This is such a sweet season, this Christmastime. I was just thinking how much I need a Christmas, every single year, to tenderize my tough and fibrous heart.
I seem to get kind-of rougher on the outside every passing year. I even LOOK rougher out there, too! And that's nothing compared to the inside of me.
...I don't know how this happens -- truly! I never set out to be cold or cynical (OK -- maybe cynical for a few years, starting in middle school. But I was back to Pollyanna by, like 19) or, worse still, numb. I don't WANT to seem hardened or closed off to people and life experiences. But I definitely feel some closed doors in me. And the condition seems to be advancing with my age.
I guess the point of this rambling is just that I see the need for what God has done here. And what He does for us again and again, year after year. I acknowledge not only my need for a savior, but my head-snapping, thought-turning reaction to how He came to earth, the story of how he became Jesus -- it gets me every Christmas season.
I think we need the story to be as "out there" as it really is -- all crazy backwards, painful in its beauty, full of prophesy, majesty and mystery -- to be reminded that what God has woven... is weaving... is amazing. And that the person of Jesus is mind-blowing, really.
And having my mind blown once a year does a lot to fight the closed-heart condition that seems to be snaking a trenchline all across me.
The song that sums up my emotions this particular Advent season is Casting Crowns' "God is With Us" from their Peace on Earth album. (I don't think anyone calls them albums anymore. I don't know why I just did that.)
There's one verse I keep hearing in my head. May it ring in there long after the New Year...
Love is raining down on the world tonight
There's a presence here I can tell
God is in us, God is for us, God is with us, Emmanuel
He's the Savior we have been praying for
In our humble hearts He will dwell
God is in us, God is for us, God is with us, Emmanuel
Just a girl, asking for grace, to survive her happily-ever-after.
12.20.2010
10.27.2010
Conflicted & Confessing
I need a place to confess something, and this is the place I've picked.
I don't understand how God loves all his children, all the time.
I actually do believe He does. ...In my head, where I file all my beliefs.
But in my heart, I am needing to admit I don't always feel it.
Oh, and I should clarify: This is not a question of the "do-badders" or the "do-gooders." I can fathom God loving any & all people, regardless of their actions, all the same. I can allow that God loves each individual person, too, distinctly and by name.
But how can he love *me* just the same as someone else who loves Him more?!
The issue I can't get over, just now, is how little I seem to feel, or work at feeling, for all the important stuff. I know it's just awful, awful, never-a-good-idea to do, but I can't help comparing me to others. (Picture two hands over my eyes as I peek from between the fingers.) I shouldn't look around and judge by the outsides, but some days I do! And other people really seem to love Jesus more. They seem to really want to.
And I seem to want nothing in life harder than watching TV.
My goals for the "right now" are truly so much smaller than I envision anyone else's. Any other person of faith's goals, anyway. ...To seek to PERSONALLY know God? To crave His presence? I just want not to stink-it-up at daily life so much.
And, again, the thing that sticks inside and hangs me up is this big disconnect between my head and my heart. They never seem to be on the same page lately.
In my head I feel *I* want to be one of the people getting to know Jesus more. Or I should want to, definitely. But there's something not quite honest about saying I feel this... because I don't really feel... anything at all (except maybe tired) right now.
It's like my interior life has been reduced to one long, dramatic sigh.
The sigh is a bad sign, I know. I remember. It's like my personal gas meter hitting the red zone, my engine temp gauge going far past halfway. When I find myself sighing deeply and often, I know my soul's machinery is not running well. It needs attention. And so I know that, today, I'm not taking good enough care of myself. I'm not using enough time and space to breathe.
And maybe that's why my feelings aren't feeling anything my head thinks they should.
At least I see where I am, on what precipice I stand. Because, recognizing, I'm much less likely to topple over.
