Missed it

It was the last quarter of the last game.  The team had proven to be tough over the long season.  Although tired, the players pressed on continuing with their passing and shooting.  The Panthers stacked for Asher.  He broke away towards the basket.  After receiving the pass, he turned to eye the basket.  He raised his arms and released the ball for the shot.  And SWISH! He scored!

At least I imagine it happened this way.  Asher's basket.  The one and only of the season.

While this excitement happened at the church down the road, I rummaged through the storage room at home sorting camping gear and delighting in the growing pile of items to take to Goodwill. Asa slept soundly upstairs during his usual afternoon napping time.  This precious nap time was the reason I stayed home and also the reason that

I missed it.

I missed the big moment of Asher's basket.  For the million other moments I have been there.  Throughout soccer season, I refused to miss a game hoping that week would be the one when Asher would score a goal. We are still waiting for that first goal.

Through basketball season, our family prioritized the games.  We all went, we all cheered for the team, and encouraged Asher.

And then when it happened, when he made a basket, I missed it. 

I don't think Asher minded too much that I wasn't there.  He might have been happy enough to just tell me about it.

As a mom who has prioritized my kids enough to stay home with them full-time, I can't help but kick myself.  I can't be there for everything.  But I sure want to.  I would love to witness all of their successes, cheer them through all of the failures, and celebrate every victory. 

Realistically I know there are a billion moments I will miss.  Little ones and maybe some big ones.  It's part of the growing up and separating away.  Seven years ago, I felt his every movement and knew everything that went into and out of his body.  I can't say I'm nostalgic for all of that feeding and diaper changing, and surely someday I will not miss the many hours of sitting at practices and games.

Through this separating and moving on, I simply want to remain there for his life.  I want to experience it, rejoice in it, shed tears when we need to.  Ultimately I don't want to miss out on my boy.  Whether he retells the story to me, or I get to experience the moment in person, I hope there will be more moments of being there than missing it.

Soccer season will start soon and I will once again be in the front row at every game in a absolute refusal to again admit that I missed it.

 

Asa's stool

A foam rocket shot up on the counter?

Crayons out of reach on the craft table?

A comfy couch waiting for someone to lounge on?

No problem.  Even though he is only about three feet tall.

No problem when he has a stool anyway.

Being the third child, Asa doesn't have many things that are solely his. Toys blend together. He plays with tea sets, eats with a pink spoon, and reads our tattered copy of Goodnight Moon even though the binding no longer holds the book together.

But the black plastic stool I got free with a rebate at Menards is Asa's.

The stuffed animals, the books, the blocks, Legos, those are all ambiguous and at any time ownership may shift from one child to the next. 

The stool is always Asa's.

Maybe because I know what it's like to not be able to reach something on your own two legs.

And it's partly because I totally love his ingenuity to go get a stool when he sees something up high he can't reach or wants to sit on the couch and no one is around to help him up.

Upstairs, downstairs, it doesn't matter where he needs to reach, he doesn't mind lugging the stool up and down.  It's almost half his size, but the handle in the middle makes it manageable and gives him the ability to be one of the big kids.

I feel a bit sad that I haven't been there to always get what he needs or lift him to where he wants to go. but I am proud of him for figuring it out on his own.

I love this determination in my Asa and will continue to defend his stool.

Staying sane

I'm not crazy, really. 

That screaming you heard from the garage on Monday morning, that was um, that was my happy filled with excitement scream. OK fine, that was actually my scream that gets the kids to stop their own screaming for just one minute while they try to figure out what in the world mommy is doing.

Earlier Monday morning I reminded myself not to start yelling because that meant they had control over me (Being a good mom who reads good parenting books, I felt proud of myself for remembering this good piece of advice).  So I kept my voice in check. Held my temper down. We were going to make it out of the house with all of mommy's emotions bubbling up, but not yet boiling over.

And then he said it.

