The Space Between

I wake up, throat burning, eyes bleary from shedding big fat tears of mom-worry.  Today is the day my sweet little boy, just 3 months old with the mouth like mine and the eyes like his, is getting cut open.  He has a hernia which needs repairing.  I feel helpless, aware of how little control we have over what life brings.  The big life and death moments, these are the things we cannot rule, the things that matter most.

My sweet boy is hungry and I cannot feed him.  Belly needing to stay empty for surgery, my eyes plead apology as I gaze down at him.  He grins wide, not realizing what this day will bring.


Hand in hand, my husband and I bring our 4th born to the hospital, searching for courage but finding little.  We whisper frantic prayers, trying hard to stay calm.


It's standard procedure.  Should only take an hour.  Happens all the time.  They bounce right back.  These phrases bring little comfort, but we cling to them nonetheless, willing to try on anything that  cloaks the pain and worry.


Down the hall we march past other kids and parents.  United in our stress, we don't need to speak.  We exchange knowing glances finding comfort in fellow faces lined with anxiety.  And the children--waiting so brave. The little blond boy, pale faced, hugging a Garfield stuffed animal plays video games.  The sweet little girl with the pony-tail swinging and dress twirling about, prances across the waiting room while worried parents hover nearby, pained smiles across their faces.  They glance at our baby carrier and wince.  A baby.  We silently wonder what each one is here for--what little broken places need fixing.


We walk the corridor to the pre-op room and I lose it.  You never realize just how much you'd sacrifice for your child until you're confronted with their frailty.  I would give anything, do anything to avoid my sweet little boy being taken away--life in the hands of a surgeon we barely know.  And I know this kind of love comes from elsewhere.  From Love Itself.  From love on a cross.  And every painful brush with death I've had comes to mind--thoughts of eternity looming too close. I find myself dangling in the uncomfortable space between Earth and Heaven, where the separation feels thin, like moth's wings.  When your heart just might burst from the momentousness of it all, and you're broken open to life's bigger lessons, delivered in painful packaging.

The nurses try their best to console and pass boxes of tissue, because they know.  They see these looks every day.  They wear crazy happy shoes of tie-dye and zebra stripes, don teddy bear scrubs and name tags with shiny stickers.  Anything to make this place feel more like a warm happy place instead of this space between.  Despite their efforts to comfort, the clock on the wall looks cold, metering time much too slowly.  It cares not for solace, wears no face of pity.  It just keeps pace-- this rhythm of life and death.  Tick tock.  Tick tock.  My little one is taken from my arms, crying hysterically from hunger and confusion and now its time to wait.

We all deal with these moments differently.  The man eating crackers by the handful, tossing crinkly red wrappers in the bin nearby.  The brunette woman sipping hot chocolate, glancing nervously at her iphone, a welcome distraction.  There are muted chuckles across the room--and I understand the times when you just can't help but laugh instead of cry.  A man in the room next door faces Mecca, alternately bowing and clutching his chest, eyes closed, whispering reverent prayers.  I can't help but stare in awe at this private moment between a man and his faith. The space between brings us all to our knees and I stare at my empty baby carrier, waiting, wondering.


Surgeons come with reports for some--just a little longer now.  Things went very well.  The face of relief is universal and I want to reach out and celebrate right along with those whose wait is over.  They hug teddy bears tight and wipe tears of relief, unable to contain broad smiles of joy.  And though it's only an hour it feels like an eternity and finally our smiling face comes to greet us, too.  Everything's fine, the hernia was large, you can come and see him now.


Down the hall, sighs of relief rise in our throats.  We pass other children, some recovering, some entering their own space between.  There's a brave bald-headed little girl being wheeled away and mingled with my own relief is the pain of others right here in this place--the place where life and death come together.  My heart aches for this girl and the others like her, and I am faced with my sense of helplessness once more.  The pain of this world is too large, too real, too present.  The banged up, broken, ripped up places inside us all that need stitching back together and the knowledge that only He can truly repair it.

