Bigger Picture Moment: Christmas, Unscrambled



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In one week, my baby will be five years old --

(Baby curls, powdered scent, dimpled fingers, squishy thighs, bundled snug, diapered bum, crawling knees, gurgled giggles, milky smile, rocked asleep: baby.  But I'm not going to focus on all of that right now.  Here I go: unfocusing.) 

-- and I'm in the middle of some pretty low-key party preparations.  This weekend we'll have our extended family over to celebrate, and though the party is nothing major, it still requires me to dash madly about the premises in turbo-cleaning mode.  (To be clear: I HAVE NO TURBO CLEANING MODE.  See the problem?)

So in the midst of deciding upon the perfect decorations and cake (a rainbow cake, as requested 11 months ago), I'm noticing what I notice every year at this time: Christmas.  Here it is -- a house across town with a grossly inflated Santa on its lawn; lighting the first advent candle; the twinkling lights spanning our roofline; presents hidden atop a box of maternity clothes in the closet; carols sung by boy bands or (preferably) a member of The Rat Pack.  Christmas is ready to be anticipated.

But I'm not ready to anticipate Christmas.

Spiritually, yes.  I feel the lightness in preparing my soul for the coming birth.  But...socially?... culturally?... I'm not there yet; I'm still languishing behind, stuck on my daughter's birthday celebration.  And next weekend, we're having a party for her friends -- something we've never done before -- since this is the big f-i-v-e: her birthday is monopolizing the first half of December.

For the past several years I've felt something like rush and catch up and scramble in order to align myself with the Christmas march.  The first two-ish weeks of December are always dedicated to the planning and execution of Mia's party, and that leaves me with only! two! weeks! to get most of my Christmas preparations together.  And I've worried about it -- dreaded the stampede towards Christmas Eve, because there's so much to cram into so little time, and it can't be natural to wish your child's birthday didn't interfere with the all-important Christmas set-up!

But now -- this week, in fact -- I've stopped. 

I don't plan to see how much I can cram into the two weeks after Mia's birthday.  In fact, I've noticed great benefits to having her birthday plunked right down in the middle of this loud season.  It means I have to ignore the noise.  It means I'm forced to disregard much of the chaos.  It means I can willingly overlook the tendency I might have to overdo the season, which would lead to mistaking its purpose entirely. 

I can continue to quietly acknowledge the advent of Our Savior, preparing my heart for Christmas, without becoming overwhelmed with the rush of it all.

It turns out that my daughter's birthday is an invitation to slow down before Christmas -- one more reason to celebrate her birth.



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Bigger Picture Moment: On Earrings and Prayer

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Hills and valleys, that's how it is with my faith.  My interaction, my prayers, my belief, they all come in hills and valleys.  As with anything else, I suppose; moods and creativity and energy and patience and willpower, they all ebb and flow, right?

And right now, there's a particular lull in prayer.  I don't usually talk too much about my own faith here -- it's mine to protect and to be awed by and to share or not share, I think -- but this feels okay.  So I can tell you, in this okay place, that I can't seem to find the groove I've had before.  The praying groove.  I miss it, but there are distractions, so I don't know that I miss it. 

It's like a soft, hollow spot in my chest that's so quiet and unobtrusive as to pull me in around it until it's full of something else.  That hollow spot gets filled, whether I fill it with prayer or not.  I wonder what I'm filling it with?

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Justin gave me a tiny pair of diamond earrings on our wedding day.  Sweet, clear studs hugged by a thin glimmer of gold.  Delicate and stable at the same time.  Like love, probably.  I almost never took the earrings out.  I wore them without ceasing, through seasons and occasions, keeping my ears quiet and hidden, because who would draw attention to these ears if they could help it?

In a fit of fashion-forwardness (which may as well be fashion-sidewaysness for all I know of style) after cutting my hair in a short almost-pixie 'do, I'd removed my small, hidden studs and replaced them with danglers.  Baubles to take away some of the nakedness from around my neck.  Decorations instead of silence. 

And oh, I loved the danglers.  They moved against my neck and tugged on my lobes and made me feel pretty.  I wasn't entirely convinced that the pixie haircut had been a good choice, but with the addition of show-stealing earrings, my confidence was boosted. 

But wouldn't you know it: my hair grew back.  Surprise.  My ears retreated behind curtains of brown, resting again in the quiet of darkness. 

I put away the dangly earrings. 

I forgot to replace my tiny studs.  They began to collect dust on top of my jewelry box.

