Memories to laugh about

I haven't been writing because I am reading a really excellent book right now, called The Lacuna. It's so good, in fact, that I have been cheating on my blog and other household duties and spending every spare sleeping-kid second with it. Give me a historical fiction novel set in the 1930's with Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, Trotsky, Stalin, the Revolution, and the brewing of WW2 all set in Mexico City and I'm a happy camper. In fact, every place they mention in the book (including the homes they are living in), every mural they discuss, and every market they shop in, I have been to and seen in person. This is awesome, but it is also making me miss Mexico terribly. I really wish that I could go back to my high school self and make me pay just a little more attention to the history I was living right smack in the middle of. Instead I was just worried about finishing my math problems and trying not to fight with my siblings. Hindsight is 20/20 of course. And when you are sixteen, well, life has different priorities than it does when you're ten years later and looking back.

Speaking of looking back, Eric and I took a long walk with the kids yesterday to a park that sits at the top of a hill and overlooks a baseball diamond at the bottom. There was a Jr. High softball game going on, and I kept stealing glances as I chased Lyla away from the kids on the swings every thirty seconds or so. As a former Jr. High softball player, I had some fond memories as I watched the girls pitch and field and swing the bat. I realized how much I miss it. Not softball, necessarily, but I miss the freedom and fun of just being a kid.

Being a parent of two kids at 26 years old has its pros and cons for sure. During the time that they are so little, it is a difficult season of life for sure. I love it, all the smiles and silly giggles and cuddles and discoveries. But it can also be a taxing time, with all the strong, untamed emotions and constant needs - and sometimes I do want to run away and hide for a little while when the day gets really crazy.

Eric recently had a change in his carpool to work situation and now he is driving every day out to his office in the suburbs and back. I am fortunate to live in the city and be able to have a handful of parks within walking distance and public transportation for the not so close places, but this has definitely meant a change of pace for us. I have never been one to make myself overly busy in the first place (my personality would never allow for that), but with the option of driving taken away from me, I have been trying to be more intentional about our life here at home, namely, with parenting my oldest.

I loved being a kid. I had so much fun. Most of my memories are from when I was older than three, of course, but it still makes me want to make sure that Lexi truly is encouraged to love her life. I am trying to say "Yes" more, let her make some plans, engage in play with her instead of observing while I do something else.

Kids have there own way of enjoying life, though. And I don't quite understand it sometimes. On Saturday, at the forest preserve where all these pictures are from, Lexi refused to walk through the grasses, the woods, and to walk at all, actually. She whined most of the three hours that we spent there. But then when we asked her at home what her favorite part of the day was, she said, "Walking through the tall grass."

At the end of our walk to the park yesterday we passed a fountain that Lexi had asked to stop and play in on the way there. On the way home, she got her wish. She got in, played, loved it, and got wet. When she got out of the fountain, she screamed and cried because her pants were wet. "Well, what did you expect?" didn't really get through to our child of all dramatics, who continued screaming and throwing herself around, drawing as much attention as she could, of course. Eric and I laughed, made her get back in the stroller, and then made jokes about her screaming, which got her quiet really fast, remarkably. When we were home and eating dinner together we asked her what her favorite part of the day was, to which she replied, "Playing in the fountain."

I have no idea really what this post is about except for nonsensical rambling, and perhaps how memories are made. Maybe having a perfect wonderful day where there aren't any kid episodes isn't what makes for a kid's favorite memory. Maybe it's riding on your dad's shoulders getting your arms and legs brushed by tall scratchy grasses or riding home in the stroller in wet pants from playing in the fountain. Maybe it's more about the people you are with than the things you actually do. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I said "Yes" instead of what would be easiest or most practical. It makes for some good memories for me too, as long as I can remember to laugh about it and not take it so personally when emotions suddenly run hot.

I am so thankful for my girls. I am thankful for this season of their childhood and don't want to just look ahead to the next stage. I want to enjoy them and be a family and make the good, laughable memories right here, right now. :-)

Place

This weekend and last weekend we have made it a point to get out of the city and into the woods.

