I am going to vomit.
If I don't scream, rip my shirt, or run through a plate glass window, I am definitely going to vomit.
This is what I'm thinking as the kindly, weak-chined, bi-focaled woman across the counter says, "And what shoes is he wearing?"
Actually, I'm not thinking. I'm feeling things, like impending pain as I suck in air and hold my lungs perfectly still to lessen the stab between them. I'm controlling things, like the clenching of my fists and the winching of my face as I speak evenly and calmly. I am holding it all together... but I'm not thinking. Not thinking at all about how big a world it is, how dangerous a place, and how very small he is. I'm NOT thinking. And I have NO freakin' idea what shoes he's wearing.
My son is lost in Wal-Mart, and I am going to vomit.
The worst part -- sincerely worse than missing the shiny, full-of-bravado soul that is Miles -- is that I seem to have lost the ability to pray.
"Pray, already! Pray!" I command myself as I walk (run? lurch?) through women's clothing, choking back rage and terror and calling his name. I have been taught and I hold true that the smallest words spoken sincerely to Heaven can bend the very fabric of earth. Echoing in the ears of God even as they're spoken, they call down mysery and power and impact one's immediate circumstances in the most striking ways. I believe in prayer. But the words will not come.
I have no words.
I have lost the ability to talk to God.
This, my friends, is fear.
"Dear God," I say. (After a second? Three minutes? I don't know.) "Help me! Help me! Form my words." Over and over I repeat this three-word phrase that comes to me. Some lesser-panicked part of my mind wonders if even animals could express the same thought to the Divine. I think yes. After all, I am just an animal in this moment. A wounded mother being without her cub. No words, no words. Only feelings.
I can't say exactly what happened next.
I was working hard to ignore myself ("How big an idiot am I," I was thinking, "that I just forgot all those news stories about kidnapping and abuse and horrible, horrible deaths? How could I just tell him to stand by me and expect him to do it?!"), pacing and calling and logging details as a way to turn off the monologue.
I heard the announcement -- an "Adam Alert." I listened to the description and something clicked. My mind stopped spinning at the right number and the lock opened. Brown leather boots! Dammit! He's wearing brown leather boots!
I think I might have yelled this. (Years of upbringing tell me I yelled it without the "dammit," though I'm not sure.)
I registered, as if from a distance, two male employees guarding the exits, and the sight of them brought tears. Reassuring but alarming, they were, like the flaming sword bearers at the entrance to Eden.
I know a lot of employees began searching with me. Blue vests and out-of-focus faces. Names like Shirley.
I remember the sight of two abandoned carts by fabrics, and two older women pitching in to search.
So many women.... "They're mothers," I think. Because, before I became one myself, I would have have never abandoned a cart to go look for another woman's child.
And then a voice.
Just an ordinary, non-panicked, slightly embarrassed female voice. "I found him." Then, louder: "I found him!"
I felt like a runaway freight train brought to a dead stop. I almost couldn't accept any new thoughts, as if so much feeling had blown an emotional fuse. I couldn't decide whether to look up or down, so I bobbed my head both ways, trying to register some reassuring truth.
The Up View: Lots of eye make-up on a round face with heavy base. Red highlights, dark hair, red nails and tight jeans. A black fake leather purse. (It may sound like I'm about to judge, but I'm not. The parts aren't enough to sum this earthly angel.) It's a young woman standing beside a wall of blue jeans. She's holding back an armful of Lee's, and there, in The Down View, just where the denim is parted, sits my son. He's crouched and grinning because he has just won the World's Best Game of Hide-and-Seek.
"Oh, Miles."
"Oh." It comes out almost a whisper and I understand that this word is to be taken as another prayer: "Thank you."
"Thank you, God, for the horrible visions and the abject terror and the absolute, commonplace miracle of finding this child, safe and whole, playing Hide-And-Seek.
"For every mother whose heart has stopped, I say thanks. Thanks for creating us to care this much for one another. For every mother whose world has stopped, whose child has not been returned unharmed, I hurt. And I pray....."
I read somewhere that the truest prayers are as short as a breath: "Help me" and "Thank you." This week in Wal-Mart, I breathed both -- deeply. My seared, healing lungs will never forget.
Just a girl, asking for grace, to survive her happily-ever-after.
1.31.2005
1.30.2005
Just Another Sunday at the Hall of Justice
Why is it super heroes wear underwear on the outside? And why is it that underwear can be so mundane or so completely embarrassing?
Miles and I were just working his superhero jigsaw puzzle. M. was putting together Wonder Woman and saw a scrap of torso. Loudly, excitedly, he said: "Oh, look! There are her panties!"
Then he froze, head cocked and brows bent, seeming to realize something had not sounded right about those words. "Oh, I'm sorry. I mean her big-boy underwear."
How does he know to backtrack on a panties reference? This is the kid who just asked me last week, "Do Daddies wear bras, too?"
A few minutes later, we're all in the den and our little potty-user-in-training asks, "Daddy, do you have to pee pee?"
"Not right now, but thanks for reminding me, son."
"OK... Just lemme know when you haffa go!"