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Earlier this week, I woke up with an urge.  Whether I'd seen something pretty on a stranger or merely remembered the weight of them, I woke up wanting earrings.  My earlobes were bare, boring, blank.  It had been a long time (not long exactly, but longer than ever before) since I'd worn them, and I suddenly missed them.  And not even the reassuring plug of the diamond studs -- I wanted baubles.  I wanted pretty, shiny things to peek from behind my short curtains of hair, to add lustre to my daily dullness. 

I found my favorite pair of droopy earrings and stood in front of the mirror.  Not looking -- it's simple to place an earring in a hole, after all (But why do we stand in front of mirrors for things we feel require no vision?  Habit?) -- I felt around for the wire loop's foothold in my ear.  I prodded my earlobe, searching for the path.  Not finding it.  Squinting at my reflection, I pulled and tugged and pushed and squeaked.  Pulling and tugging and pushing to make it through, and squeaking when I met painful resistance. 

My pierced ear had begun to heal. 

I had a moment of confusion.  It'd only been, what, a month?  Can a hole be sealed up in such a short amount of time?  And more to the point, should I push through to the other side?  Should I force the earring? 

Self-preservation said no.  The pain of re-piercing my own ears with nothing but a pointed wire would be more than I could bear, surely. 

Stubbornness said yes.  If my skin was starting to grow over, it wouldn't be much trouble to just push through now, rather than wait until it was truly impenetrable. 

Stubbornness won out.  I dug the wire into the small dimple of my lobe, searching for the path of least resistance.  Tears sprang to my eyes.  I worried and stopped and re-started.  Finally, the earring passed to the other side.  No skin had been broken, no wound had been forced, but a blocked path had been scooted aside to make way for the metal wire.   I wore the dangly earring in one ear -- it sat swinging joyfully despite my ordeal -- hoping the second side would be less trouble.  But if it wasn't as troubling, it was only because I knew it was possible to push through. 

That night, sick of the ache and itch from my hard-won earrings -- maybe the cheap metal was irritating my tender wound -- I carefully removed them and massaged my earlobes in relief. 

I couldn't have slept in those prickly, tugging earrings, but I knew what I could sleep in: my tiny diamonds. 

They slid in without restraint.  Their presence was accompanied by no ache or irritation.  My ears were comfortable in their piercedness once more. 

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This morning, I woke up with a different urge.  From nowhere (from Somewhere?) I was overcome with the need to pray.  To talk and seek and fret and wonder. 

The prayers slid in without restraint.  Like they'd been made to fit in the hole in my chest, like they'd kindly push aside whatever else -- something shiny?  something inane? -- that had been holding their place. 

I am comfortable in my piercedness once more.  Taking that step to open the path is all it took.  All it takes.  All it will ever take.

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Angels and Demons?

While logic dictates that our Sunday morning routines should be calm and relaxed, toddlerhood dictates otherwise.  Instead of a quiet, slow morning, our day of rest usually begins with a mad rush to make it to the early morning mass on time.  This is a habit we're just easing into -- the early mass, with the whole family -- and we're not very good at it.

The kids have probably been up a little later than usual the night before, making them either cranky or late to wake.  The parents have also probably been up later than usual the night before, and are arguing about who should have to go make breakfast and who should get to sleep for 20 more minutes.  This argument usually ends up in both parents getting up later than is conducive to arriving places on time. 

There's a tiny baggie of snacks to be packed, a tiny, a silent pair of church toys to be found, two tiny dresses to be negotiated over and donned by two tiny little girls.  Four piggy-tails to be bound, four squishy feet to be shod, four people to be corralled out the front door, and probably four minutes in which to accomplish all of these tasks.  I know our family is relatively small, and we should have all this under control, but we don't.  These things take time, right?

Last weekend, though, everything seemed to be going more smoothly than normal.  It was like we were finally catching the Sunday Morning Groove -- everyone was happily dressed, fed, and awake, and we were barely running late.  Success.

We hauled ourselves across the far side of the church parking lot, accompanied by a few fellow late-comers, and squeezed into an empty pew, hopefully causing a minimum of distractions.  The girls were more well-behaved than usual.  They sat somewhat still, fairly quietly entertaining themselves through readings and songs, while Justin and I eyed each other in disbelief.  It was amazing how little squirming and bickering there was.  It was fantastic how few outbursts were made.  It was wonderful how the quiet room was not visited once, and we all stayed together for the entire service. 

We made it all the way through the homily with no incidents or disturbances.

Before our luck ran out.

Sometime after the homily and before the Eucharist -- I don't know exactly, because things all started looking fuzzy around then -- it all went wrong.  Mia had finally started to get antsy, and was bouncing up and down as we stood.  I bent down when she paused, put my face to the top of her head, and started to whisper something about being still.