I hold my sweet groggy boy in my arms, a hazy fog taking over from exhaustion and emotional overload.  My mind is fuzzy but my heart swells big as I hold my little boy to my chest, wires and monitors still attached.  The computer screen throbs signs of life but I know the biggest signs of life are the throbs of love we feel here, in the space between.  Thankful for another life lesson of sacrificial love, the universal language, this bumpy road of motherhood brings, I prepare to take my little one home.  Though relieved my heart still aches for the others in this place--the ones still wearing their faces of bravery and worry.  I want to tell them it will all be ok, but I don't know that and who really does but our Maker?  The elevator doors open as the clock on the wall keeps metering out the moments--the big, the little, the ones that make you yearn to reach out and grasp the hand of the kneeling man and the girl sipping cocoa.  Here, in this sacred space between we are all swirling together like tie-dyed shoes, trying our best to love and to live.  In the space between, we are One Body.

 

"So in Christ we, though many, form one body, and we all belong to each other."

Rom. 12:5

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 Imperfect Prose

Motherhood is Messy

It's Mother's Day and I wake up at 4am to cat bird's cry, trained to rouse at the faintest sound after 3 months of waking for newborn night feedings.  Falling back to sleep is no use, and I stumble downstairs to put on the coffee.  The sink is full of dirty dishes, spilling over on counter tops.  I look out the pre-dawn window where it's cold and rainy and everything's grey.  My littlest one stirs and my day begins.  Bleary-eyed I fetch him, no doubt with sour expression on my face.  He's all groggy smiles, eyes alit at the sight of my face.  He doesn't seem to mind the bags under my eyes from a bad night's sleep or my grouchy mood to match.  Newborns don't see these things--our fault lines and fractured insides.  They see the best of us--what we strive each day to be.


I blink and the other ones now stir, my three year old girl with the wild hair and pouty frown.  She's feverish and needs new underwear, a stomach virus has taken hold.  My gangly boys tumble downstairs, another one sick, with under-eye bags that match my own.  Though ill and tired, these little ones look at me with tender love in their eyes, faces filled with mom-love.

The rain is pouring down, cold and sad and I feel cold and sad, too.  This Mother's Day I'm mother-less for the fifth year, no mom to phone, no greeting card to write. Bouquets of bright flowers sold by vendors on street corners are not mine to give.  The trees outside nod their sagging heads in agreement, knowing that real motherhood is not all cloudless skies and sunshiny days.

Mom and me, 1989

At the local drugstore sit shelves of cards working hard to sell their facade, their picture-perfect image of what motherhood and Mother's Day should be; all sunshine and smiles, breakfast in bed, lazing in hammocks amidst spring breezes.  But the reality of motherhood is much messier.  Real moms know what the cards don't express, that motherhood is sleepless nights and worried minds, hampers full of dirty underwear all tangled up in stinking piles.  That along with adoring baby faces come endless days of sacrifice, emptying out again and again, saying no to wants while filling child needs. Real moms know that along with wafting aromas of cookies baked in ovens come counter-tops crusted, spilled flour heaped high, puddle of egg alongside.

In the hospital with my firstborn, Luke, 2005

Motherhood is messy.


For motherhood is actually a beautiful mess of blessing and struggle, growth and sacrifice, love found on counter-tops, and in hampers.  Mother's Day isn't really just about smiling faces posed on colorful lawns, smiling pretty for the camera.  Motherhood is so much more.

It's 8pm and by this time I'm ready for bed.  Underwear's now washed but dishes are still piled high.  This Mother's Day has felt more like a marathon than a celebration.  After litanies of infant cries, sick toddler whines, cleaning mess after mess after mess, I'm worn out.  Empty.  Feeling like there's nothing left to give.  I tuck tired children into bed and sit down to feed my youngest one yet again.  He looks up and smiles, nothing but pure love in his eyes.  Adoration.  Not caring to see my exhaustion, frustration and disappointment over a day that started out bad and ended up worse.  He doesn't see the broken mess.  He just sees me, for who I am--a mother just trying her best, over and over again.  And that's enough for him.  I smile back, thankful for love and grace and fresh days ahead, another chance to celebrate this messy beautiful, heart-breaking, heart-strengthening path that motherhood really is.  And maybe that's what Mother's Day is actually about; a day to celebrate the victories along with the failures, the heart-swells with heart-aches, the messy love between mother and child.  And that's worth celebrating.

The Little Things {A Mother's Day Reflection}

Next Monday is the 5 year anniversary of my mother's death.  It always falls around Mother's Day, which is kind of odd to experience.  Mother's Day, for me, is such a mix of emotions--missing my mom while remembering the very painful times we endured together.  Thoughts on how my own journey of motherhood has shaped me, stretched me and helped me grow in love, sacrifice and faith.