Oh, the body-obsessed lives of toddler and parents! (We also spend ample amounts of time discussing gas and belches. Example: "Oh, I burped! Scuse me, I burped! URP. I did it again! Scuse me, I burped. URP....")
Moving on, however... This stream-of-consciousness posting is pretty fun! Now my subject has gone out of scribe range as he attempts to "clean" my room. ("I haffa do it now, and maybe use dose chem-culls.")
I hear muttering and a vague tapping. Jeremy rushes out of the room to retrieve a spray bottle. I also should go, to guard against cell phone damage or credit card loss. Against duvet stains or wall damage. Against pee pee on the carpet. (Sensing a theme?)
*
BLOG PAUSE while child is distracted from cleaning and the entire family spends 5 minutes staring out the kitchen window, tracking a cat across the yard.
*
I'm back at the computer, with a guest poster who is -- eewwww! -- all wet. Wet as in the literal, soppy, watery type of wet. A shock to the hands as I reach down to lift him up. Ugh! And the wet has an unplesant, sharp odor to it. So much for the pint-sized Boy Wonder and his amazing big boy underwear.
It's back to the Pull Ups and the drawing board... Can more potty talk be far behind?
<Cue "Announcer Voice" -------->
To these questions and more, I must trust a real Superpower. And that about wraps Sunday at home. More later, I hope, on the sweetness and sick panic of the past 7 days, how it is to feel put-upon, and perhaps some musing on why cartoon heros need boobs, anyway. (Is that why they call her "Wonder" Woman?)
Miles and I were just working his superhero jigsaw puzzle. M. was putting together Wonder Woman and saw a scrap of torso. Loudly, excitedly, he said: "Oh, look! There are her panties!"
Then he froze, head cocked and brows bent, seeming to realize something had not sounded right about those words. "Oh, I'm sorry. I mean her big-boy underwear."
How does he know to backtrack on a panties reference? This is the kid who just asked me last week, "Do Daddies wear bras, too?"
A few minutes later, we're all in the den and our little potty-user-in-training asks, "Daddy, do you have to pee pee?"
"Not right now, but thanks for reminding me, son."
"OK... Just lemme know when you haffa go!"
Oh, the body-obsessed lives of toddler and parents! (We also spend ample amounts of time discussing gas and belches. Example: "Oh, I burped! Scuse me, I burped! URP. I did it again! Scuse me, I burped. URP....")
Moving on, however... This stream-of-consciousness posting is pretty fun! Now my subject has gone out of scribe range as he attempts to "clean" my room. ("I haffa do it now, and maybe use dose chem-culls.")
I hear muttering and a vague tapping. Jeremy rushes out of the room to retrieve a spray bottle. I also should go, to guard against cell phone damage or credit card loss. Against duvet stains or wall damage. Against pee pee on the carpet. (Sensing a theme?)
*
BLOG PAUSE while child is distracted from cleaning and the entire family spends 5 minutes staring out the kitchen window, tracking a cat across the yard.
*
I'm back at the computer, with a guest poster who is -- eewwww! -- all wet. Wet as in the literal, soppy, watery type of wet. A shock to the hands as I reach down to lift him up. Ugh! And the wet has an unplesant, sharp odor to it. So much for the pint-sized Boy Wonder and his amazing big boy underwear.
It's back to the Pull Ups and the drawing board... Can more potty talk be far behind?
<Cue "Announcer Voice" -------->
To these questions and more, I must trust a real Superpower. And that about wraps Sunday at home. More later, I hope, on the sweetness and sick panic of the past 7 days, how it is to feel put-upon, and perhaps some musing on why cartoon heros need boobs, anyway. (Is that why they call her "Wonder" Woman?)
1.20.2005
First Communion
I was just relaxing after the first sting of hot water this morning when I sensed shuffling on the other side of the curtain.
"Ahhah ma blah blah (I understood nothing over the rushing water) .... me!"
"OK!" I generously tossed out, compeltely to appease the intruder.
Suddenly, the curtain pulled back and a naked 2-year-old appeared, in full SpiderMan pose on the side of the tub, ready to jump. (At least, at this point, I was pretty sure he was naked. I wasn't wearing contacts so all I could really make out were the body crouch, the extended arms, and a lot of peach tone where there used to be red pajamas.)
Now, there is some precedent for Miles jumping in the shower. He occasionally showers with his Daddy, at nightime, in lieu of a bath. So I had to figure he felt this intrusion within acceptable behavior. I, on the other hand, was pretty peeved.
I believe my actual thought was, "What the hell!? Is there NOWHERE I can go to be alone in this house?" But it was too late to stop a toddler in motion, so I held out my arms to prevent bloody injury and set him down on the non-skid decals.
And there we stood: Me at one end of the tub, all soppy hair, hunched back and bad attitude, and he at the other end, all excited, squirming, shivering boyhood. "Cold! It's cold, Mommie! Make me warm!"
