On Sheltering Trees

Three years make all the difference.

I ask what makes a tree grow, and my five year old tells me about roots pushing through soil, about sunlight dancing in through leaves and life-giving water that travels up itty-bitty straws inside the tree. The little one, though, she knows plain and simple: God makes the trees grow. I nod, at both of them. You’re right, both right.

Someone asks “What’s saving your life right now?” and my thinking splits, like a path in the woods, my mind sprinting, pulsing forward in both directions at once.

Racing down the first path I recount the last few weeks:

Last night I sat at a bus stop with a woman, a stranger with all her babies in tow. She was taking flight from abuse, stranded, halfway to the shelter. I lent her my phone and waited until the social worker arrived. She loaded her kids up with brave uncertainty; I climbed back in my car and headed home to love, to family.

Across the country, the matriarch of my husband’s family is slipping away, bound for glory. Her children gather around. My oldest bears her name, and all over the world her grandchildren and great-grands remember the sound of her laughter, wait for a phone call.

My sister’s been in town for two weeks. This morning, when their van pulls out and heads west, I wish I’d spent every waking moment with them, despite the chaos of grandparents and siblings and spouses and twelve cousins spread over three families trying to eek out some sort of temporary rhythm. Already, I miss them like crazy.

I think of the few days we stole away and spent with my in-laws, how good it was to just be together, and the tears in my mother-in-laws eyes as we talked about her mother-in-law, and how goodbyes always make my heart ache for home.

Along this path, I count the simple graces of standing beside my sisters in church for the first time in a very long time, of wild wedding dancing, raised eyebrows and secret winks across baby shower tables.

And you could say all the small graces – the families gathering together and the celebrations of new life, the husband who listens to my heart pour out in the dark quiet, and the cousins giggling under the dining room table – these are the nutrients being pulled up from soil. Sunlight transforms into energy as it’s pulled in through green leaves, and gratitude is a photosynthesis that translates even blinding heartache into thanksgiving. And all these things have been saving grace these weeks. I could count on and on. And I do.

At the same time, the other path circles again and again around one strong tree.

What is saving my life right now? Only Jesus. Always Jesus.

It sounds simplistic, but it’s the one thing I return to again and again: the gospel, a God who humbled himself and took on flesh, died and rose again to offer new life, to fulfill the law and promises and the aching of our sin-sick, broken hearts. Redemption.

It is only his kindness, leading back to repentance, again and again: when I open my mouth and let sarcasm drip; when I feed off of drama rather than quiet my heart and speak peace; when injustice and grief well up, and death and brokenness do sting.

When the whole world seems to be groaning, and my own heart feels faint, I remember that I have seen redemption unfurling, and tasted heaven’s life pulsing through the deepest brokenness, and my hope is in Christ alone.

God makes trees grow, and just this is saving my soul: Jesus.

The paths converge, and I shelter here, under the hope of the gospel, and the many graces that point me again and again to this old rugged tree.

This post is a response to Sarah Bessey’s question: What is saving your life right now? Read her original post here, or click here to read others’ responses.

For the Love of Play {guest posting…}

Today I’m guest posting over at my friend LaDonna’s blog, Santa Beso, where she’s hosting a conversation all week about what makes a home. Won’t you join us?

When LaDonna asked me to write about the topic play at home, I knew she had struck gold: a Play at Home Mom. This is exactly what I am! I do stay at home, in that I no long teach in a classroom, or work nine to five. And I certainly do quite a bit of work at home, mostly of the mothering and homemaking variety, as well as writing and art and a bit of design. But really, this Play at Home title suits me best. I am a kid at heart: I prefer picture books to memoirs; I’d choose fort-building over furniture re-arranging any day.

It’s not that I spend all my waking hours building block towers alongside my toddlers and dressing up in Rapunzel costumes, although, quite frankly, I might prefer it to grocery shopping and cleaning out the fridge. Our days are filled with unending mountains of laundry and a steady liturgy of dishes and diapers, punctuated by the occasional tantrum. But even in the midst of the messes and the mundane, we are cultivating a culture of play.