I'm also starting to understand, as I write it all out, that I'm asking the wrong question in my deep confessional. It's not about God loving me more or less, at any given time. It *might* be about me making God smile with my effort to love HIM, with all my heart, with all my mind, with all my soul, with all my strength. It might also be about Him waiting for me to ask, waiting for me to allow, waiting for me to feel more of the joy He's ready to give. Maybe God is smiling at crabby, closed-off me even now? I'm not picturing a shared-joke kind of smile, nothing so large that it threatens to break into a grin... but maybe there's a soft and wistful smile for me in Heaven, to let me know He always feels and always cares, even when I think I don't.
Now this thought I like. I confess, I like it very much...
I don't understand how God loves all his children, all the time.
I actually do believe He does. ...In my head, where I file all my beliefs.
But in my heart, I am needing to admit I don't always feel it.
Oh, and I should clarify: This is not a question of the "do-badders" or the "do-gooders." I can fathom God loving any & all people, regardless of their actions, all the same. I can allow that God loves each individual person, too, distinctly and by name.
But how can he love *me* just the same as someone else who loves Him more?!
The issue I can't get over, just now, is how little I seem to feel, or work at feeling, for all the important stuff. I know it's just awful, awful, never-a-good-idea to do, but I can't help comparing me to others. (Picture two hands over my eyes as I peek from between the fingers.) I shouldn't look around and judge by the outsides, but some days I do! And other people really seem to love Jesus more. They seem to really want to.
And I seem to want nothing in life harder than watching TV.
My goals for the "right now" are truly so much smaller than I envision anyone else's. Any other person of faith's goals, anyway. ...To seek to PERSONALLY know God? To crave His presence? I just want not to stink-it-up at daily life so much.
And, again, the thing that sticks inside and hangs me up is this big disconnect between my head and my heart. They never seem to be on the same page lately.
In my head I feel *I* want to be one of the people getting to know Jesus more. Or I should want to, definitely. But there's something not quite honest about saying I feel this... because I don't really feel... anything at all (except maybe tired) right now.
It's like my interior life has been reduced to one long, dramatic sigh.
The sigh is a bad sign, I know. I remember. It's like my personal gas meter hitting the red zone, my engine temp gauge going far past halfway. When I find myself sighing deeply and often, I know my soul's machinery is not running well. It needs attention. And so I know that, today, I'm not taking good enough care of myself. I'm not using enough time and space to breathe.
And maybe that's why my feelings aren't feeling anything my head thinks they should.
At least I see where I am, on what precipice I stand. Because, recognizing, I'm much less likely to topple over.
I'm also starting to understand, as I write it all out, that I'm asking the wrong question in my deep confessional. It's not about God loving me more or less, at any given time. It *might* be about me making God smile with my effort to love HIM, with all my heart, with all my mind, with all my soul, with all my strength. It might also be about Him waiting for me to ask, waiting for me to allow, waiting for me to feel more of the joy He's ready to give. Maybe God is smiling at crabby, closed-off me even now? I'm not picturing a shared-joke kind of smile, nothing so large that it threatens to break into a grin... but maybe there's a soft and wistful smile for me in Heaven, to let me know He always feels and always cares, even when I think I don't.
Now this thought I like. I confess, I like it very much...
10.26.2010
Photos & Prose
I was just thinking how very much of family life most people's family photos miss. It can't only be me who goes quizzical every time I click to playback mode, eyes narrowing and lips twisting in frustration as I wonder where is the moment I saw when I pressed the shutter?
The real story is so often a little above or below what we capture in a snapshot, just to the left, or out of focus, teasingly beyond the bit frozen for posterity.
(An aside: It may be that I'm simply not a skilled or practiced-enough photographer -- granted! But I've seen a lot of pictures emailed to me and posted on Facebook, and I really think I'm onto something about the difference between what the casual photographer must feel and what the machine captures.)
Most of us get can compromise without too much trouble. We understand we're not pros, and "good enough" snapshots are really OK. "Most of us" are pretty well-adjusted. I, however, am almost always disappointed by my own snapshots. Because I don't like good enough. I want the WHOLE story -- and for me, it takes some prose along with the photos to save the technical failures.
And that's too bad, because I haven't scrapbooked (digitally or otherwise) anything for myself in a LONG time. Like, right now, even, I'm forgetting things that I would hold as dear memories later, if I just found the time to match some daily images to some words.