"OK, OK! Come here, I'll pick you up." (At least, I was thinking, if he's elevated by my arms, I won't have to worry about what he's noticing below them, whether it's scarring him for life, and what embarrassing questions I'll have to field -- possibly in public -- later .) So, as a duty and definitely not a choice, I picked up my wet boy and held his back against the warm shower spray.
His damp, heavy head immediately went to my shoulder. His impossibly skinny arms curved around my neck, and his oh-so-small ribs pressed into my chest. He curved his knees around my waist and dangled one leg on either side of me. And there he perched, completely still but for the occasional sway of a foot, for the longest time.
I noticed three things. Our breathing relaxed. The hot water heater kept working. And, really, I wasn't that put-out. Instead of feeling intruded upon, I felt kind of... peaceful.
I think it was the water. There really is something sacred about a shower, isn't there? Something Heavenly in the stop-everything stillness we adopt under its warm, steady flow. Even if only for a moment, we give in to the shower. We let it wash over us. We let it do its relaxing/ invigorating/cleansing work on us. And that seems holy.
As Miles and I stood there, I searched to define the holy in our morning's detour. I couldn't get it at first. Maybe I was trying to make a connection between the shower and baptism? But no. This felt like a totally different kind of communion. But of course, it hit me: Communion! Sharing a shower with Miles was, somehow, like taking Communion.
"We are one in the Spirit; we are one in the Lord." We sang those words before Communion at my church in Colorado. I so liked the thought of being one among many, and just part of One. I held to the idea that our ties to God make us "one" even more than our family ties. Now, I hold to the idea that my family's efforts will be multiplied by the work of countless other "ones" -- preschool workers and Sunday School teachers, friends and families of friends -- so that my son will eventually eat the bread and drink the cup and know that he is one in the Spirit, too.
"One bread, one body. One sacrifice." These are the words of a Communion hymn at my Texas church. Three simple fragments but what a story! It's one I want Miles to hear and understand. One I want him to live. It will be a while before he can begin to process the act Jesus instructed "this do in remembrance of me." But he'll get there! And for now, a simple body-to-body, heart-to-beating-heart moment in the shower may be the closest thing I can offer.
I've had my misgivings -- and how! -- about East Texas, but my soul tells me we're in the right spot for right now. I feel our family is working towards being "one" in this life. And I am gushingly grateful for each of God's other children who are helping us raise a son. They may never hold a tiny little boy under warm rushing water, but they will hold the hands, and the heart, of a growing man.
Thanks for the shower today, Miles... the first of many holy communions.
"Ahhah ma blah blah (I understood nothing over the rushing water) .... me!"
"OK!" I generously tossed out, compeltely to appease the intruder.
Suddenly, the curtain pulled back and a naked 2-year-old appeared, in full SpiderMan pose on the side of the tub, ready to jump. (At least, at this point, I was pretty sure he was naked. I wasn't wearing contacts so all I could really make out were the body crouch, the extended arms, and a lot of peach tone where there used to be red pajamas.)
Now, there is some precedent for Miles jumping in the shower. He occasionally showers with his Daddy, at nightime, in lieu of a bath. So I had to figure he felt this intrusion within acceptable behavior. I, on the other hand, was pretty peeved.
I believe my actual thought was, "What the hell!? Is there NOWHERE I can go to be alone in this house?" But it was too late to stop a toddler in motion, so I held out my arms to prevent bloody injury and set him down on the non-skid decals.
And there we stood: Me at one end of the tub, all soppy hair, hunched back and bad attitude, and he at the other end, all excited, squirming, shivering boyhood. "Cold! It's cold, Mommie! Make me warm!"
"OK, OK! Come here, I'll pick you up." (At least, I was thinking, if he's elevated by my arms, I won't have to worry about what he's noticing below them, whether it's scarring him for life, and what embarrassing questions I'll have to field -- possibly in public -- later .) So, as a duty and definitely not a choice, I picked up my wet boy and held his back against the warm shower spray.
His damp, heavy head immediately went to my shoulder. His impossibly skinny arms curved around my neck, and his oh-so-small ribs pressed into my chest. He curved his knees around my waist and dangled one leg on either side of me. And there he perched, completely still but for the occasional sway of a foot, for the longest time.
I noticed three things. Our breathing relaxed. The hot water heater kept working. And, really, I wasn't that put-out. Instead of feeling intruded upon, I felt kind of... peaceful.
I think it was the water. There really is something sacred about a shower, isn't there? Something Heavenly in the stop-everything stillness we adopt under its warm, steady flow. Even if only for a moment, we give in to the shower. We let it wash over us. We let it do its relaxing/ invigorating/cleansing work on us. And that seems holy.
As Miles and I stood there, I searched to define the holy in our morning's detour. I couldn't get it at first. Maybe I was trying to make a connection between the shower and baptism? But no. This felt like a totally different kind of communion. But of course, it hit me: Communion! Sharing a shower with Miles was, somehow, like taking Communion.
"We are one in the Spirit; we are one in the Lord." We sang those words before Communion at my church in Colorado. I so liked the thought of being one among many, and just part of One. I held to the idea that our ties to God make us "one" even more than our family ties. Now, I hold to the idea that my family's efforts will be multiplied by the work of countless other "ones" -- preschool workers and Sunday School teachers, friends and families of friends -- so that my son will eventually eat the bread and drink the cup and know that he is one in the Spirit, too.