Create a Culture Of Play

Creating a culture of play has less to do with toys and more to do with nurturing a sense of wonder, an inkling of story. This kind of play spans across time, culture and class. It provides opportunity to build strong relationships along side, to package valuable (even difficult) lessons in developmentally palatable bites. Play is an invitation to simplicity, to small, important things. In our home, we try to encourage an ongoing conversation full of curiosity, made up adventures replete with recurring characters, long pockets of quiet tinkering and even an occasional wild rumpus. 

Wonder, curiosity, story: this is the currency of childhood, and I plan to deposit a large investment in the banks my children’s memories. 

Please know, this doesn’t mean every moment is picture perfect; far from it. We don’t spend our days crafting moments right off of (and, naturally, back onto) Pinterest. And it’s not that my kids don’t occasionally consume one too many Netflix episodes. That happens here, too. We live in the real world. But, as I’ve sat down and thought about how we fill our days with wonder and creativity and story, there are some practical things we do (some unintentionally, some purposefully) to make our home, well, playful.  I hope some of these practices resonate, none of them shame, and that you’ll share with us how you cultivate play!

Click here to keep reading & share your thoughts over at LaDonna’s site, Santa Beso.

On Practicing Life-Music and Meditating over Meatloaf

We wander through her sleepy streets, in and out of galleries, until we settle on a cafe, across from an old church that serves as a music venue now.  We choose an outside table, and the metal chairs wobble on cobblestone sidewalk, just him and me. At home I make us curry chicken wraps, replete with peaches and cilantro, serve them with smoothies, but here I order meatloaf and potatoes, and this makes him laugh.

We eat slowly, we people-watch, we talk. This night we circle around the same thread we always return to, like the favorite corner of a well-worn blanket. This is the conversation we come home to when our hearts grow quiet, more often when they need quieting: calling, purpose, vocation, what we are made for and where we are going.

We pay the bill and across the street a few teenagers file into the old church, gangly arms around awkward instrument cases and amplifiers in tow. And older couple follows, her white hair loose, long, liberated. I watch a young family struggle up the stone steps with a stroller and a pizza box. I wonder what kind of music draws all these people together.

We make our way back to the car, across the bridge and home. Home. Back to the sink full of dishes and the little people who call us Mama and Daddy, the laundry and the litanies.
And I think of the music being made in that house meant for worship, and the cacophony of sounds my house must leak out: the clinking of dishes and (not so) occasional tantrums, the laughter of friends gathered around the back table and the rare moments of silence, intense conversation and the uncontrollable giggling of toddlers – all our lives in sound bites emanating through screens and back doors, wafting to the ears of kids walking home from half-days of school and the kind rector faithfully walking her dogs.

The longer I search for direction and calling, the smaller my vision seems to become. The building matters less, and the music matters more. And I’m nervous and comforted by this at the same time.  I’m less sure about my where‘s and what‘s, learning to lean into my how‘s and who‘s, and mostly Whose.

At home, I sit quiet, and think about the music: how I long for my life-song to be, above all else, a song of love – always love at the center; and to dare to traverse to the lower keys: lower, lower to serve and to see rightly; how I am craving a rhythm of obedience, a cadence that carries the joy and grief and beauty and heartache all back to praise.

And all that sounds nice, scrolled out all flowery, and there are moments when this music flows and wafts, but more often it is afternoons spent in mundane practice. And practicing obedience and humility and love is a messy practice of missed notes and off keys.

I think of the oboe packed away at my parents’ house, abandoned in the eighth grade for lack of commitment, as much as lack of talent. And the piano lessons I wriggled out of for lack of gratification. And I can live without oboe and piano, but this life song is one I cannot stop singing.

So I keep fumbling and practicing the music of love.

My mind wanders back to the teenagers, and I imagine mothers that made them practice instruments after school. I’m home tucked in for the night, but I wonder what kind of music they’re making at that old church by the cafe, and if the family with the stroller is still there.