Tonight, all I can manage are a few inadequate grafs:
* Owen's vocabulary is wide and varied, and his mispronunciations of brand names and household products get funnier all the time. I have pinky-sworn the other Brandt boys not to correct him or laugh (too much) because he'll quickly catch on and start saying everything exactly. I need to keep a notepad out in the kitchen and try to track all the funny words over the course of a week. One common Owenism right now: "I M'AM" instead of "I am." And EVERY WORD used in past tense has an "-ed" sound, even when tacked onto the real (not "-ed") ending. Also, everything that happened not today is "yesterday" -- or, really, "yes-sir-day." (We thought he was saying yes-sir-Dave for a while.) And everything that hasn't happened yet is "tomorrow." Or, well, "to-mard-doe." Oh, and adorable things (like puppies and babies and sometimes my outfits) are "Awwww... coot, Mama! So coot (cute)!"
* Miles has been very slow to lose teeth, and when he does, his new ones are slow to fill in. I find the gaps strangely adorable. It's not the perfect-smile Miles face that we've memorized in years of scanning that face as his parents -- but it is JUST. SO. IMPERFECTLY. CUUUTE! I love to see him at this stage and I only regret that his snapshot images are becoming more "posed" and "cool" than natural. His smile is different in pictures, too. More cheesy grin -- like some manufactured version of the real thing -- than natural bi-product of a laugh. ...But his secret Miles giggle is still pure gold. And he cracks himself up a lot.
God bless these boys for putting up with me, camera in their faces at every holiday and event, as I strain for the right angle and direct them to redo something I don't think I got.
So my images aren't going to be as real as being there?! Well, they just aren't. Maybe all I can do right now is show up, as many days and ways as I can, and trust that when I do get around to writing our stories, the snapshots I got will be enough to spark the memories. And when that happens, the prose will come.
The real story is so often a little above or below what we capture in a snapshot, just to the left, or out of focus, teasingly beyond the bit frozen for posterity.
(An aside: It may be that I'm simply not a skilled or practiced-enough photographer -- granted! But I've seen a lot of pictures emailed to me and posted on Facebook, and I really think I'm onto something about the difference between what the casual photographer must feel and what the machine captures.)
Most of us get can compromise without too much trouble. We understand we're not pros, and "good enough" snapshots are really OK. "Most of us" are pretty well-adjusted. I, however, am almost always disappointed by my own snapshots. Because I don't like good enough. I want the WHOLE story -- and for me, it takes some prose along with the photos to save the technical failures.
And that's too bad, because I haven't scrapbooked (digitally or otherwise) anything for myself in a LONG time. Like, right now, even, I'm forgetting things that I would hold as dear memories later, if I just found the time to match some daily images to some words.
Tonight, all I can manage are a few inadequate grafs:
* Owen's vocabulary is wide and varied, and his mispronunciations of brand names and household products get funnier all the time. I have pinky-sworn the other Brandt boys not to correct him or laugh (too much) because he'll quickly catch on and start saying everything exactly. I need to keep a notepad out in the kitchen and try to track all the funny words over the course of a week. One common Owenism right now: "I M'AM" instead of "I am." And EVERY WORD used in past tense has an "-ed" sound, even when tacked onto the real (not "-ed") ending. Also, everything that happened not today is "yesterday" -- or, really, "yes-sir-day." (We thought he was saying yes-sir-Dave for a while.) And everything that hasn't happened yet is "tomorrow." Or, well, "to-mard-doe." Oh, and adorable things (like puppies and babies and sometimes my outfits) are "Awwww... coot, Mama! So coot (cute)!"
* Miles has been very slow to lose teeth, and when he does, his new ones are slow to fill in. I find the gaps strangely adorable. It's not the perfect-smile Miles face that we've memorized in years of scanning that face as his parents -- but it is JUST. SO. IMPERFECTLY. CUUUTE! I love to see him at this stage and I only regret that his snapshot images are becoming more "posed" and "cool" than natural. His smile is different in pictures, too. More cheesy grin -- like some manufactured version of the real thing -- than natural bi-product of a laugh. ...But his secret Miles giggle is still pure gold. And he cracks himself up a lot.