In the middle of a heated argument with Asher about why I wasn't even going to discuss with him whether or not he needed going to school, he shot back at me, "All you do is stay at home with the kids."

Hold everything.

That statement is the one causing every stay at home mom to suck in her breath and decide which aspect of that outrageousness to address first.

Should I list out the billion examples of what I do during the day other than just sit on the couch watching kids? Or maybe I needed to let out my pent up frustration over sacrifices of money and self-satisfaction given up to stay at home. 

In one millisecond, of my anger, I thought of describing how much I cared about him and his brother and sister and this love motivates me to stay at home with them.

But, continuing with my good mom facade, I simply told him that staying home with the kids doesn't mean I don't do anything all day.

I left it at that and continued the crazy morning routine of getting Amelie to speed up and convincing Asa he does need to wear a diaper and we do not need to carry all of his earthly possessions into the car. 

It was this shrieking insistence from my baby that he needed to bring giraffes and snacks and blankets into the car, which made my emotion boil out.  I screamed as I carried him to the van.  I kept screaming while I buckled him in.

All three kids stopped their own screaming, whining and arguing and stared. 

I think they got it that now was the time for obedience and quickly getting into the car. 

For the three minute drive to drop Asher off at school, I laid out what I do all day. I described what life would be like for me (lots of positives!) and for them (lots of negatives!) if I did not stay at home with them.  Whether they understood or will remember, I don't think so, but I dot think Asher will not be saying that again - at least not in the near future.

We continued our drive, dropped Amelie off at preschool.  Then Asa and I waited at church for mom's group to begin.  While we waited, I realized my baby never really did get to finish his breakfast, but at least he had brought his pop-tart along.

What a good mom I am.

Am I pretty?

"Daddy, am I the prettiest girl?"
"Yes, Amelie you are very pretty."

She twirled in front of him showing off her new dress. The dress spun out in a bubble around her legs and she smiled confident that she looked beautiful.

I regularly see evidences of Amelie's deep desire to be recognized as pretty. She no longer wants to be called cute but asks if her clothes, jewelry, shoes, hair, ultimately her very beautiful self is pretty?

Of course I reassure her that she is SO pretty! Often I also remind her of the other amazing qualities that make up Amelie. She is funny, sweet, caring, smart, creative, kind... While she lets me list these other compliments, she ultimately asks again, but am I pretty?

Oh how that desire to be beautiful in someone else's eyes is so deep.

Before Christmas, after I had already spent over an hour in the kitchen, Amelie came behind me while I stood at the sink deep in a pile of dishes. Armed with her pink feather boa and a flower petal headband, she asked me to bend down. With sudsy hands that crack and bleed all winter long, hair pinned back in a mess just to keep strands from falling in my face, my mom uniform of jeans and a comfortable white shirt I knelt down.

My sweet girl wrapped the boa around my neck and pushed the petal headband onto my head and exclaimed "Now you are more beautiful than just wearing that ugly white shirt."

And so I continued through the pile of baking sheets and bowls with a feather boa and petals that made my face look like a flower. I admit I did feel more beautiful.

It seems like not long ago when I twirled and whirled in my Sunday dress wondering and hoping that it made me pretty. Deep longings of wanting to be a beautiful princess filled my imagination and I wondered if I was pretty enough and if I measured up to everyone else. I remember hoping to be pretty enough, wondering how I measure up to everyone else and trying to figure out what I could do to become more beautiful.

Honestly those questions never end. The questions have matured and moved beyond the basic "Am I pretty" to
"Why am I not able to lose just a few more pounds?"
"Why don't I look as good in these jeans as the model looked?"
"Why doesn't my hair look fun and cute instead of sticking out and silly?

As an adult the pretty question has translated beyond just my own person to my house, my kids, my life in general. Am I pretty enough? Do I measure up to everyone else and this vision I have of what the standard of perfection is?