Well, Hello There…

Happy Monday, friends.  Hope it’s full of wonder (even if it’s slow coming).

To the Sea and Smallness

Days ago, I was sinking in all the expected chaos of the week, when we decided on a spontaneous trip to the beach. The occasion was my thirty-first birthday, sandwiched between a wearisome week peppered with poison ivy and a wonderfully exhausting three days of ballet recitals, the arrival of much-loved house guests and a three year old birthday party, directly followed by pink-eye and fevers.

And on that particular day, it didn’t really matter that we were driving hours just to soak in the salty air for a measly afternoon, or that there were mountains of laundry left to fold and grass to be mowed, or that we left so late in the day that we had to worry about evening rush hour, instead of the morning one.
It was worth every second of late afternoon salty sand between the toes goodness. 

When I was a child, our family returned to the ocean like sea turtles to their mother-beach. Year after year, we traveled for two long days: to the same little row of houses, the same salty air and happy, clean stretch of sand on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Something about returning, year after year, blazed the ocean into my mind as a symbol of rest, retreat, renewal.

Even now, the ocean is a lullaby for my soul. There are few things as timeless and unchanged as the ocean, predictably moving with tides and seasons; yet as unknowable and dangerous as it comforting. Her reckless beauty and pounding power quiet me, her rhythmic rolling waves and sun-baked sand draw me in, surf gently tickling toes until I’m in too deep, pummeled back to shore. It strikes me as soon as we arrive, what I love most about the ocean:

At the sea, I feel very, very small. And this is exactly as it should be.

Our shadows elongate, dance with the surf, as the sun sinks away somewhere behind us, and we don’t even notice because we are facing the water.

The girls collect broken bits of sea shells to carry home, but this, the smallness, this is what I want to tuck away when I return to the hum drum of laundry and the long nights with sick kids and the unexpected insecurity that creeps in like a mosquito from some holey screen in this old house.

At the edge of the sea, I know that I am a grain of sand compared to the vast ocean of God’s glory. It is not difficult here, to remember that no magnum opus or platform, no achievement or vocation will increase my value or make me more or less. I am a grain of sand, counted and valued, small and significant. We linger as long as we can, and I am grateful just to bask here, to remain and abide in this place.

I think, again of the words of Jesus that have been rolling around in my mind like well worn sea glass ricocheting in the surf:

Blessed are the poor in spirit,
 for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn,
    for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
   for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful,
    for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart,
   for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
   for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness,
    for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

My youngest chases a sea-bird and believes, earnestly, she might catch him.
And she is small, albeit rarely meek, unafraid to mourn, quick to cry out when she is hungry, or curl up in my lap when she needs mercy. And this is worth pursuing: the growing small and stooping lower, admitting hunger and poverty of spirit, the making peace and offering mercy.

And many, maybe all, of these mysteries grate against my sense of self and my sin-sick tendencies, and many days I live chasing the opposite.  But this, basking in the oceans of the powerful, comforting Presence of Jesus and His upside down kingdom, this is how I long to spend my days.

So I chase birds with my little one. And we’re quiet, quite hushed, as we drive home, away from the beach and onto the highway.

Zucchini Boats

I remember the gravel slipping beneath our feet like ball bearings as gravity and childhood whimsy propelled us down the steep driveway, through the woods, where we raced to “the pit:” a little pond where we sailed our hollow zucchini boats.  We imagined ourselves quite the adventurers, the old fashioned triangle our only signal to come home for dinner.  Last week I made stuffed zucchini for dinner, and remembered those wild summer nights, told the girls all about it.

These ones, though, they’re filled with goodness, and super easy to make, especially if you go meatless, or cook up some extra meat during your meal prep the night before. There’s no real recipe here, because I just filled them with veggies and cheese and a little meat. (But if you must have exacts there are plenty of recipes out there for zucchini boats.) Here’s how we made ’em.