As the years go by and time marches on, I find myself most often remembering the things my mom got right.  These are the things that come up again and again as I spend my days with my own kids.  They're usually little things, yet the things that were the essence of mom.  The endearing things that make me smile.  Like how she could really tell a story.  She recalled all the details in a way that made you feel like you were living the tale itself, right as she told it.  I'd like to think I tell stories this way, too.

And other memories come flooding in:

~how we laughed sitting around the kitchen table until our sides hurt and happy tears flowed down our cheeks

~discussing novels, poems and song lyrics together, working out their deeper meanings, growing together in mutually sought knowledge and wisdom

~cooking steak and onion sandwiches in the silver pan, wonder bread slathered in butter, the whole house smelling like a '50s diner

~crafting together--sometimes painting, sometimes sketching, always creating

~the way she teased that made me feel annoyed and yet treasured at the same time

~her excitement over seasons and holidays, often months in advance!

~how she delighted in simple things--like peonies in bloom or cardinal perched on a nearby branch

~her competitiveness--determination to win anything--even a simple game of dots!

~her love of Scrabble and uncanny ability to beat the pants off me with the most esoteric of 7-letter words, strategically placed

~eating pistachio nuts by the handful, salty mouths, fingertips stained red

~how deeply she loved her family, with every fiber of her being


Mom was far from perfect.  Battling mental illness all her life, there were very dark days growing up.  But through it all the beauty of her spirit radiated.  The mother-daughter love was an unshakeable bond, knitting hearts together through trials and triumphs.


As I reflect on motherhood, the good and the bad all running together, I wonder what things will stand out in the minds of my own children when they are grown?  Which little traditions and everyday goings-on will they carry with them in their own hearts?  It's my hope and prayer that one thing I will get right, just as my mom did, is for my kids to know they are fiercely loved.

"These three things remain: faith hope and love.  But the greatest of these is love."

-1 Cor. 13:13

Wishing you all a truly blessed Mother's Day!

Take a few minutes to be blessed by this video--a tribute to mother and child: 

On Why We Really Need Community

In light of the (in)RL Conference I had the privilege to attend (at home, by myself-- but not really by myself since I felt the connection of women all around the globe gathering on the subject of community!  A beautiful thing!) I've been thinking about what community has meant for me over the past several years.  I wanted to share with you the importance of community--how it can grow you, nourish you and change you in amazing and surprising ways:


I walk into the first MOPS meeting of the year feeling like 14 year old just entering the halls of high school. But instead of fretting all night over what I should wear to look cool, I've fretted all night over my not-yet-sleeping through the night 2 month old. I'm still brand-new to motherhood.  I'm tired. Clueless. Lonely. I feel like I should have a big tattoo splashed across my forehead reading: "clueless tired new mom without a mom friend in the world."


These moms have probably been moms for years. They all have toddlers running around-- they're probably all getting a full night's sleep. I bet they have oodles of friends that meet at parks and coffee shops. Why on earth would they want to be friends with me? What do I have to offer--the new girl with the newborn, desperate for connection.


I do have ONE mom friend. She lives almost an hour away and we've been friends since grade school. She's been a mom for years so she knows what she's doing and listens to my sleep-deprived woes and fears. She mentions that she runs a group called MOPS and encourages me to attend. The group is far away but I feel like I'd drive across the country in order to connect with somebody, so here I am.


I find my one friend and she greets me with a big hug and smile. Then several other women also greet me with warm smiles and show me around. I make my way to a table full of other equally nice women and settle in. We exchange pleasantries and sip coffee.


What I didn't realize at the time was that this was the first day of being a part of community. A community of women with whom I could share and trust. Women who I could count on when things got hard. Women who I could laugh with, cry with, ponder with and really be myself.

photo source

Over the course of that first MOPS year I opened up in ways I never would have imagined. Sharing the really hard things I never thought I would discuss. As we worked our way through book discussions on the topic of family life, we discussed our own walks of life--out trials, our pasts, our worries. I found myself pouring my heart out about the loneliness I felt.  About how scared and overwhelmed I was as a new mom with no friends.  How I didn't have help from parents--but rather a set of worries over my mentally ill mother who, at the time, was in and out of hospitals. On how I had no parental role models to turn to--those wonderfully built-in "free babysitters" full of wisdom and concern who you can call at 1:00 in the morning wondering how to hold the baby so it will stop crying and which brand of pacifier works best. I shared how I didn't have a clue about what "happy family life" looked like save for what you find in a book, having grown up with a mess of a childhood: schitzophrenia, alcoholism, divorce, latch-key loneliness cutting like a knife.