God bless these boys for putting up with me, camera in their faces at every holiday and event, as I strain for the right angle and direct them to redo something I don't think I got.
So my images aren't going to be as real as being there?! Well, they just aren't. Maybe all I can do right now is show up, as many days and ways as I can, and trust that when I do get around to writing our stories, the snapshots I got will be enough to spark the memories. And when that happens, the prose will come.
9.30.2010
Letter to Almost 3-yr-old Owen
Oh, Owen! Owen-O.... You are so precious to me. And so cute... as if precious weren't enough; you're just stinkin' cute to boot! At this stage of life, a few days before your 3rd birthday, you are adorableness embodied.
Mamas do say this kinda stuff, I know, so you might not be inclined to trust my assessment, say if you're reading this later, as a teen or as an adult. But allow me to document...
Most people you encounter comment upon your cuteness, so I've come to believe it's not just me. You've taken to calling yourself "tiny boy" of late (as in "I AN NOT a baby! NOT a baby! I an a TINY BOY"), and that description perfectly fits. You've lost the smooth-headed, round-formed perfection of a baby, that big-eyed etherealness that might lead someone to stop and say, "oh, how beautiful he is." You've gone "cute," instead. But what a lot of cute. In place of baby zen, you've gained a whiff of Future Owen, a tiny boy in a still-toddler body.
With your crazy orange curls (or, "krills," as you say), your Bambi blue eyes, your busy, chubby, expressive hands that are never far from the heart shape of your Irish-skinned face, you charm life -- at a glance. On instinct. The way we lesser mortals breathe. There's humor in your expression almost all the time. And that grin! You have this wide, impish grin that bares both rows of teeth (imperfectly perfect as they are, the front top two with a gap between them and a chipped ridge across them). The smile comes with a cock of the head, a shake of a curl and a twinkle in the eyes. It speaks without words. The message? Something very much like, "Hey, I'm not sayin' I'm perfect... but I sure know how to have fun! Wanna come play with me? You know you wanna!" And yes, my son, you sure do. And we mostly do, too. And we all have a fine time together.
Here are some other things I'm loving about who you are, Owen, right in this very now:
The way you mangle the phrase "Hickory Dickory Dock" as we sing that nursery rhyme on the way to Growing Stick...
The way you clap for all things "GWEAT!" -- and how many everything things you label this way? "Time for baf? GWEAT!" ... "Rolls for dinner? GWEAT!" ... "Oohhhh... BOOK-TIME! GWEAT!"...
Your system of snuggling under the covers and arranging your many, many nightime props before reading with me...
How you say "yar" instead of pacifier or paci? And, how dedicated is your love for your yars, still today. You don't need them, anymore, but you sure like them, comfortable old friends that you collect in pockets and hoard in nap cubbies...
How you love scary animals, like dinosaurs, and love to play MON-STARR (imagine a deep "grrr" with nose wrinkled and finger "claws" drawn up to chin), but are afraid of the smallest bug in the bathroom OR piece of lint that could be a bug in the bathwater...
How phrases come out backwards but still understandable, like "Wuz and Buddy" for "Buzz and Woody" of Toy Story. When this happens, you brother likes to say, "he sure has a way with his words, doesn't he?"...
Last night I was too busy to watch some acrobatic feat of yours on the bed, so you called a stuffed T-rex into service. "Watch me, Dino! Watch OWEN! OK... you watching?" And you propped him up where he couldn't help but see your "jhrumps" into the pile of pillows. Then you watched him (such a nice display of manners!) as he took his turn and jhrumped.
Jhrumping is very big with you right now, as we're having a bounce house for your birthday soon.
:) I smile and shake my head when I recount all these things, O. I tell ya, son. I love these sweet and funny antics very, very much. ...But they still don't hold a candle to the way I love you.