Which is when Mia jumped up again. 

The top of her head banged into the front of my face, and I saw a universe of stars.  My nose felt broken, my cheekbone felt swollen and my eyes were tearing up quickly.  I sat down with my hands covering my face, while Mia whispered over and over, "I'm sorry, Mama! I'm sorry!"  I nodded as best I could while trying not to cry over a little bit of pain.  I was sure my nose was starting to bleed, but I wasn't sure what to do about it.  The collision had knocked me silly.

Meanwhile, Justin assumed I was overcome with some sort of spiritual emotion. 

After a few minutes of composure-gaining, I could stand back up again, wiping my nose as discreetly as possible.  There was no blood, which made me feel like a great, sobbing wimp -- could I not withstand ANY amount of pain without assuming I was about to DIE?  Nevertheless, it had hurt, and I was still dizzy from it. 

The mass went on without any notice of my plight, which struck me as odd.  Shouldn't angels have descended to care for a (not quite) broken nose?  And if angels were going to be filling the sanctuary, surely the mass would have paused in reverence to witness the healing that was about to take place?  And if a healing were about to take place, wouldn't it be possible for my sniveling, red face to be beatifically transformed into a more presentable one?

Either way, nothing happened.  The girls kept getting more and more antsy as the sacraments were blessed and offered, but it was still better behavior than we've been used to.  My face stopped throbbing so conspicuously, and the mass was nearly over.  We stood to sing the final hymn, happy with our relatively peaceful morning.

Which is when Mia pulled down the kneeling bench.

The full force of the pew-length kneeling bench -- the old, heavy kneeling bench -- came down on top of my tiny middle toe.  My strappy sandals provided exactly NO protection from the wooden leg's fall, and I squeaked a tortured squeak.  My foot instinctively curled itself around my uninjured leg, and again, I sat.  I rocked a little bit.  Tears pooled in my eyes for the second time that morning, and I peeked at Justin. 

This time, he knew what had happened, because it had happened to him, too.  On the far end of the pew, the kneeling bench had also landed on his toes, but through the thick, sturdy leather of his dress shoe.  Still, his jaw was clenched in a show of manly pain management. 

If I'd expected angels before, to heal my wounds, now I was expecting demons, giggling at the torture they'd inflicted in such a short amount of time, and through such innocent means.

Mass had ended, and we tried to go in peace. 

Me peacefully limping; Justin peacefully chuckling at my face-crashing, toe-smashing morning; Mia and Lauren peacefully chewing on the candy from Father.

And the angels peacefully enjoying a quiet, non-interventionist morning.

They Are Precious In His Sight

Mia sat on the couch this morning, carefully turning the pages in her children's Bible. She loves this Bible with its bright illustrations and short stories, and she'll spend several minutes -- several times a day -- looking at the pictures and wondering about their meanings. We go through phases where this Bible is the only storybook she wants to read. This time, she'd stopped on a picture of Jesus, surrounded by children.

Looking up from the pages, she said, "Hey mom, why did Jesus love the little children, all the children of the world?"

I smiled at her question; the words were sung sweetly instead of being merely asked. But beyond smiling, I had to stop and think for a second about how to answer. This wasn't one question in a string of a thousand 'why's'. This was a real question, one that might stick with her.

"Well," I said, "Jesus loved them because he loves everyone. But he especially loved the children -- all of them -- because they were innocent and pure and hopeful. They were important for the future and they trusted him." There, I thought. That had to have covered the bases.

Except, Mia didn't think so. "No," she said. "They crawled. They didn't trusted him, they crawled to him."

"Oh," I laughed. Her interpretations were cute. "Trust is different from crawling, sweetie. They're not the same."

Mia accepted my answer and I was glad. Because what if she had asked me to define TRUST? I'd need to look it up to know how to explain the concept, and even then, can a 4 year old grasp such a subject? She's so young and innocent, and yes, trusting, that she'll believe whatever answer I give. Even a vague one about trust not being equal to crawling.

But the more I consider it, isn't trust equal to crawling? When you're too unsure for big, giant steps, but unable to stop entirely, you crawl. When you must move forward and even baby steps seem daunting, you crawl. And by crawling, you've made the decision to trust despite the uncertainty in your future. To follow the compelling need to proceed even when your destination is unclear.

Justin and I are going through some job-related uncertainty right now, and it feels like we're crawling. We're questioning the direction our lives need to take, too anxious to step in long strides towards an outcome, so we're crawling. We try to trust, moving forward cautiously, trying to maintain optimism. We pray that something will become clear enough for our shaky legs to gain enough strength and confidence to stand. To walk.