My critical eyes generally suggest I don't measure up. I'm not the prettiest girl, my house won't win a prize for being beautifully decorated, and my style these days leans heavily on the practical without much attention to beauty.

But Amelie's innocent desires for beauty have reminded me that pursuing beauty doesn't have to equal vanity. She changes to wear a special necklace for naptime and a different sparkly headband for getting in the car to pick up Asher from school, and then different shoes to wear waiting for Daddy to get home. Dressing up for these mundane daily activities when no one will see her other than her family fills her with joy simply because she enjoys the beauty.

She doesn't wait for a special occasion, and doesn't save her favorite sparkly beautiful things so they don't get broken or ruined, but she enjoys them in the everyday for the pure delight of beauty.

This delight has challenged me to go ahead and wear my favorite shirt rather than saving it for a special occasion. Look for sparkly scarves and necklaces to dress up the plain. Wear the knitted treasures because really I will enjoy them more now rather than next year when I want the next latest and greatest.

I have been taught by Amelie's pursuit of pretty. Sparkly, glittery and beautiful still have a power to bring me joy and remind me of how enjoying beauty can be pure delight.

Careless in His care

Asa is in love with his stuff.

At 1 1/2 his "stuff" consists of two blankets - the blue Winnie the Pooh one and the yellow dotted one, Snoopy, Eeyore, knitted bear, Llama, elephant, Mouse, Hedgehog/Elephant, and owl.  Over Christmas Jingle Bear and moose joined the club and occasionally Amelie decides she doesn't want frog anymore so Asa gives him love until Amelie suddenly needs to take him back.

He loves these friends and insists they follow us throughout our day.  They all need to come out of his bed every morning, be taken downstairs, then a few select are stuffed into the backpack we take in the car. At nap time we reverse the craziness and take everyone back upstairs into his bed. Of course they he can't go back downstairs without them and you guessed it back upstairs for bedtime.

I feel like a Sherpa. Someone needed simply for my abilities to carry the stuff.

The stuff is organized on the couch and five minutes later looks better on the floor but then not much later and they are reorganized back onto another couch.  We spend a lot of time moving his stuff around.

Through this new job of mine I've recognized Sherpa tendencies with my things as well.  Way too often my mind is trying to figure out where to put something.  Clothes need to be sorted in closets.  The Christmas stuff just got put away and the everyday things put back out.  We have bags of stuff to go to Goodwill in various closets and then there are all of the things for a garage sale someday. 
My boy may be simply modeling what he sees the rest of the family doing...loving our stuff.

Honestly I'm so sick of the stuff and despite my love of shopping, I find great pleasure in throwing things away.  (Asa has joined me in this love as well although I'm usually not ready to throw away the things I often find he has put into the garbage can.)

This morning I was reading about God's provision for us.  Matthew tells how Jesus asks us to let go of our worries and frets about our food, clothes, and all of the other things that consume too much of our thoughts.  Rather than spending so much time worrying over our stuff God asks us to be "careless in the care of God."


What freedom to be free of caring for all of our things.  God cares for us and provides what it is we need. What would that look like - to be careless in God's care?
Freedom.
Peace.
Contentment.
Oh yes, Careless in His care.

Petty prayer?

In a moment of desperate tv watching, we tuned in to a show I previously recommended myself  never watch. The show was mildly entertaining, but I found myself judging the people on screen for something I didn't expect to be judging them about.

Their prayer.

In much the same way as I would pray, I watched as they asked Lord Jesus to "bless" a creation they had made with items stolen from around the hotel because "we promise to return them when the pageant is done."

Seriously? Asking God to bless something they had stolen with a seemingly trivial end purpose??

Immediately I felt bad for judging their prayer request because I know God does promise to hear us when we call out to Him.  I believe He wants us to talk to Him about all of the things we struggle with.  I spent the rest of the show fighting with my judgement as they continued to ask God to bless things that seemed obviously out of God's plan.