"One bread, one body. One sacrifice." These are the words of a Communion hymn at my Texas church. Three simple fragments but what a story! It's one I want Miles to hear and understand. One I want him to live. It will be a while before he can begin to process the act Jesus instructed "this do in remembrance of me." But he'll get there! And for now, a simple body-to-body, heart-to-beating-heart moment in the shower may be the closest thing I can offer.
I've had my misgivings -- and how! -- about East Texas, but my soul tells me we're in the right spot for right now. I feel our family is working towards being "one" in this life. And I am gushingly grateful for each of God's other children who are helping us raise a son. They may never hold a tiny little boy under warm rushing water, but they will hold the hands, and the heart, of a growing man.
Thanks for the shower today, Miles... the first of many holy communions.
1.16.2005
Wing Span
I've been meaning to get this down for weeks -- and update on our household usage of "Toy Story" phrases.
Miles was given a Buzz Lightyear for Christmas, and for $14.99 it is a marvel of plastic plus computer chips. It has pop-out wings and rotating limbs. Its laser light has accompanying sounds. It speaks near-endless phrases with even the softest depression of any of three multi-colored buttons. It has decals and logos, a shiny airbrushed face and retractable plexiglass helmet.
Of course, almost-3-year-old Miles is in love with it.
Through frequent play, the young M. has repeatedly heard the movie phrase, "to infinity and beyond." And, with repetition has come rapid progress in pronouncing it. A short time after Christmas, he began saying "To in-tif-i-ty and be-YAWN!" (This an improvement over his first go-round!)
Lately, he has almost perfected the phrase. I hear Buzz' laser working in the bedroom; I feel the pounding of feet down the hall; and the words erupt as a little boy and flying toy move through the room: "To in-FIT-TI-TEE and be-YAAWND HERE!"
Though less mixed up, It's still priceless.
But the best malaprop I have heard, with regard to our beloved Buzz, comes from another randomly shuffled phrase. "Look at my impressive wing span," says the toy in his best, authoritative manner. "LOOK! My precious wingspan," repeats the boy in his sweet, precocious voice.
Since he moved past the shelter of infant things, of rattles, blocks and bears, of string-together fish and plastic farm animals, I have developed a love-hate relationship with Miles' toys. I love how well and how long he plays with them; I hate how many I find underfoot or tucked into spaces like couch cushions. I love what independent role-playing his cartoon friends encourage; I hate what violent ideas they sometimes support. I love the imagination he brings to bear with his toys; I often hate the results of his "work" with my kitchen utensils, my bed pillows, my make-up and my furniture.
I may harbor an unfair grudge against Bob the Builder, and I do object to Spiderman's run-ins with gunslinging "bad guys," but just now, as I hear Miles' clear toddler tones exaulting his "precious wing span," I am completely in love with a Space Ranger.
Miles was given a Buzz Lightyear for Christmas, and for $14.99 it is a marvel of plastic plus computer chips. It has pop-out wings and rotating limbs. Its laser light has accompanying sounds. It speaks near-endless phrases with even the softest depression of any of three multi-colored buttons. It has decals and logos, a shiny airbrushed face and retractable plexiglass helmet.
Of course, almost-3-year-old Miles is in love with it.
Through frequent play, the young M. has repeatedly heard the movie phrase, "to infinity and beyond." And, with repetition has come rapid progress in pronouncing it. A short time after Christmas, he began saying "To in-tif-i-ty and be-YAWN!" (This an improvement over his first go-round!)
Lately, he has almost perfected the phrase. I hear Buzz' laser working in the bedroom; I feel the pounding of feet down the hall; and the words erupt as a little boy and flying toy move through the room: "To in-FIT-TI-TEE and be-YAAWND HERE!"
Though less mixed up, It's still priceless.
But the best malaprop I have heard, with regard to our beloved Buzz, comes from another randomly shuffled phrase. "Look at my impressive wing span," says the toy in his best, authoritative manner. "LOOK! My precious wingspan," repeats the boy in his sweet, precocious voice.
Since he moved past the shelter of infant things, of rattles, blocks and bears, of string-together fish and plastic farm animals, I have developed a love-hate relationship with Miles' toys. I love how well and how long he plays with them; I hate how many I find underfoot or tucked into spaces like couch cushions. I love what independent role-playing his cartoon friends encourage; I hate what violent ideas they sometimes support. I love the imagination he brings to bear with his toys; I often hate the results of his "work" with my kitchen utensils, my bed pillows, my make-up and my furniture.
I may harbor an unfair grudge against Bob the Builder, and I do object to Spiderman's run-ins with gunslinging "bad guys," but just now, as I hear Miles' clear toddler tones exaulting his "precious wing span," I am completely in love with a Space Ranger.
1.14.2005
I Surrender to Bob the Builder
New rule: After-midnight posts do not have to be any good... they just have to be made quickly so I can get some sleep.