We found ourselves hiking on muddied trails under dense green canopies of dancing leaves by the billion. The rain pit pattered down and finally found us, dampening our clothes and unleashing laughter.

And then open spaces.

I leave my phone dead in the car, and take no camera or electronic device with me. We walk through the trees until we come to a huge sunlit field. The grass is emerald and sparkles in the sunlight. We run through the grass, frogs hopping out of the way and grasshoppers popping up like popped corn and birds singing and my children laughing and my heart is overflowing with joy. We find a creek, pet a frog, watch a praying mantis fly. We walk, run, explore hidden spaces. And then more woods. Trees all around, everywhere you look. A cool breeze is brushing against my face. We are crunching through leaves, the damp smell of the earth filling our senses, dappled sunlight streaming down and warming our faces. We are laughing and dreaming big dreams.

**instagram photo courtesy of C.J. who had a phone to capture the beauty when I did not

I recently read an interview with Michael Perry, author of Coop, who talked about sense of place in a way that kind of hit home for me.
"...I do believe that sense of place is pretty portable. We can be happy in a lot of places. I say that as someone who, given the choice, would spend the rest of my life in about six square miles of northern Wisconsin."

And I find myself wondering about this city of concrete that I live in. Wondering if place is what causes you to thrive or if it goes deeper than that. And wondering if I am truly thriving here, when I find myself feeling most alive somewhere else.

Dear Mom.

Dear Mom,

Today is your birthday. And it's a big one. One of the ones you aren't supposed to forget. The one that comes with a big party and all the old friends show up and the whole family is together and there are expensive gifts and a lot of memories made. Celebrating half of a century should be that way, shouldn't it?

But today, instead of waking up to party preparations, a different story unfolded. One where I realized this birthday sneaked up on me and caught me unawares. It's too late to throw a party, I have no access to old family pictures to make a fun gift, I have $1.06 in my personal spending account, my brother is at boot camp, my sister just started college out of state, my other sister is deep in recruiting season at work, and here I am. The stable one. The steady one. The married one. The one who should be throwing the party today.

But instead of throwing a party, I'm bathing my baby, who can't keep her hands out of her dirty diapers. I'm washing my dishes before they overflow onto the floor. I'm pulling over onto the side of the road to clean my child while she gets sick in the car. I'm buying groceries and then hauling them inside with a baby on my hip. I'm bathing my oldest, washing the sodden garments, and reading her a story while she lays in bed and I feed lunch to the youngest at the same time.

Today it is your birthday. And it didn't go really as one might have planned, but then celebrating your life isn't just about one day. It's about your legacy.

And I am thankful for you.

Because if it wasn't for my Mom, a lovely, faithful woman of integrity, I wouldn't be who I am today. I also wouldn't BE here, which I am forever indebted to her for.

I was walking to the park with my girls yesterday when an elderly man stopped me to talk. He was out watering his flowers and said hello to the girls. "I remember those days when my kids were young," he says. "I call those the hurricane years. Because really, they were. But the kids grow up fast. Much faster than you can believe right now. But ENJOY every minute of it. Because even though it feels like a hurricane now, these are the BEST years of your life. I know you probably don't believe me, but it's true. Treasure your young children. These really are the best years of your life."

Dear Mom, do you remember these years?

These hilarious, silly smiles, the constant giggles and squeals, the short tempers and long tantrums, the long sick nights and the crazy early mornings. The feeling of just trying to keep everyone fed and alive and hoping your life is significant in doing that?

Do you remember our baby faces and arms wrapped around your neck as the little girl whispers in your ear "I want to hold onto you forever" while you tuck her into bed? Do you remember the singing - the sweet tiny voices singing at the top of their lungs whatever words or phrases come into their heads? Do you remember the long random conversations that always happen right at bedtime and the excitement about silly little things like rocks shaped like hearts and green tomatoes turning red?

Do you remember kissing the skinned knees, tickling the soft bellies, saying and doing ridiculous things just because it made us laugh?

Every day there are new discoveries. Every moment there is learning, connections, and so. much. crazy. joy.