Theologically I think God always hears and also always answers.  He always answers according to His will, which might not always fit with mine, but is ultimately best.

This morning my usual over analyzing mind flipped back to that prayer and the way it seemed so trivial to me - but clearly not trivial to them and therefore still heard by God.  My mind wandered to the question of what in my prayers is trivial, petty, clearly not in God's will?

Is it my cries for meaning to days?
Or my pleas that I will have opportunity to sit a read for 20 minutes this afternoon?
Maybe it's crazy to ask that Amelie will get dressed without drama today.

A Chinese believer who is suffering for owning a Bible or a woman living in poverty whose daily chores never ever end might equally scoff at my struggles to maintain a consistent Bible reading plan or my regular battles over finding worth in the daily routine chores in that fill my days.  They might judge my prayers to be ridiculous as I sat in judgement of the tv show prayers.

From my perspective my prayers are heartfelt outpourings of where I need God to intervene. The people on the show also felt they needed God to intervene. Suffering Chinese believers need God's intervention and so does the hard working woman around the world. 

We pray to request, to thank, to acknowledge, and to connect with our Creator.

Wouldn't it be cool to hear all of the prayers that reach God's ears? As a human, I would laugh at how trivial some are and be burdened beyond comprehension at the pain in many others. But I imagine God, Abba Father, listening with concern each time a prayer reaches His ears.  He would gather the tears into a bottle, maybe smile at the sweet requests of a child, and nod with patience at those that are seemingly less important.

No matter the request, there is a promise that God does hear and also RESPONDS to us all.

That is amazing love and individual caring beyond my comprehension.

But Emmanuel...

"I want to dream about kitties...and puppies...and butterflies."

What is that poem? Sugar and spice and everything nice, that's what little girls are made of?  Amelie's description of what she wants to dream about fulfills all that you might imagine for a sweet little girl.  I can't remember the last time I thought for more than a few seconds about kitties and puppies and butterflies, let alone had a desire for dreams about them. 

But really I can't put a value on this innocence and wonder in the world's beauty.  Her sweet mind has no blackness when it stops and thinks.  Past hurts, bitterness, unforgiveness, knowledge of atrocities in the world, none of this clouds her mind.  She loves and dreams freely without any comprehension of bad guys in this world.

I pray for the students in Newton who had this sweet innocence sucked away in moments.  Those survivors now know bad at a level beyond the scariest Disney movie they've ever seen.  Adults know evil at a new level perhaps greater than we could imagine. 

I am still horrified. Each day is a new morning and there is a brief time between when I wake up and when my mind reminds me of the past days happenings. And then... heaviness sets in again.  For the families and friends of those lost last Friday I doubt they have even that moment of oblivion. I can't imagine they have been able to shake the reality since the moment it happened.

And now Christmas is next week.  The biggest celebration of the year is almost here. Although I am  far removed, that cloud of sadness hangs low and evil regularly threatens to steal away the season.
We sang this verse from the familiar song, O Come O Come Emmanuel at church on Sunday:

O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan's tyranny
From depths of Hell Thy people save
And give them victory o'er the grave
Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, o Israel

Never before during a Christmas season have I resonated so intimately with the hatred of evil and the celebration of God's power to defeat it. 

The birth of Jesus kicked off the death march of our enemy. 
Jesus was born into this world to defeat evil. 
His birth brought victory over Satan's tyranny. 

Even though the world has been shaken by an awful display of evil's ugliness, there is good news that evil doesn't win.

The pain is real, unimaginable, and really too much to bear.  I almost hesitate to say a "but," because I don't want to minimize any of the suffering. 

BUT Emmanuel has come and that is the only hope I find any peace in.

O come, Thou Day-Spring
Come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadows put to flight
Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, o Israel

O come, Thou Key of David, come
And open wide our heavenly home
Make safe the way that leads on high
And close the path to misery
Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, o Israel