I poured out my heart on how I afraid I was I'd screw it all up. On the pressure I heaped on myself to know everything there was to know about parenting--all from textbooks and college courses, none of it yet experienced. How I wanted to breastfeed but couldn't, and all of the expectations and disappointment I carried over my failure.


These women listened. They cried with me. They offered advice when I needed it. And best of all they got it. These women were not perfect "Stepford" Wives" who had it all figured out and wanted for nothing. These women had broken scared places, too, just like me. Difficult in-laws, husbands working long hours leaving them to parent virtually alone, and pasts that hurt and haunted. These women also felt scared, tired, overwhelmed and lonely-- just trying to get through another day. It  turned out I wasn't the only mess in the world.   In fact, I was pretty much just...a normal new mom. And with this realization I no longer felt so scared, worried and alone. And neither did they.


I took a risk, sharing my heart and my past. Sure, I could've been rejected, snubbed. I could've poured out my heart just to heave it left there dangling and exposed. But sometimes it takes a risk to get what you really need. I really needed connection.  In order to get it I had to put myself out there.  Chances are, when you put yourself out there, someone will connect with part of your story. The details and circumstances might look different, but our feelings are so often the same. And that's exactly what we really need to share--our feelings, our hearts. The importance of community is to give yourself breathing room. A place to just be you--wherever you are.


Seven years and two kids later I've grown a lot. Learned to let go of those old fears and perfectionism. I've walked through periods of grief, loss, change. And through it all I had a wonderful community to share it with. A community that helped me become the person I am today. Over the years my community changed--I found a MOPS group closer to home, joined homeschool groups, bible studies that began and ended.   But there was a always some sort of community out there for me to embrace. A community of women to share with and learn from.

So if you're feeling really lost or alone, if you're a new mom, a veteran mom in a new town, or someone going through tough times and needing some support, I urge you to find a community. Find a MOPS group, bible study, church group, meetup group, cooking club, sewing circle--find people to be real with. Just do it.  Do it for yourself. You won't regret it.

sharing with:

(in)courage

Thought-Provoking Thursday

Smiling at God

My just-turned-four year old pauses as we say our morning prayer together. Wide-eyed he stares at the ceiling, smile on his face. I look over at him, thinking he's not focused. I gather up some words to let spill about the need for quiet and focus, but before I can speak, before I have a chance to give him my sternest "mom look" to let him know I mean business, he says:

"Mommy, you know why I was looking up with my eyes opened while I was praying? Because I was looking up at God and smiling."

His little face is alight with pure joy and wonder and love of God and I am left undone, speechless at this simple yet powerful act of faith from my little boy. Once again, my children teach me how to live, how to truly worship, to wonder, to adore. Because shouldn't we all, on a regular basis look up and smile at God?

I am continuously grateful for the journey of self-awareness this experience of motherhood gives. The more I teach, the more I see my own own ignorance. The more I gently reprimand, the more I see my own flaws in need of correction. The more I forgive, the more I see how He forgives. It's funny how we, grown-ups, who our children look up to and expect all the answers from, have so much to learn from them. We make our faith complex with fancy theology. Dress it up with heady study. But our children remind us how truly simple it all is at the heart of it. Love God. Smile at Him. Really, that's all we must do, and the rest will follow.

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What a Parenting Book Doesn't Train You For...

The alarm goes off at way way-too-early o'clock and reluctantly you stumble out of bed after having hit snooze 3 times. Before you wipe the sleepiness from your eyes and even before the coffee maker turns on you hear your six year old son weeping quietly. Groggy and unprepared to deal with this crisis you stagger over to him to find out what's wrong. Meanwhile your 3 year old son and your 2 year old daughter are hungry and thirsty, requiring some sort of breakfast. Hazily, you pour cereal into bowls, (turn the coffee machine on) slosh milk into cups and stumble back to six-year-old son, still weeping, though trying to look brave. Gently (or as gently as you can muster at way-too-early o'clock without coffee) you ask him what's wrong. He hides his face in his hands, wiping red nose on monster pajama sleeves. You ask him if he wants to talk about it. He nods. Minutes pass while he collects himself. He begins.