Here's a little snipet from earlier Thursday. I was in the bathroom and heard a suspicious, scraping noise. The following conversation -- conducted through walls -- ensued.
Mom: Where are you?
Son: Right here.
M: In my room or your room?
S: Right here! In your room.
M: I think you better stop what you're doing, because that's not a good noise.
S: Oh, well, ac-two-ly.... (indecipherable mumbling, and noise continues)
M: Whatever is making that noise is probably not a good idea.... Miles Cannon, hear me?!
S: Oh, is just my sawing, Mama! It's my saw sound! I using my tools.
M: (Still trying to place noise.) On what?!
S: On your things. That hang on your wall. But I will try not to break them! I bein' REAL CAREFUL!
I throw up my hands. I give! UNCLE!
Two porcelain plates hanging above my bed are no longer safe from Miles The Builder. (His latest obsession, due to a dump truck and a video, is Bob! Bob! Bob!) The kitchen counter and cabinets are now accessible via barstool, as is the freezer (the refrigerator already being locked due to midnight marauding). My picture frames and knick knacks are so often rearranged, even I have forgotten how I like them! NOTHING is sacred in this house... except maybe the busy little tyke that makes the biggest messes I have ever seen!
Good thing I like said tyke, 'cause this is damn annoying! Good thing he has his daddy's red hair, gives great bear hugs, and wrinkles his nose when he smiles. Good thing he asks for prayers each night and says "'scuse me, comin' through" whenever he cuts ahead of me in tight spaces.
Fwheh. (Big sigh.) Guess I'll keep sheltering and cleaning up after him -- him and his instruments of destruction, too. "Can I deal with it? Yes, I can!" (This will make no sense to those without the pleasure of seeing Bob build.) I hereby surrender to screwdrivers, staple guns, hammers and levels -- oh my! Here's to hard hats and saws and drills and tape measures. To little boy approximations of such very big boy tools.
Dear God: May my son always find useful things to do with his hands, and may he do them with all his heart. If You desire, give him the skills to build the doorframe on which he writes your name. Help him love Your Word. And show him how to glorify You. Amen.
Here's a little snipet from earlier Thursday. I was in the bathroom and heard a suspicious, scraping noise. The following conversation -- conducted through walls -- ensued.
Mom: Where are you?
Son: Right here.
M: In my room or your room?
S: Right here! In your room.
M: I think you better stop what you're doing, because that's not a good noise.
S: Oh, well, ac-two-ly.... (indecipherable mumbling, and noise continues)
M: Whatever is making that noise is probably not a good idea.... Miles Cannon, hear me?!
S: Oh, is just my sawing, Mama! It's my saw sound! I using my tools.
M: (Still trying to place noise.) On what?!
S: On your things. That hang on your wall. But I will try not to break them! I bein' REAL CAREFUL!
I throw up my hands. I give! UNCLE!
Two porcelain plates hanging above my bed are no longer safe from Miles The Builder. (His latest obsession, due to a dump truck and a video, is Bob! Bob! Bob!) The kitchen counter and cabinets are now accessible via barstool, as is the freezer (the refrigerator already being locked due to midnight marauding). My picture frames and knick knacks are so often rearranged, even I have forgotten how I like them! NOTHING is sacred in this house... except maybe the busy little tyke that makes the biggest messes I have ever seen!
Good thing I like said tyke, 'cause this is damn annoying! Good thing he has his daddy's red hair, gives great bear hugs, and wrinkles his nose when he smiles. Good thing he asks for prayers each night and says "'scuse me, comin' through" whenever he cuts ahead of me in tight spaces.
Fwheh. (Big sigh.) Guess I'll keep sheltering and cleaning up after him -- him and his instruments of destruction, too. "Can I deal with it? Yes, I can!" (This will make no sense to those without the pleasure of seeing Bob build.) I hereby surrender to screwdrivers, staple guns, hammers and levels -- oh my! Here's to hard hats and saws and drills and tape measures. To little boy approximations of such very big boy tools.
Dear God: May my son always find useful things to do with his hands, and may he do them with all his heart. If You desire, give him the skills to build the doorframe on which he writes your name. Help him love Your Word. And show him how to glorify You. Amen.
1.10.2005
Letter to A Sleeping Miles
My sweet pea,
Tonight you fell asleep while I was saying prayers. I opened my eyes just in time to see yours flutter and finally seal.
The interesting part is: You were so fully awake just 2 minutes before you were asleep.
I admit it, I was trying to cut corners, so I said only the most basic "thanks" and "keep us safe" tonight. I half-raised one eyelid to check the go-to-sleep progress and your expression was a brewing storm. Your open eyes were giant black orbs in the lamplight. Your mouth was a hard line, and that didactic index finger was already moving to point at me. "You're not done! You're sup-POSED to say more!"
I thought about being offended, then about laughing out loud, and decided to just keep praying. Evidently, I was supposed to say more.
I asked you to think about what YOU wanted to say to God, and to think it while I kept talking. I started naming names, wondering if continued lamentation over Papa Jim's state of heart is really good for you to hear, and then I noticed how regular were your breaths.
