The children have been with us for a few days, and yesterday was a busy day with them. Get everyone dressed, convince them that they really do have to go potty so I'm not cleaning up accidents later, take the girls for a piggy back run in the yard to pacify them when they learn they can't come with me on my run, get everyone to the breakfast table, try to make Lucy eat her eggs before her banana bread and police Annie so she doesn't eat the entire basket of oranges, clean the house while arbitrating Lego play, explain to Peter that I can't help him set up a tightrope for his Lego car right now, join Mom in the hall to deal with a lying episode, extract Annie from the older kids when she gets fussy and set her up playing in the living room while I vacuum downstairs, answer her when she asks which cup goes next on her tower, get everyone fed again, tuck everyone in for a nap or quiet time, convince Peter that Lucy doesn't need a container of water for her nose bleed, convince Lucy that her nose is not bleeding anymore and there is no emergency, answer Lucy when she yells down the stairs to see if she can get up, tell the kids they can get up, arbitrate and answer questions as necessary, help Peter deal with his disappointment when he is banned from Legos after wrecking Lucy's creation, get dinner on the table while Mom reads to the kids, feed Annie her soup while eating my own, laugh with the kids while we eat pear slices with homemade chocolate and caramel sauce spooned on top, do the dishes with Dad while Mom bathes the girls, answer Peter's bellows from the shower by telling him where his towel is and that he will have to run upstairs to get his pajamas, join everyone in the living room for end of the day devotions, grease up the chests and feet of the three coughing children with a little menthol rub while they wiggle and laugh hilariously at the tickle.
And then, it is quiet. Lucy and Annie both want to sit in my lap, so we sprawl on the couch, damp heads resting in the crook of my neck. They are quiet while Dad reads the Word. When it is time to pray, I fold my left hand with Lucy's right and my right hand with Annie's left. They settle, even livewire Annie, and we pray. Annie is thankful for building a tower with cups; Lucy is thankful for playing with Legos; Peter is thankful for dessert. I am thankful for many things, especially this fleeting moment with my dear ones.
The prayer is over; Annie is proclaiming her desire for a drink and what color of cup she wants; suddenly everyone else wants a drink too. Their hair has dried after their bath, and Annie's hair rises like a lion's mane, matching her rising voice. The moment has passed, so I treasure it away and look for what this moment has in store.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Thursday, January 16, 2014
What the Dawn Reveals
Yesterday when I woke I opened the curtains in my room to see what the morning was like. I am housesitting this week, so the view out this window is not part of my daily routine. It was dark, but I left the curtains open so that as I read the Word and journaled, I could watch the coming of the day.
The sky began to lighten, revealing the dark hulk of Mount Si. The more the sky glowed, the blacker the mountain looked. From milky pale at the horizon, where it gave sharp definition to each crag of the big rock, the sky faded into brilliant glowing blue and then to midnight navy.
No sooner had the sky flattened to winter white then the sun reached up and brushed the undersides of all the stippled clouds with pink, now highlighting the snowy peaks of the farther, higher mountains.
Today the coming of the sun could not reveal the mountain, lost as it was in a sea of fog. In the fog I went for a run; still, at midday, I look out the window at a grey that erases all I know is there. Only the spiny branches of the naked winter trees close at hand are sharp, the fog a backdrop for their lacy limbs.
The sky began to lighten, revealing the dark hulk of Mount Si. The more the sky glowed, the blacker the mountain looked. From milky pale at the horizon, where it gave sharp definition to each crag of the big rock, the sky faded into brilliant glowing blue and then to midnight navy.
No sooner had the sky flattened to winter white then the sun reached up and brushed the undersides of all the stippled clouds with pink, now highlighting the snowy peaks of the farther, higher mountains.
Today the coming of the sun could not reveal the mountain, lost as it was in a sea of fog. In the fog I went for a run; still, at midday, I look out the window at a grey that erases all I know is there. Only the spiny branches of the naked winter trees close at hand are sharp, the fog a backdrop for their lacy limbs.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Eyes to See
It's not that some days there are no needy people in my life. It's just that some days I have eyes to see.