He tells you he's sad that he doesn't have enough money saved to buy an online computer game membership. He wonders when he will have enough saved. He has twelve dollars. The membership costs eighty. You pause and wonder the best way to approach the situation. You take a deep breath, collect your thoughts for a moment and dive in.


You tell him there are things in life that everyone wants but can't have. You tell him the world is full of neat things, expensive things. You tell him that kids and grown-ups alike have to say "no" to themselves when things are out of their price reach. You explain as best you can that grown-ups have bills to pay--food to buy, clothes to purchase, electricity, heat. With as much wisdom and grace you can muster you explain that some people in the world have lots of money and others much less. You tell him that Daddy works hard, and though it may not feel like it, you're blessed to have the things that you do. You remind him that many people work hard their whole lives and still struggle to have basic needs met.


You tell him, tears still falling from his big brown gentle eyes, that there are choices to be made when you grow up. Money choices. Choices about what you will be and how much money you might make. Choices about giving up well-paying careers in order to stay home with kids. Choices about saying no to fancy cars and name brand clothes in order to enjoy life's other riches. You tell him these aren't easy choices to make and each person in their lifetime chooses differently. You tell him you pray for the wisdom and knowledge to make these choices wisely. You tell him you look to God for comfort and guidance and trust wherever He leads. You tell him that while things are nice, they don't bring happiness. You pause and you pray that he understands just a tiny bit of what you are saying, though you know it's several years ahead of his understanding.


He pauses to take this all in, clutching wooden bank in his six-year old hands. You see him weighing your words, tumbling them around like an unopened gift at Christmas. He eyes his bank holding weeks worth of money saved. Money earned by vacuuming, drying dishes, tidying rooms. Money he counts each day waiting for the moment he'll have enough for his next proud purchase. Slowly he looks up at you, extending his hands, wooden box clutched tightly between them. Tears now spilling fast, your little boy offers you his life savings. He tells you he wants to give you all of his money. Because you and Daddy "probably need it more" than he does. Your heart flip-flops in your chest from emotion and you have no idea how to respond to this giving spirit, this beautiful little boy with more generosity in his 6 year old heart than most adults possess in a lifetime.


So you hold him tight and tell him to enjoy his money, tears now welling in your eyes as well as his. You assure him that you and Daddy are just fine and don't need his money. You thank him for his generosity and tell him the offer is amazingly kind. You try your best to explain the important things in life and you know you're not doing this perfectly and that no parenting book in whole wide world can prepare you for these conversations. The ones that happen without an ounce of preparation and at unexpected times. Conversations that can effect your child for the rest of his life. So you pause, and you try and you struggle and you pray and you do your best to shape this human being that God has entrusted in your care. You feel amazingly inadequate and overwhelmed by the enormity of this responsibility and wonder how in the world you can ever be equipped for moments such as these.


You get up, thank God for this lesson your 6 year old has, unbeknownst to him, given you. You thank the Lord for this sweet precious child and you thank Him for helping you through this moment. You turn the coffee maker on, clean up the breakfast consumed, and begin your day not knowing what this wild ride of parenting will throw at you next, trusting in Him that you will only be the wiser and better for it, wherever it takes you.

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Reason #5167 Why I Love Having Kids...

Reason #5167 why I love having kids is that they say the most amazing things. Unselfconscious things with keen observation and self-awareness. Like this simple two-minute conversation I had with Luke yesterday while he was drawing a picture:


Luke: Mom, I just noticed something interesting!


Me: What's that, Luke?


Luke: I noticed that when I'm listening to fast music it makes me want to color quickly. And when the music is slow I want to color slower instead. Isn't that interesting, Mom?


Yes, Luke. That's very interesting. Just a beautiful simple introspective moment of a six-year old, dreaming, creating and discovering the power of music to stir the soul.

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The Special Knowing of Moms...

"What are you doing?" Mom asks.

"Writing." I mutter with that monotone teenage tone of annoyance that only 15 year olds can perfect.