I've been puzzling, lately, about prayer. What does it do, exactly? What's my motivation when I make one? There's one vein of thought that says prayer doesn't so much change our circumstances as it changes ourselves. There's another vein of thought, not necessarily opposing but decidedly different in tone, that says Heaven awaits our asking, and we we do not receive because we do not believe.
Right now, I still don't know which I more believe.
I think it's like physics, Miles. Prayer can be endlessly discussed, can be engagingly talked around... but to most of us commoners, it's full of far too many too-sophisticated concepts to be reduced, quantified or readily explained.
Before I lose my own vein of thought, what I wanted to say about bedtime tonight is that I have been thinking a lot about prayer, and suddenly, I was given an example of prayer in action. Perhaps a less expected action, but doesn't that seem to fit? Something physical and discernable occured, something that I somehow know was NOT coincidence. My speaking to God put you immediately and completely to rest -- my same voice and address that earlier couldn't make you put down a drinking glass!
I've been so earnestly turning over my thoughts, and while I still have no conclusion, tonight I received an answer. Prayer matters! It changed your small world, Miles, and so it changed the whole world. In whatever tiny, fluttery way it worked, it worked. I should practice prayer, then, as often as I can in as many ways as I can, because it matters. ...And that seems like enough for this amateur philosopher to go on.
In fact, that's quite a gift.
I'm glad you were a part of it.
Sleep tight.
Love,
Mom
Tonight you fell asleep while I was saying prayers. I opened my eyes just in time to see yours flutter and finally seal.
The interesting part is: You were so fully awake just 2 minutes before you were asleep.
I admit it, I was trying to cut corners, so I said only the most basic "thanks" and "keep us safe" tonight. I half-raised one eyelid to check the go-to-sleep progress and your expression was a brewing storm. Your open eyes were giant black orbs in the lamplight. Your mouth was a hard line, and that didactic index finger was already moving to point at me. "You're not done! You're sup-POSED to say more!"
I thought about being offended, then about laughing out loud, and decided to just keep praying. Evidently, I was supposed to say more.
I asked you to think about what YOU wanted to say to God, and to think it while I kept talking. I started naming names, wondering if continued lamentation over Papa Jim's state of heart is really good for you to hear, and then I noticed how regular were your breaths.
I've been puzzling, lately, about prayer. What does it do, exactly? What's my motivation when I make one? There's one vein of thought that says prayer doesn't so much change our circumstances as it changes ourselves. There's another vein of thought, not necessarily opposing but decidedly different in tone, that says Heaven awaits our asking, and we we do not receive because we do not believe.
Right now, I still don't know which I more believe.
I think it's like physics, Miles. Prayer can be endlessly discussed, can be engagingly talked around... but to most of us commoners, it's full of far too many too-sophisticated concepts to be reduced, quantified or readily explained.
Before I lose my own vein of thought, what I wanted to say about bedtime tonight is that I have been thinking a lot about prayer, and suddenly, I was given an example of prayer in action. Perhaps a less expected action, but doesn't that seem to fit? Something physical and discernable occured, something that I somehow know was NOT coincidence. My speaking to God put you immediately and completely to rest -- my same voice and address that earlier couldn't make you put down a drinking glass!
I've been so earnestly turning over my thoughts, and while I still have no conclusion, tonight I received an answer. Prayer matters! It changed your small world, Miles, and so it changed the whole world. In whatever tiny, fluttery way it worked, it worked. I should practice prayer, then, as often as I can in as many ways as I can, because it matters. ...And that seems like enough for this amateur philosopher to go on.
In fact, that's quite a gift.
I'm glad you were a part of it.
Sleep tight.
Love,
Mom
1.06.2005
Good words!
I just read something so good, I have to spread it around!
OK, I know... It means next to nothing for me with my little baby, never-trafficked blog to repeat something from one of the most established, more popular, more prolific bloggers EVER (now quotable in book format, from whence I draw today's thoughts). But... it's just... words this well matched should be entered into any record that venerates words! In fact, they should be thrown up to the Heavens and then strung about everywhere, Deuteromomy 6 style! (I always want to call this passage "The Schlameil," but I'm pretty sure that's Laverne & Shirley, not Hebrew. I think the thing I'm actually referencing is "The Shema.")
OK, I'm off task! The words, the words, they demand to be heard....
So just listen.
"If the wafers are going stale for you, be the bread yourself. Break yourself open and nourish the world.
"If the communion table seems cheap and tacky, become a table yourself. Be a resting place for the weary.
"If you feel there are no more angels, pick up the phone and spread your own tidings.
"Gather your bread. Set your table. Shout your good news... Do these things in remembrance of HIM."
--from Real Live Preacher, by Gordon Atkinson
Amen, brother.
OK, I know... It means next to nothing for me with my little baby, never-trafficked blog to repeat something from one of the most established, more popular, more prolific bloggers EVER (now quotable in book format, from whence I draw today's thoughts). But... it's just... words this well matched should be entered into any record that venerates words! In fact, they should be thrown up to the Heavens and then strung about everywhere, Deuteromomy 6 style! (I always want to call this passage "The Schlameil," but I'm pretty sure that's Laverne & Shirley, not Hebrew. I think the thing I'm actually referencing is "The Shema.")