Half your zucchini. Scoop out the middle. I left a good half inch of zucchini flesh in my boats.
Mix up your filling. I had sauteed some hamburger meat earlier in the day, so I just added onion, fresh spinach, red peppers, tomato, garlic, and the chopped zucchini, along with some grated Parmesan & shredded mozzarella. I think I threw in some sea salt & pepper. I would have added some oregano & basil if I had any. The possibilities are endless, though.
Fill your boats & top them with cheese.
Bake ’em. I did mine at 350 for a little while, then jacked it up to 375 to get the cheese nice & crisp. They’re done when you can pierce the zucchini. Throw some bread in the oven while you’re at it. Maybe rubbed with olive oil. Better on the grill, but the oven will work, since it’s already hot. (Tin foil underneath to catch any spare oil.)
Leave it in a bit too long because a neighbor stops by to chat.  It will be crunchier, but worth it.Let your kids make sails for their boats. And yours.
Eat. Try to keep your calm when your kids squeal and squirm about the squishiness of zucchini. Come back & apologize if you don’t.
Watch them discover a new food. One of them may decide she likes it. The other may not. Enjoy anyway.

Perspective

On Sunday we hike to the highest point on the ridge, and venture down into the ice-caves, where glacial air keeps frozen secrets all summer long. And it wouldn’t matter if we were just walking the neighborhood, because we’re out and we’re breaking routine, and the fresh air is good for my soul.

And last night after dinner, the dinner where I slammed my silverware onto the table and said, in my least calm voice, that I need a break, I do walk the neighborhood, alone, to get some perspective and fresh air and mostly a few minutes away.
And there is only one thing that centers my heart, and it comes on mountain hikes and after hard day walks alone, in early morning coffee and quiet, and unexpected graces. And when my heart is weighed down by heaviness for those I love and the everyday heart cries, only love sets right the brokenness and the hunger.

Love is the only lens, the the only healer. Only love.

This post is inspired by Lisa-Jo, who invites me & you to write for five unedited minutes: “On Fridays over here a group of people who love to throw caution to the wind and just write gather to share what five minutes buys them. Just five minutes. Unscripted. Unedited. Real..” -Lisa-Jo  ***This week’s word: PERSPECTIVE.***

On Wombs and Women’s Work

When I pull out of the driveway on Friday night, the house is in chaos, and my heart makes a match set. I’m running a little late, but I choose country roads over highway anyway. I’m a good ten miles away when I notice something honey-sweet blooming. I can’t see it, but I breathe it in, sweet and thick, and my pace slows as I wind down familiar roads to a house I’ve not visited since I was a kid. And I’m happy to be driving away from home.

I know a handful of the beautiful women at the baby shower. It’s mostly family; I suspect everyone but me is related, somehow or another.  But I am happy to be there anyway, to hold somebody else’s content baby, and know my exhausted ones are being blissfully riled up and tucked in by their amazing Dad, and I am here, all by myself. I need to get out more.

The sun sinks behind the barn across the street and it occurs to me that I’ve been to few baby showers so casual, all raw roars of laughter and sweet stories and sangria. Twilight gives way to evening, and as the barely-little girl who’s been kicking dandelions comes in from the field, the large moon dances upward, climbing through branches bearing new life.

And after dessert we file into the living room. A little bag of beads is passed around, each member of the circle threading a colorful orb onto a thread strong enough for a laboring woman to wear in remembrance. With each bead a prayer is spoken: for a healthy baby, for joy to mark the early days, for the delivery to be speedy, or at least feel like it is. All hopes are simple, true, the most necessary elements of birthing a baby and surviving those first few grueling months.

The beads are passed to me and I speak flowery, like I do when I’m nervous, and I wish I hadn’t: my words are earnest, but they hang there a moment,  like a lone overdressed adolescent at a middle school dance. But this circle of women is wide enough to envelope my awkward, to laugh and nod and affirm and keep moving ’round.

On my way home the light of the moon lands, mingles, gets lost in heavy fields blanketed in fog, and a new spring’s worth of peepers raise their song into the heavy air. I think about this business of babies and birthing, and how all of it starts in the first place. A mother becomes what she is because of her willingness to let a miracle grow and expand and exist within her.