On Sunday I asked a girl if she would be heading back to college soon. It was classic small talk; she said, "Tuesday," and I said, "Are you looking forward to it?" and she said, "Yes," but it was just a facade, and her mom said, "It's a lot of hard work," to fill in the conversational gap and help express what her daughter wasn't saying. I asked if there were some things she was enjoying about school, and then I looked up and her beautiful brown eyes were shimmering with tears, her smile apologetic, as if to say, "I didn't mean to fall apart right here, right now." Of course she didn't; no one wants to fall apart, and she doesn't know me well, so why would she want to bare her soul to me? But we are all falling apart sometimes, and the veneer wears thin. We fight to keep it in place, but it is when the veneer is thin that relationship happens. I touched her arm, grateful for the connection, aching for her. "I will pray for you."
She's always chatty and smiling, buoyant. But when she walked up to me on Sunday and was asked how she was doing, she told of being sick in bed all week with no symptoms other than a rash and utter weariness, a complete inability to get up and care for her family. When she went to the doctor and checked out fine physically, the doctor's diagnosis was depression. "But I don't believe in depression!" she told us. "I'm not a depressed person." Yet, at the intersection of leaving her longtime home, wrenching family troubles, and the end of a sweet season of Christmas togetherness, she was left feeling rootless and lethargic. What is the point of going on, she wondered. She is battling against it, but the pain and the apathy are real and present for her in this season.
"I hope I'll be able to get a nap in," another woman confided as she discussed the Sunday afternoon schedule. Her health is fragile and her energy carefully rationed, but she was going from church to lunch at a friend's house to hosting a group in her home that evening. The day before she uncovered serious behavioral issues in her daughter, revealing serious heart issues. She shared gratefully about receiving wise counsel and encouragement from unexpected sources that morning, but still, the enormity of the task before her -- shaping this broken girl's heart -- looms larger than her strength or resources.
Each Sunday at church, each day I go to the grocery store or to a friend's house, the real, needy people are there. I am so quick to be smart and superior, to categorize and criticize and even make a joke about the shortcomings of someone else. But sometimes, God gives me eyes to see and I cannot forget the beautiful, excruciating sight of these hearts. May I live humbly that I may see more often.
On Sunday I asked a girl if she would be heading back to college soon. It was classic small talk; she said, "Tuesday," and I said, "Are you looking forward to it?" and she said, "Yes," but it was just a facade, and her mom said, "It's a lot of hard work," to fill in the conversational gap and help express what her daughter wasn't saying. I asked if there were some things she was enjoying about school, and then I looked up and her beautiful brown eyes were shimmering with tears, her smile apologetic, as if to say, "I didn't mean to fall apart right here, right now." Of course she didn't; no one wants to fall apart, and she doesn't know me well, so why would she want to bare her soul to me? But we are all falling apart sometimes, and the veneer wears thin. We fight to keep it in place, but it is when the veneer is thin that relationship happens. I touched her arm, grateful for the connection, aching for her. "I will pray for you."
She's always chatty and smiling, buoyant. But when she walked up to me on Sunday and was asked how she was doing, she told of being sick in bed all week with no symptoms other than a rash and utter weariness, a complete inability to get up and care for her family. When she went to the doctor and checked out fine physically, the doctor's diagnosis was depression. "But I don't believe in depression!" she told us. "I'm not a depressed person." Yet, at the intersection of leaving her longtime home, wrenching family troubles, and the end of a sweet season of Christmas togetherness, she was left feeling rootless and lethargic. What is the point of going on, she wondered. She is battling against it, but the pain and the apathy are real and present for her in this season.
"I hope I'll be able to get a nap in," another woman confided as she discussed the Sunday afternoon schedule. Her health is fragile and her energy carefully rationed, but she was going from church to lunch at a friend's house to hosting a group in her home that evening. The day before she uncovered serious behavioral issues in her daughter, revealing serious heart issues. She shared gratefully about receiving wise counsel and encouragement from unexpected sources that morning, but still, the enormity of the task before her -- shaping this broken girl's heart -- looms larger than her strength or resources.
Each Sunday at church, each day I go to the grocery store or to a friend's house, the real, needy people are there. I am so quick to be smart and superior, to categorize and criticize and even make a joke about the shortcomings of someone else. But sometimes, God gives me eyes to see and I cannot forget the beautiful, excruciating sight of these hearts. May I live humbly that I may see more often.
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