Do you remember this?

Do you remember the joy?

When I am fifty, I want to remember this.

I don't want to remember if my house was clean (because it never is anyway) or if my pantry was organized. I want to remember my kid's joy. Their laughter. The cuddles and play and hugs and even the tears.

I don't want to remember all the time outs or angry words or tough days of bad attitudes and the feeling of just trying to get by.

I want to remember the JOY. I want to remember being wrapped up in this crazy unchanging GRACE that I am invited to walk every day in, to lead my kids into, to be covered by and filled with.

I want to remember that.

Dear Mom, I know you remember this. Maybe some of it like it was yesterday. The rest like the long time ago that it was. But I know you remember.  And I know you give thanks.

Because in your life, I saw Jesus.

Every. single. day.

I saw you loving Him, serving Him, and thriving in His life. On the hard days I saw you leave to find a quiet place. And when I found you, there you were, with God's Word in your hands and His writing on your heart.

You have been faithful in every small thing, courageous in bigger things than I could ever imagine facing alone, and endlessly loving - even to the most undeserving.

Thank you.

Thank you for going to battle for us every day, fighting for our hearts and souls to not be swept away by every whim and tide. Thank you for choosing to stay when days were long, and to walk beside us even when we continually pushed you away.

You are a gift.

And I am thankful for you.

I am not a perfect mom. I struggle every day to love my kids the way I should. I have to fight hard for joy, and some days, I give up the fight without even trying.

But then I look at you. Schooling the kids at home, writing letters to your Son at training, loving and walking with the ones who are living on our own. Loving your husband, and still faithful in every small thing.

And I know that God can make me into a woman like you.

So I thank you for who you are, and for the woman that you are still becoming. I am thankful that my girls have such a lovely grandmother to love them and that I have such a dear friend in you to walk with.

You are blessed. 

And you have been and will continue to be a blessing to more people than you will probably ever know. 

Thank you for making us into a family.

I love you.

Happy birthday.

My heart is full, my cup overflowing

"This is our year of LIFE," Eric says.
And it is true. Our home is teeming with life. So much so that it is starting to overflow.
A caterpillar sits on the kitchen table in a jar with leaves and sticks.
Ducklings are hatching out of their eggs at this very moment that I write this.
A bowl sits on the counter, filled with good things to eat from the garden, harvested just minutes before.
The chickens are almost ready to lay their first eggs.
Our daughters are growing, oh so fast.

Some of the most significant things in life are also the most overlooked.

Holding an egg in my hands that is teeming with life, I hear in my heart:
This is why I am here. This is why I exist.

The caterpillar of a swallowtail butterfly living in a jar that sits on our kitchen table, munching carrot greens. Lexi checks on him every five minutes.
This, right here, is life.

Gardens, thriving, overflowing, producing abundance.
Chickens growing, laying eggs.
Baby ducklings peep peeping out of their safe little shells.
Little girls dancing, laughing, full of joy and hope and young young life.
This is it. I am alive for all THIS.

Many years ago, when I was living with my parents in Mexico, a few friends from back home in northern Illinois used to write me letters. They lived on a small farm, more hobby than livelihood. But the thing that always used to amuse me to no end was the content of their letters. Every single letter was packed with information about the animals on their farm, especially any new babies that had been recently born. The baby animals were described in detail, along with their names and colors, etc. Kittens, I remember, were somewhat of a regular occurrence on the farm, but each time a new litter was birthed, it was described just as if it was the first. Miracle.

I used to laugh and think the letters contents were silly. Didn't they have other things to talk about, rather than send a letter all the way to Mexico just to tell me that five more kittens were born?

Maybe so, but the fact is, I didn't get it.
I don't think I fully understood it until the morning when that egg was cradled in my hand, and life took on new meaning.

To witness a new life emerge is perhaps akin to those first few breaths on the day of Creation. To witness the coming forth of a new life, is to fully take part in it. To witness the first beginnings of a new life is to see with God's eyes and see how very much he truly loves us.