"Writing about what?"

"Just writing."

I wish she would just go away and leave me be.

"You look sad. What's on your mind? Want to talk about it?" Mom gently continues. She sits tentatively on the edge of my bed, ready to leave if I send her off, hoping I won't.

"Not really," I sigh.

Simon and Garfunkel plays softly in the background and frantically I scribble my teenage angst into a journal. Wanting to be me, not wanting to conform, not wanting to not-conform for the sake of non-conformity. Wanting to be free of social pressures of high school, the work of trying to fit in, to look cool, to say the "right" things:

I just want to be me and sing and play guitar and wear what I want to wear and know who I am and love that. And I want others to love that, too. I want to weave colored thread into my hair and put patches on my jeans and part my hair down the middle. I want to grow sunflowers, plant them from seed right outside my window, their cheerful heads greeting me each morning. I long to breathe in the heady perfume of summer rains, of wet dewy nights with damp covers and sticky legs. To wrestle free of insecurity, of drama, of second-guessing and just. be. me. I want someone to really know me, to cherish me, to hold me, to treasure me...


I pause. I can't tell Mom all of this. She'll never understand me in a thousand years.

Deep sigh.

"Mom, do you feel like you know who you are? I mean, like, who you really are?"


"Oh Erin, you remind me so much of myself when I was your age. So full of questions and ponderings, the sadness in your eyes and tenderness in your heart. I love the way you write about what matters to you, the way to draw and listen to music and think about the things that matter in life. You're so special, there aren't many people like you in the world. You're so uniquely touched by God and stirred by nature. I love your heart and the way your mind works. I love the way you think deeply about song lyrics and their hidden meanings, read Walt Whitman and scribble thoughts in a journal. I just wish I could make you less sad."

I take all of this in, stunned by the ways mom truly knows me, the things she sees that I thought I kept hidden from the world. What is it about Moms that makes them able to see into their children's hearts like that?

Maybe I'm not so alone afterall. Maybe I am loved. Really loved. Treasured. Maybe somebody, just somebody really does pay attention. I am comforted by this moment between mother and daughter but can't say how much this has all meant to me...my teenage coolness just won't allow for it.

"I'm not sad. Mom. I just get a little sick of it all sometimes. But I feel better now. Wanna watch a movie with me?"

We pop in Amadeus, make microwave popcorn and eat it by the handful, dropping greasy kernels on covers and chasing away the loneliness together with unspoken souls uniting, shared DNA joining mother and daughter in melancholy harmony for all eternity.

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Motherhood:Warts and All!

Lately my daughter Megan (now 18 months old) has been all about the picture books. She looooooves to identify things she recognizes on pages, which generally speaking, is the most adorable thing ever. However, sometimes she...ahem, takes a few... shall we say liberties. Let me provide a few examples:

"Daddy!"




"Adam!"




"Luke!"

Totally cute, right? And we all have a good laugh at these. But then there's some pictures that are just um, well a little harder to find the humor in. Let me clarify:

"Mommy!"

(Note the label below the picture to get an idea of where this is going. Yeah, it gets worse. At least this granny has a somewhat youthful glow!)




"Mommy!"

(Ok, I've aged another 30 years in this one...but keep reading!)


"Mommy!"

(Ack! This lady has got to be at least 100 years old!!!! White perm. Stripey apron. None of it good. But wait! The best is yet to come!)


"Mommy!"



Yeah. That's right. A TROLL. Megan thinks Mommy

IS. A. TROLL.

Well, Megan, I'm choosing to blame YOU and your sleepless nights for any resemblances I bear to grandmas and creatures of the night!

(P.S. Just kidding, Mommy still loves you. Even though you think she looks like a club-swinging monster. With warts. And bad hair. And flies swarming all around. And we won't even discuss what appears to be hanging out of the back of that loin cloth.)

And can I just say how completely unfair it is that Kevin gets to be handsome, young, rugged ax-swinging L.L.Bean flannel shirt donning cool guy?!

Aaaaaaah well...sometimes ya just gotta laugh at the weird moments that occur in a house full of five-and-unders! We trolls, er...moms make our own fun, don't we? Just thought I'd share a bit of the wacky laughs we've been having this week. And now back to my regularly scheduled club bludgeoning...it's almost dinnertime. ;)

Motherhood Should Come With...