Please feel free to change as you need. To one day put away these tiny boy things. I'll grow with you and I'll let them go, too. Some day, I won't even remember the theme song to "Shaun the Sheep" or the words to "Hop on Pop." But I'll remember this moment in life with a smile. And I'll smile again, every time I see the boy you are just on the cusp of becoming, in the man you will one day be.
I will not hold you so tight as to ask you to stay one way or be one person throughout the arc of your life. I love Future Owen, already, no matter who he turns out to be. I delight in your progress and I can't wait to see what God will do in you, and for you. You will do great things, my son, because you will do all things with verve and joy and love. That's the secret, really -- that anything we do can be a great thing, if done in great love. Luckily, you already show a propensity toward abundance. That's the core of you, right now, Owen: Energy and life, in abundance.
I don't expect the red krills to stay. I'm prepared to lose the heart-grabbing look that precedes a discovery or a declaration, as awe and light cross a still-pudgy, almost-baby face. I'll let these things go, I promise. ...But I would be delighted, my son, if your grin doesn't ever change.
Happy birthday, my happy Owen. With all my heart -- Mom
Mamas do say this kinda stuff, I know, so you might not be inclined to trust my assessment, say if you're reading this later, as a teen or as an adult. But allow me to document...
Most people you encounter comment upon your cuteness, so I've come to believe it's not just me. You've taken to calling yourself "tiny boy" of late (as in "I AN NOT a baby! NOT a baby! I an a TINY BOY"), and that description perfectly fits. You've lost the smooth-headed, round-formed perfection of a baby, that big-eyed etherealness that might lead someone to stop and say, "oh, how beautiful he is." You've gone "cute," instead. But what a lot of cute. In place of baby zen, you've gained a whiff of Future Owen, a tiny boy in a still-toddler body.
With your crazy orange curls (or, "krills," as you say), your Bambi blue eyes, your busy, chubby, expressive hands that are never far from the heart shape of your Irish-skinned face, you charm life -- at a glance. On instinct. The way we lesser mortals breathe. There's humor in your expression almost all the time. And that grin! You have this wide, impish grin that bares both rows of teeth (imperfectly perfect as they are, the front top two with a gap between them and a chipped ridge across them). The smile comes with a cock of the head, a shake of a curl and a twinkle in the eyes. It speaks without words. The message? Something very much like, "Hey, I'm not sayin' I'm perfect... but I sure know how to have fun! Wanna come play with me? You know you wanna!" And yes, my son, you sure do. And we mostly do, too. And we all have a fine time together.
Here are some other things I'm loving about who you are, Owen, right in this very now:
The way you mangle the phrase "Hickory Dickory Dock" as we sing that nursery rhyme on the way to Growing Stick...
The way you clap for all things "GWEAT!" -- and how many everything things you label this way? "Time for baf? GWEAT!" ... "Rolls for dinner? GWEAT!" ... "Oohhhh... BOOK-TIME! GWEAT!"...
Your system of snuggling under the covers and arranging your many, many nightime props before reading with me...
How you say "yar" instead of pacifier or paci? And, how dedicated is your love for your yars, still today. You don't need them, anymore, but you sure like them, comfortable old friends that you collect in pockets and hoard in nap cubbies...
How you love scary animals, like dinosaurs, and love to play MON-STARR (imagine a deep "grrr" with nose wrinkled and finger "claws" drawn up to chin), but are afraid of the smallest bug in the bathroom OR piece of lint that could be a bug in the bathwater...
How phrases come out backwards but still understandable, like "Wuz and Buddy" for "Buzz and Woody" of Toy Story. When this happens, you brother likes to say, "he sure has a way with his words, doesn't he?"...
Last night I was too busy to watch some acrobatic feat of yours on the bed, so you called a stuffed T-rex into service. "Watch me, Dino! Watch OWEN! OK... you watching?" And you propped him up where he couldn't help but see your "jhrumps" into the pile of pillows. Then you watched him (such a nice display of manners!) as he took his turn and jhrumped.
Jhrumping is very big with you right now, as we're having a bounce house for your birthday soon.