OK, I'm off task! The words, the words, they demand to be heard....
So just listen.
"If the wafers are going stale for you, be the bread yourself. Break yourself open and nourish the world.
"If the communion table seems cheap and tacky, become a table yourself. Be a resting place for the weary.
"If you feel there are no more angels, pick up the phone and spread your own tidings.
"Gather your bread. Set your table. Shout your good news... Do these things in remembrance of HIM."
--from Real Live Preacher, by Gordon Atkinson
Amen, brother.
1.05.2005
Wit & Wisdom
Excerpt from actual conversation in our TV room tonight:
Mom: "What is this? A bowl game on a Tuesday night? And the most important bowl game of the year?!"
Dad: "Yep."
Mom: "Why?"
Dad: "Ehn. (Grunt, then shrug.) It's called greed and corruption."
Two-year-old: "No, Daddy! It's called FOOTBALL!"
I have learned other things, of late, from my child. The things are often proclaimed in increasingly boisterous tones, with emphatic hand gestures. They include:
* "Snowmen don't wear Santa hats!" (Then, an aside: " Silly, Mama.")
* "Ketchup and mustard go great together! They're FRIENDS!"
* "The star belongs with the moon. They live together because (dramatic pause) they are A FAMILY!"
* "It's a red light up there. That means, SLOW DOWN, DADDY!!"
Mom: "What is this? A bowl game on a Tuesday night? And the most important bowl game of the year?!"
Dad: "Yep."
Mom: "Why?"
Dad: "Ehn. (Grunt, then shrug.) It's called greed and corruption."
Two-year-old: "No, Daddy! It's called FOOTBALL!"
I have learned other things, of late, from my child. The things are often proclaimed in increasingly boisterous tones, with emphatic hand gestures. They include:
* "Snowmen don't wear Santa hats!" (Then, an aside: " Silly, Mama.")
* "Ketchup and mustard go great together! They're FRIENDS!"
* "The star belongs with the moon. They live together because (dramatic pause) they are A FAMILY!"
* "It's a red light up there. That means, SLOW DOWN, DADDY!!"
1.04.2005
Questing for Eloquence
Well, Happy New Year... Bleep it!
(I got an email with "bleep" in it today, and it seemed funny. I vowed to use more "bleeps" myself.)
(...So far, it's not that funny.)
So, I would honestly be chipper about '05, but I am SO suddenly disgusted with myself! Disgust. Distaste. Actual not-liking-at-all.
I just happened in and checked what's called the "dashboard" for this blog. Ei-yi-yi! I haven't posted in how long? Was I not just complaining, in print, about this very thing? I never even picked up my Advent train of thought; I don't even know what I was going to say now!
And what about this most global of events, the Asian tsunami that's wrecked so much of our world? I've been so captured by the stories of it, but I have nothing to say about it? Not even a short, simple prayer?
I'm put out with myself because I think I'm capable of better blogging than I have been letting on! More consistency. A wider span of topics. Better developed essay structure, more provocative leads and stronger closings. ...What is wrong with me, anyway?
What's my excuse for letting my new writing project flounder so quickly?! Trying to cut back on self-expression? Saving it all for a novel? No, no, no. NOPE. None of the above.
Laziness. Pure, undiluted, sit-on-my-a** laziness is what's keeping me from refining more thoughts into words. Just tonight, for instance, I closed the bedroom door on a settled child and peaked in on a sleeping husband (first year teacher syndrome; he'll be better rested by retirement, I'm sure) and THEN what did I do? I'll tell ya. I'll tell ya everything!
I took a beer and a serving bowl of salad out of the fridge, propped them both in my lap, and sat cross-legged in a recliner to watch TV! I sat in a La-Z-Boy (now there's some truth in advertising) and shamelessly picked over the carrots so I could munch Romaine stalks and swill Avery India Pale Ale while watching HGTV. You see my self-disgust?! Oh, and I raided the Lay's potato chip stash, handfuls of which balanced perfectly on the Saran Wrap still covering half my salad.
(Hey, why leave out any gory detail at this point? I may have wiped my fingers on the upholstery, as well.)
Now I'm staring at a warm, mostly finished beer and a bunch of orange vegetable discs in the bottom of a bowl that needs washing, outside a whole kitchen that needs cleaning (those Lay's crumbs attract ants like magnets) -- and the triumphs of "Divine Design" are a cold consolation now, baby!
I have to stand up and go get a life.
Ideally, one in which I am uber-me! Me, but much more measured and moderated: never consuming empty calories, looking always fresh and never frumpy, maximizing time, maintaining order, and generally sallying forth into any situation with words of calm eloquence -- oh, the eloquence I am always questing after! That's what this anger episode is REALLY about. A Don Quixote in the Piney Woods, I am. Tilting at windmills while I hold out against the utter everydayness around me.
