in my mind) since I heard it for the first time on the radio two days ago.

It has a driving beat.  A feel good tune.

And, it turns out, pretty silly lyrics.

A forcefield, Ryan explained to me, keeps things away -- in a major way.  It does not draw things close together.

Sorry to say, Calvin Harris.


But it does make for a good tune.

Outside

I like when people remind me to think outside of myself.

Because it's so easy not to.

Here I am
       in my own little tight circle
                     of children
                            and church
                                  and home
                                        and whatnot

and I forget

that there are people who are huddled outside trying to keep their children warm through the night
and people with empty bellies
and people suffering from depression or extreme loneliness or tortured by mental illnesses
and people torn apart from their families
and children who are not wanted . . . and they know it
and people who are broken
                               almost beyond repair.

But it's never beyond repair

Because there's Jesus.

And there's my hands and feet --
                                      called to love and serve the broken --
                called to be a mirror, reflecting the light and love of Christ --
        called to move
                         and act
                              and do

and not just sit here and write about it.


And that's where the challenge begins.

Real

With the arrival of child number three, motherhood got Real.

Like the tag line on MTV's first season of The Real World
         "When people stop being polite and start getting real . . . "
(which I watched in Jr. High.  1992.  I just looked it up.)


Things changed.

      Drastically.

          They had to.

It was a dawning motherhood moment for me . . . it got real good, real hard, real . . . well . . . Real.


Things that changed with child number three:

• We didn't fit into our Audi sedan.  (Hello mini-van)
• I couldn't throw all my children in a stroller and go for a jog.
• I had to start making schedules -- lots of them.
• My children went to bed at a decent hour.
• We stopped watching Thursday night television.  Well, we (adults) stopped watching television altogether.
• We actually ate meals at regularly scheduled times.  I cooked!
• We could get out of the house by 8:30 am.  
• I actually started cleaning the house on a weekly basis.  Even dusting!  (thanks to my good friend, Schyalee)
• I understand why people with three young children don't worship on a regular basis.  It's hard work!  Exhausting!  (We still do it -- it's just a circus.)
• I started using timers all the time -- to keep us on schedule . . . and to keep the laundry rolling.
• #3 is actually on a predictable nap schedule.
• Letting them "cry it out" is no longer a choice, it's a fact of life.
• Play dates and Library Story time happen constantly . . . right here in my own house.  No need for outside entertainment.

I wouldn't trade this for the world.

Empty

"Why do Lutherans come to worship?"
 
            asked Pastor Myers this morning.

"We come empty to be filled."



We don't come full of joy to praise God . . .

        We come empty.


We've been trying to live as Christians all week long . . .
                   . . . and we fail.

       We come empty.


We are not the light . . . we only hope to reflect Christ's light to the world.

     We come empty. . .

                      . . . to be filled.


Fill my cup, O Lord.

Amen.

Dinner

5:10 pm.

Chicken Tortilla Soup simmering on the stove.

Ryan comes home with these:

Guess what's for dinner?

The Moment

"At what moment did you feel like a mother for the first time?"

I held this question in great wonderment when I read it.

Huh.

          At what moment did I finally feel like a mommy?

The question was posed in a book from MOPS International (Mothers of Preschoolers).  It continued: "Was it when you first found out you were pregnant?  When you first laid your eyes on your tiny child?  Or did that moment happen years later?  Or has it not happened yet?"

The question lay buried in my mind for over a year.  And the answer came to me suddenly yesterday evening.

I finally know the answer!


The moment I first felt like a mother:
Scene: driving down the freeway through Spokane, a grey and rainy spring day, sitting in the passenger seat of our new-to-us mini-van with my husband at the wheel, perfectly round belly pregnant with a curled up baby girl, two empty car seats behind me, paper-sleeved coffee cup brimming with a steaming decaf vanilla latte.

And there it is.  The moment I felt like a mommy.

Nothing too spectacular.  Almost anti-climatic. . . except for the fact that the moment shone like a jewel.

It must have been a combination of the rain, a mini-van, a latte and my baby belly.  And being a passenger.  The moment wouldn't have happened if I had been driving.  Nor would it have happened if it wasn't raining.  The fact that it was a mini-van, and not a sedan, sealed the deal.  And to cap it off: the latte.  Most likely because I rarely drink coffee.


It is a moment I gently hold in the palm of my hand.

The moment I became a mom.

The Calling

My boys have an insatiable appetite for drawing.

Their hands, marked and bruised with ink, itch to hold crayon and pen and marker.

Their desire is unstoppable.

The mounds of paper flood our dining room, overflowing onto floors and benches and tables and chairs.

It is a natural disaster of creativity.


What joy -- to do what you love and love what you do . . .

              to know your calling and live it out . . .

     to not let teeth brushing or mealtime or school or playtime interfere with what you're gifted to do.


It is amazing.

         And a delight to behold.

More paper, please!

So Much

There is so much I could be doing.

      Really.

               So Much.

Of course, there's always all the things I should be doing . . .

but the really exciting ones are the things I could be doing.

In ministry.  At times ideas for home too -- but mostly for ministry.  MOPS and Sunday school and websites and elementary and babies and families and bible studies and book studies and gatherings and fun and healing and wholeness and education and preschool families and MOPS families and young families and multi-generations and high school and confirmation and worship and communication and music and preschool chapel and Christmas programs and Vacation Bible School and the newly baptized and mentoring . . .


My mind is a cacophony of ideas brewing and bubbling --
           restless to become reality.

So many ideas.

My hands just itch to scribble them out on a nearby napkin or kleenex --
 
     pen scratches that add up to sometimes-brilliance.

Ideas: big ones and tiny ones, bold and sweeping ones, somethings and nothings, maybes and wowzers, simple and complex . . . all spilling out on a newly-swept floor.


And now my baby girl is crying for nap time to end and my two boys are noisily wrestling over a red fleece blanket that they both want to snuggle in and shouts and screeches call me back from my pen-scratched notes . . .

to be stuffed back into the kleenex box until next time.

Stillness

Three young children?  Check.

Part-time ministry?  Check.

Husband with crazy shift work?  Check.

House to take care of?  Laundry to do?  Meals to make?  Check, check, check.

Moments of stillness?

                                      Not so much.




I am constantly on the go.  Really.  Non-stop.

I jump out of bed and flow from one-thing-to-the-other       without moments to

                 linger

                          and soak

                                     and sit.

There is an art to finding moments of stillness in the midst of constant action.

An art I enjoy practicing . . . never to perfect (because really, that would take the fun out of it)


So I practice stillness.

     a smile,

                a breath,

                         a moment of wonder . . .


And, if I'm lucky,

               a creamy mug of hot chocolate.
(made with whole milk, of course)