At best it begins with love and vulnerability, and it grows, day by day, in womb swelling to make room for new life. We are enlarged and able to sustain wild, beautiful life growing because of a miracle conceived in vulnerability. (Even in adoption, this rings true.)
And as women, isn’t this always our greatest work: to open our very hearts and make room for miracles, to let life grow in the circles we find ourselves, to welcome and nurture? And how we long to be found in those sweet places, to find an arm around our shoulder, a word of truth spoken boldly to our wobbly hearts, the encouragement to press on. 

I am grateful, this near-summer night, to have been enveloped into this circle of laughter and simple heart-cries, speaking life over a beautiful woman, belly swollen with growing miracle. And I think of the mother who carried me well past my due date, and the home she created. And my mind wanders through the faces of all the women who’ve held my heart and created wombs of love, sacred spaces where miraculous could grow into flesh and bone and beating heart.

It’s late when I pull in the driveway and slip through the backdoor, home again. This night, I sleep deep, and wake to pitter patter feet, just slightly more ready to resume the daily litanies of mothering and making, holding and swelling.

All Those Years of Doodling

Yesterday Lisa-Jo Baker released her free ebook, The Cheerleader for Tired Moms. It was my pleasure to do the illustration and design (with a little help from my super web-savvy husband).  When I was a kid I dreamed of being an animator (don’t mock me) and just a few years ago I took a class on illustrating children’s books. My heads always been full of dreams, and this is one of many, and I’m not sure where it fits into the scheme of things.

While I don’t know for sure where this narrow road will lead me, vocationally or otherwise, it was pure joy to dabble in design and illustration, and to hash out all the details with the lovely Lisa-Jo.

Her words are pure grace for new moms (and not just new moms, I suspect). I’ve been struck with her honesty, her wit, her integrity, her kick-bum (come on, it’s for mothers of young ‘uns) proofreading skills, and mostly just her heart. So head on over and subscribe to her blog,  so you can have a copy sent right to your inbox, post-it notes and all.

On Floorboards in Ceilings and Hanging On

Yesterday the beadboard was ripped down from the porch ceiling, and today there’s nothing but the frame of this centennial porch left, that and the roses, all hopeful and climbing the lattice.

And the whole ceiling hung from these here two-by-fours, which lasted a hundred years, suspended by a few scrawny scraps of floorboard: “They must’ve been running low on wood,” he says, when he points them out.
And I try to imagine the builders deliberating about whether to make another run to the lumber yard, or piecemeal it together with the little they had left. Or perhaps there was no deliberation at all, just the fast wielding of hammers and the bead board thrown up to finish the last of the house, to mask the shortage.

And I think about this busy month, the baby shower and the art show and the illustrations and two speaking engagements, the messy house and the slow (very slow) restoration of order. I think about all the creativity and the long talks and the time spent playing tea party and reading chapter books, rather than writing or cleaning. And I think, too, about the moments I snapped instead of offering a kind word, judged instead of listening, gossiped instead of praying, multiplied anxiety instead of gratitude; and this was just in the last few hours.Daily I fail. And daily I grow. And a hundred years ago a builder wove together solid wood and broken scraps, held together with nails hammered deep, to create a porch strong enough to hold ten decades worth of mailmen’s footsteps and lemonade evenings; aching goodbyes and last glances; toddler toes wiggling with anticipated arrivals.

The rain has done damage, and there is warped wood, places gone rotten: but the frame is strong, save the whole ceiling-hanging-from-the-floorboard-thing. And as the porch is dismantled and rebuilt, I take heed that the broken and not-enough often play an important part of the story, and we’re all pieced together with enduring strengths and alarming vulnerabilities. 

I think about my small life, my marriage, my family. And this old house is home for us for now, full of charm and quirks, frustrations and endless projects, er, opportunities.  And we’re all being built, and tonight, I’m hopeful that even the floorboards scrapped together at the end of the day might make something beautiful and lasting in the end.