I've pretty well accepted personal dishevelment and household disorder, but I really need to come to peace with in-eloquence. There's nothing fatally wrong with a sporadic blog in need of editing, full of little stylistic could-have-beens that can be polished at a later date. Nothing at all. I mean, I have other things to do, do I not? And it's kind-of selfish to labor over the arrangement/ rearrangement of a few paltry words when two other people in this house need other things with much more urgency.
On the other hand.... Screw it! I really would like to dump the daily grind, grab a laptop, and spend all day having great adventures and writing about them. If Miles would agree to be my Sancho (is that who I wanted to say?), I could Quixote it up all over East Texas, then spend endless afternoon hours crafting lovely, lilting 720-word essays on what I have learned.
Ahh, dreamtime! Don't I love it? Sometimes it comes after sleep, my friends, and sometimes before. In my life, both lapses of mind are equally to be savored.
*
I feel better now. Definitely wordier. But better. Like I've raged, raged with the spirit of Dylan Thomas and had some catharsis. Maybe this recent discontent with self will bring a little more spark to my journaling. Perhaps I'll be motivated to work up a little more vivid discourse, a little more persuative prose. And, dare I say it, a touch more eloquence?
...Maybe. :)
(I got an email with "bleep" in it today, and it seemed funny. I vowed to use more "bleeps" myself.)
(...So far, it's not that funny.)
So, I would honestly be chipper about '05, but I am SO suddenly disgusted with myself! Disgust. Distaste. Actual not-liking-at-all.
I just happened in and checked what's called the "dashboard" for this blog. Ei-yi-yi! I haven't posted in how long? Was I not just complaining, in print, about this very thing? I never even picked up my Advent train of thought; I don't even know what I was going to say now!
And what about this most global of events, the Asian tsunami that's wrecked so much of our world? I've been so captured by the stories of it, but I have nothing to say about it? Not even a short, simple prayer?
I'm put out with myself because I think I'm capable of better blogging than I have been letting on! More consistency. A wider span of topics. Better developed essay structure, more provocative leads and stronger closings. ...What is wrong with me, anyway?
What's my excuse for letting my new writing project flounder so quickly?! Trying to cut back on self-expression? Saving it all for a novel? No, no, no. NOPE. None of the above.
Laziness. Pure, undiluted, sit-on-my-a** laziness is what's keeping me from refining more thoughts into words. Just tonight, for instance, I closed the bedroom door on a settled child and peaked in on a sleeping husband (first year teacher syndrome; he'll be better rested by retirement, I'm sure) and THEN what did I do? I'll tell ya. I'll tell ya everything!
I took a beer and a serving bowl of salad out of the fridge, propped them both in my lap, and sat cross-legged in a recliner to watch TV! I sat in a La-Z-Boy (now there's some truth in advertising) and shamelessly picked over the carrots so I could munch Romaine stalks and swill Avery India Pale Ale while watching HGTV. You see my self-disgust?! Oh, and I raided the Lay's potato chip stash, handfuls of which balanced perfectly on the Saran Wrap still covering half my salad.
(Hey, why leave out any gory detail at this point? I may have wiped my fingers on the upholstery, as well.)
Now I'm staring at a warm, mostly finished beer and a bunch of orange vegetable discs in the bottom of a bowl that needs washing, outside a whole kitchen that needs cleaning (those Lay's crumbs attract ants like magnets) -- and the triumphs of "Divine Design" are a cold consolation now, baby!
I have to stand up and go get a life.
Ideally, one in which I am uber-me! Me, but much more measured and moderated: never consuming empty calories, looking always fresh and never frumpy, maximizing time, maintaining order, and generally sallying forth into any situation with words of calm eloquence -- oh, the eloquence I am always questing after! That's what this anger episode is REALLY about. A Don Quixote in the Piney Woods, I am. Tilting at windmills while I hold out against the utter everydayness around me.
I've pretty well accepted personal dishevelment and household disorder, but I really need to come to peace with in-eloquence. There's nothing fatally wrong with a sporadic blog in need of editing, full of little stylistic could-have-beens that can be polished at a later date. Nothing at all. I mean, I have other things to do, do I not? And it's kind-of selfish to labor over the arrangement/ rearrangement of a few paltry words when two other people in this house need other things with much more urgency.
On the other hand.... Screw it! I really would like to dump the daily grind, grab a laptop, and spend all day having great adventures and writing about them. If Miles would agree to be my Sancho (is that who I wanted to say?), I could Quixote it up all over East Texas, then spend endless afternoon hours crafting lovely, lilting 720-word essays on what I have learned.
Ahh, dreamtime! Don't I love it? Sometimes it comes after sleep, my friends, and sometimes before. In my life, both lapses of mind are equally to be savored.
*
I feel better now. Definitely wordier. But better. Like I've raged, raged with the spirit of Dylan Thomas and had some catharsis. Maybe this recent discontent with self will bring a little more spark to my journaling. Perhaps I'll be motivated to work up a little more vivid discourse, a little more persuative prose. And, dare I say it, a touch more eloquence?
...Maybe. :)
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