And that feels like trust to me: crawling, praying, hoping. Knowing that Jesus loves his little children -- crawling or otherwise -- and will be waiting with a steadying arm when they're ready to walk.

My New Prayer

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Sometime in my history, someone, somewhere said something that struck me. It was beautiful, and it went something like this:

A dishwasher is a woman's best friend.

Wait...

While that is true (especially since I'm on day 14 of a dishwasher-less life devoid of healthy, moisturized hands), it's not the beautiful thought I was remembering.

I was remembering when I heard from a mother of a small children that she always prays for the future spouses of her kids. She prays for the husband her daughter will someday meet and love. She prays for the wife her son will some day woo and charm. It really made me consider the unknown impact of prayers and how comforting it would be to know that there was some other mother out there, praying for my children without yet knowing anything about them other than that they existed.

In my over analyzing mind, I thought of all the people that my children would come in contact with over the years who would influence and change their lives, whether obviously or by some small unknown measure. I thought of all the people's lives my kids would impact, just by brushing up against their society and imparting some bit of influence, whether good or bad. (Surely they'll only ever impart goodness, right? Right??) I thought of how big our decisions seem in this light. Every choice we make has the possibility of changing someone else's life.

How amazing would it be if we lived knowing that truth?

Yesterday at the library, I briefly met a woman who seemed to live in this way. I was only around her for a few minutes, but each time she spoke or moved, she exuded a calm, loving, supportive presence. She had her small children with her, two of whom were little boys. Adorable, active things with rambunctious smiles and handsome faces. Her life wasn't abnormal, her kids weren't perfect; in fact, she'd admitted to having a stressful morning. She wasn't magical...but then again...she was. In the small amount of time I watched her with them -- guiding or praising or gently encouraging some desired behavior -- I could so plainly see that she got it. She understood that each word she said and each touch she gave would leave an imprint in her children's lives. She seemed to know that those kids would in turn leave their own wake of influence wherever they walked in the future.

I don't know if she also understood that she'd leave an imprint on my life. I wanted to be more gracious. More gently encouraging, and less brusquely demanding. More supportive and less distracted. More aware of the ways I could both lovingly shape my children's world and proudly watch my children shape someone else's world.

While encouraging her 2 year old son to share a few of the trains he'd hoarded at the train table, she simply and gently reminded him not to throw the train at Mia, because she was 'a lady. We treat ladies with extra kindness.' She didn't panic when she saw his arm begin to move too quickly. She didn't grab the train in fear that he'd not heed her reminder. She spoke calmly, almost breathing politeness into him from herself, and sure enough -- he slowed down and handed the train over with a shy grin. She'd taught him well.

This single encounter was what reminded me of the mother who prayed for her baby daughter's future husband. I thought, this is the kind of mother I hope my future son-in-law has. I pray he has someone in his life who's so willing to teach love and respect.

So now, not only will I try to whisper an occasional prayer about the men who will someday share my daughters' lives, I'll also pray for their mothers. Because we need all the help we can get, don't we?

Speaking Of Shrinking Worlds

In yesterday's post, I wrote "Her world is so large and unusual. But I get to be the one who shrinks it when needed, making it common and comfortable." Which somehow led me to these scrambled thoughts.

I cut up vibrant, vitamin-rich veggies and juicy, jewel-toned fruits for my daughters to snack on. To fill up their hunger and feed their growing bodies, I provide healthy bits of food - lovingly prepared - in hopes that they will grow strong and vibrant and healthy themselves.

I read stories without ceasing - happily so. Modulating my voice to convey emotions and images that seep into the minds of my sweet girls, I fill them up with these moments. I wish with all the might in my soul that they will come to love reading and revel in the mystery of pages yet unturned. That they will delight in discovering knowledge.

My husband and I are a team that steers them onto safe, well-lit paths lined with protection and guidance, and - as much as it is possible for parents to do so - we decide what is best for them. Putting in hours of thought and agonizing over the details of every disciplinary choice, we pray that we are raising them right. We do our very best to make sure they are being led in the ways of charity and kindness; wondering if they follow for understanding reasons, or simply to avoid punishment.

We speak softly of God's love, elaborating when questions are asked. We weave a foundation of faith, hoping that it will raise them to lofty heights in a relationship with the One who loves them more fully than even we as parents are capable of doing. Showing them with our lives and relationships how to give God's love back to everyone we encounter, we try to be more faithful followers. And when our children recognize our weaknesses - for surely they will - we hope they're learning to understand that faith is a journey.