To witness new life is to fully be alive. New life brings joy, because it is a GIFT from the Father of all gifts. How can we be silent about it? We speak the miracles. We SHOUT them from the rooftops!

The moment of Quickening, when I feel the baby for the first time in my womb. Fluttering so gentle, so real.
The first lusty cry of the oxygen filled lungs and then the wonder moment and I am looking into my child's face for the very first time. Miracle.

Only God could have done this.

Only God could be this good.

I am overwhelmed.
Not by hatching eggs. I have seen eggs hatch before, and trust me, each time I am just as excited as the last.

I am overwhelmed by the goodness of a God who gives us good gifts. Gifts of life that we don't even deserve. And yet, still. There they are. Because He loves us that much.

I have been thinking a lot lately about the purpose of life. The ultimate question of why are we here and what are we supposed to do with the life we have been given.
This evening I am spraying down the yard after the chickens daily shenanigans and all I could keep thinking is, the purpose of life is to love God and glorify Him forever.

It's really beautiful, isn't it? That God creates man forms him out of dust and breathes his own breath into his lungs. And then just wants us, in return, to love Him and live in eternal thanksgiving? Eucharisteo.

Ann Voskamp is right. Eucharisteo really is the answer. It is the key to communion with God in all those significant things that are sometimes so very small and normal that we overlook them completely. Like a tiny beak tapping its way out of its hard trappings. Or the giggle of a child tugging at your clothes to play. A fat caterpillar named Guacamole munching on leaves in its makeshift habitat. A tomato in the garden, gradually turning from emerald green to vibrant red.

Life isn't tomorrow. It's not somewhere in the future with the better job, house, situation, etc. Life is now. Life is all these little moments. These little significant moments where we truly are standing on holy ground before our Creator. And Facebook isn't here. It's nowhere to be found. Neither is the smartphone and instagrams, the ipod, the headphones, the computer, the kindle - all the things that are constantly pulling for our attention away from our realities - our real lives. These are forever the tools of DISTRACTION.

Don't forget what it means to live.
Because it is for these little moments of eternity that we are even alive.

To love God and glorify Him forever.

Gifts

I've been reading One Thousand Gifts, by Ann Voskamp. As it turns out, a day has many gifts to give. Here are some of mine from the past few days.

Beads of dew clinging to the tips of grass blades, shining crystal

Morning sun streaming through leaves, dappling sidewalks in dancing shadows

Blankets of foamy mist, quieting the morning

Giggles of delight from a body just awoken

Short baby arms clinging in a hug

A gift of blue paper, images glued on with three-year-old grace

The confident, hardworking hand of my life partner wrapped up in mine

A smile and nod from an unlikely place

Bright duplo blocks scattered on the rug

The warmth that comes with bread rising and sets the birds singing

Songs coming from the baby's crib, the older causing the younger to laugh in glee

The blink and glow of an evening in high summer

Patterns of light on the wall

Written words, "I'll be home soon."

Golden strands of hair blowing in the breeze of the swing

A quiet hour of sleep

Green of the garden, everyday growing

Choosing Joy

One of the things I hate about myself as a mom.

Sudden raging anger over the simplest things.

She doesn't come when I call her.

She gets out of bed for the millionth time.

She hits her sister.

She loses control.

Why do you have to act like you're three? Why can't you be mature? Why can't you act like you are supposed to? How many times have I told you not to do that?

And there I am. Yelling again. Filled with anger at a child that I asked the Lord for, whom I love so very desperately. And suddenly I'm the one who has lost control. 

Perhaps I'm the one that is not acting like I am supposed to. 

I read this today, written by another broken mother (who also happens to be Ann Voskamp). Here we are trying and trying, and yet we still forget why we were created.

 http://www.aholyexperience.com/2013/06/what-all-mamas-and-us-need-to-thrive-this-summer/

And so I am thankful for a good Father. Who forgives more than we deserve. Who loves more deeply than we can fathom. And who longs for us to give ourselves over completely.

Battle for joy, or lose your life. Or other's lose theirs.

I choose joy.

What will you choose today?