Linking up with The Gypsy Mama again today for another Five Minute Friday! Five Minute Friday is an opportunity to write on a given topic for 5 minutes flat. No editing, no worries. It's so much fun! Give it a try!

The topic for today is "Motherhood Should Come With..." Here goes!



Start.


...an instruction manual, a super hero cape and a role model--someone there to cheer you on and look up to when you have questions with no apparent answers.

Motherhood should come with a prayer to utter for grace, mercy and love. And a foreshadowing of the ways in which you'll stretch, grow, stumble and fall; fall on your knees with exhaustion and frustration and fall on them again before Him in thanksgiving for the life lessons, gifts and boundless love that motherhood brings.

Motherhood should come with friends. Friends who stumble and fall right there along with you. And friends who fall before Him, too, with gratitude in their hearts. Friends to share motherhood's seasons with, and friends who help the stretching and the growing to take place.

Motherhood should come with faith, because no mother should have to go through life's joys and trials without it.

Motherhood should come with a heart full of trust, a song of hope and a dream for the future.

End.

Just beginning my journey of motherhood in 2005 when my first son Luke was born.

Wishing all of you moms out there a fabulous Mother's Day this weekend!

Safe Keeping

She gives me things to hold. Precious treasures to watch over. Guardian of all that is ordinary and all that is dear. Safe keeping of things great and small. Placing her trust in me that I will hold them safe--store them for when she comes looking. Trusting with wreckless abandon--heart filled to the brim with love and security. I'm struck by how easily trust comes to her. I long to trust like this.

I hold these precious things for my daughter. Tiny treasures.

Dragon's wing.

Bauble.

Little doll.



I am my daughter's keeper. Palm outstretched--ready to hold, to keep safe.



She places her treasure in my hands and toddles off on another adventure-nary a doubtful glance cast behind. Such trust. Such love. Like Peter gliding across water, never faltering.

A mother is always extending her loving hand. Our Father extends His hand to us. His loving palm outstretched to hold our treasures dear. Always present. Ever trustworthy and ready to keep us safe.


We are His precious treasures.


Pour yourself into His trustworthy hands. Trust that he will keep you safe.


His hold is firm, never letting go.


My daughter, not yet two, teaching me how to love and to trust. Ordinary mother moment pregnant with wisdom. Salve to my hardened heart that fears. Such a simple lesson, yet so difficult to learn. Lesson that needs repeating over and over until we grasp it.


She brings me things to hold. I give my heart for Him to hold.

What do you give to His outstretched hand?



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Thought-Provoking Thursday

Best Seat in the House

You know the old saying, "If you want the best seat in the house you have to move the cat."

Well, in our house it would go something more like, "If you want the best seat in the house you have to move the...TOYS!"

In our house the toys are always scattered about, pretty much everywhere. This is largely due to the fact that my son Adam is somewhat of a toy hoarder! Wherever he goes, whatever he's doing he is always holding something. (And it's usually more like five to ten somethings!) And, being like most three-year-olds, he often gets distracted easily and inevitably what follows is the TOY PLOP. Whenever and wherever curiosity strikes, plop go the toys. Apparently our living room must be a place of great curiosity because often the proverbial "plop" ends up being on the best seat in the house--our couch.

So, whenever I'm looking forward to taking a load off or maybe folding a basket of laundry (That would be taking a load apart. Heh heh. Sorry. ) there's always a surprise--or twenty-- on the couch awaiting. A mommy gift.



It's always interesting to examine the array. There's usually evidence of some sort of battle that's taken place. Alien takeover. Robot invasion, perhaps.

So for me, part of the usual routine of sitting down on the couch involves fetching Adam to round up his battleground. Unless, too tried and weary to bother, I settle into another quiet corner for the moment. Toys: 1, Mom: 0.




Go ahead, take a load off Superman. I know, saving the world is hard. X-Ray vision, bulky muscles, swooning damsels-it's a rough gig. (Heck, there's even a song or two about it.) Enjoy this bit of peace and quiet while it lasts, because before long the childhood demands of saving the world once more will beckon. Evil villains to fend off, Kryptonite lurking...boo boos to mend, salty toddler tears to soothe. You and I together, saving the world on a daily basis. Duty calls all too often. So for now...just rest.