But I also worry. I second-guess. I blame myself for every misstep they make. I blame myself for not knowing how to do everything right.

I wonder: does any of this translate into a guarantee of a happy, confident, faithful life for them? How can all of the love pouring out of my hands and mouth and heart not be enough to know - really know - that they won't hate me when they're older? That they won't merge into the world as completely different people from the children we thought we were raising.

I wonder.

I worry.

Yet, I continue on my path - happily so. What else is there to do, after all, but to raise my children with joy?

That Pretty Much Covers It

Tonight's prayer, heard from Mia's room:

Dear God, thank you for the go-gurt, and thank you for the chocolate, and thank you for the ice cream.

Amen.

To Play, Or Not To Play

We had such a fun visitor today! I watched my friend Katie's daughter Savannah for a couple of hours, and she was a delight to play with. She and Lauren hit it off right away - being about the same height, I guess they had a lot to discuss. Lauren watched in awe as Savannah walked wherever she wanted to, with no help. I'm betting Savannah is her new hero.

Mia was already down for a nap when Savannah got here, and Lauren took a nap after getting to play for about half an hour, so I got to have Savannah all to myself for quite a while. I put everything else aside to play with someone else's child, and I wondered, why don't I do this with Lauren and Mia? I wander from task to task, playing in small bursts, and trying not to disappoint them with my busy-ness.

There are some days where I wonder if I'm giving my time fully enough to my kids. I am here all day with them, yes, but cooking, cleaning, bill paying, laundry, menu planning, and so on....these things take up so much of my time. And now I've added blogging to the list. I shudder to think of how hard it would be for me to be a mom with a career outside the home.

Should I strive to do those things while the girls are sleeping, and spend all of my day playing and teaching (and should I be doing a better job teaching)? Should I do those household tasks only when they are otherwise occupied? Or should I just do them whenever I get a chance throughout the day, accepting that my daughters will learn to entertain themselves during those times?

I think of motherhood as my vocation, my chosen path. That leaves me to wonder why there is any question of how my priorities should be weighed. Obviously, the kids come first - but how can I reconcile that with a house that's in constant need of straightening and other important parts of life that must be accommodated? On top of those mundane ways in which a household must be run, I know I should be taking time out for prayer and maintaining my relationship with God. How can I incorporate more spiritual upkeep time into my day, while keeping up with normal duties?

The way I've been approaching it is this: an organized day and house will help my children grow while helping me to be the mother I need to be. And most certainly, prayer will give me the strength and peace I need to get through my day. All the while, I'm wondering if I'm really doing all that I could be doing as a wife and mother.

An Early Resolution

The other day, I ran into an old high school friend. I haven't seen him for years, and his life has taken an exciting route. Well, exciting to me, who stays at home most days playing tea party.

I tried to make small talk, which I am terrible at. I really could benefit from some training in small talk. This led to me joking about the laundry I do all day, compared to his work in the recording studio. And I heard myself saying dumb things but I couldn't stop my myself.

I talked about staying at home with the kids, and it sounded like I was apologizing for being lame. Like I'm not proud of my work.

Because that's what it is; my chosen profession - my work - is my family. I choose to stay home and raise my kids every minute of the day. To see every step and witness every new ability. To be available, making a home for my husband and children. This is what I've always wanted to do and I feel very rewarded. I feel being a mother is so special, that I couldn't imaging giving up this chance to take a job elsewhere. For as long as it's possible, I hope to be a stay at home mom.

And if I had chosen to work away from home because I felt called to do so, I would have nothing to apologize for then either. The point is that whatever path God puts us on, we are there for a reason.

So why did I sound disappointed? I don't wish I was in his place. I don't desire a life other than my own. If anything, I see myself as the lucky one. Who's to say he didn't admire my family life?

I think it's my need for approval. If I'm not exactly like someone, they can't possibly like me, right? This brain is warped, I tell you.

My favorite part of the Lord's Prayer is "Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, On earth as it is in heaven." If I pray that prayer with an open heart, I should have all the tools I need to live joyfully. I should be able to see that the work I do, and the attitude with which it is done, plays a part in bringing God's Kingdom to us, now. Even a little part means something. And my being a mother definitely has the capability of building some heaven on earth. I try to plant seeds in our children's hearts for a life lived loving God.

Now the part about God's will being done is a tougher statement for me, one I struggle with on a momentary basis. But the Kingdom - that's what I hope for above all else. Because if God's Kingdom is here now, his will cannot be questioned.

My new year's resolution should be to exude confidence and contentment, joyfully living out God's plan for my life. That, and get better at small talk.