:) I smile and shake my head when I recount all these things, O. I tell ya, son. I love these sweet and funny antics very, very much. ...But they still don't hold a candle to the way I love you.
Please feel free to change as you need. To one day put away these tiny boy things. I'll grow with you and I'll let them go, too. Some day, I won't even remember the theme song to "Shaun the Sheep" or the words to "Hop on Pop." But I'll remember this moment in life with a smile. And I'll smile again, every time I see the boy you are just on the cusp of becoming, in the man you will one day be.
I will not hold you so tight as to ask you to stay one way or be one person throughout the arc of your life. I love Future Owen, already, no matter who he turns out to be. I delight in your progress and I can't wait to see what God will do in you, and for you. You will do great things, my son, because you will do all things with verve and joy and love. That's the secret, really -- that anything we do can be a great thing, if done in great love. Luckily, you already show a propensity toward abundance. That's the core of you, right now, Owen: Energy and life, in abundance.
I don't expect the red krills to stay. I'm prepared to lose the heart-grabbing look that precedes a discovery or a declaration, as awe and light cross a still-pudgy, almost-baby face. I'll let these things go, I promise. ...But I would be delighted, my son, if your grin doesn't ever change.
Happy birthday, my happy Owen. With all my heart -- Mom
9.28.2010
Making Sense
I was just driving, distracted, having a little stream-of-consciousness chat with myself and I started to wonder if any other person on earth could follow the conversation.
Has this idea ever occurred to you, too?
...That perhaps you are your own best listener, because maybe, just maybe, you don't make much sense outside your own head?! :)
Seriously, there's something to the idea that each human being is his or her own best processor of thought. Often, we can move fastest when we think alone. I've witnessed some pretty fast zigs and zags of the mind when I'm not (or another person isn't) trying to fit into the confines of inter-personal communication -- when one is not consciously trying to "make sense."
Sure, we can sound like crazy people when stuck in our own heads, but we often know exactly what *we're* talking about. The trouble comes when we have to talk to another person.
Sometimes people can't move forward, together, at all -- because we can't shape our thoughts into a format that can be processed by anyone else.
And yet... and yet! Though it slows us down and makes us work harder, we are also built to desire a connection to another consciousness -- some "meeting of the minds" -- so very much that we're willing to edit ourselves all the time to achieve it.
Take the stream-of-consciousness thing happening in my car. No one could really follow that, but no one needed to. No one else was there. Had I been carrying a passenger, I would have automatically flipped on some internal regulator and started reformatting what was going on in my head -- or at least how it came out. I would probably not have said aloud (as I actually did in my car) "Oh, crap! Those things! I gotta do the ... eh... myeah... TODA-- do we need flu shots?!" Instead, I would assess and redact and repackage ideas into more tidy points before they slipped out.
(Well, mostly. I find the closer the company one is keeping, the greater the portion of the "internal monologue" that tends to slip out. My poor Jeremy gets no segues out of me.)
...But isn't it fascinating how every human society rears its own to make verbal adjustments like that?
And when members of a society make little or no distinction between their "interior" and "out loud" voices, they often aren't part of a very big society -- because most other people avoid their company.
It's like we've all been trained to be a little less us so we can engage more of them.
Have you ever thought how much easier it'd be to communicate if we could just merge heads and cut out the No Man's Land in-between? Like the Vulcan mind meld, without the near-insanity.
Have you ever dwelled on the idea that it's actually kind-of hard work to make sense to another person -- ANY other person?
It's not like talking to oneself.
Not to promote that I have a split personality (uhn -- pretty sure I don't...), but I've noticed I tend to separate into 2 roles when I talk to myself. Part of me generates the list of things that are important, and another part of me files those things away. The generator part of me is pretty scattered, I'll say -- her more orderly thoughts are interrupted and interspersed and overlaid with things that pop like corn up there. The other me holds a clipboard and rolls her eyes a lot. She's always sorting the kernels into action items.
If I'm gonna marshal my forces and speak out loud, I need both parts of me to work together, so Popcorn Brain doesn't take over, but so Quality Control has something to say. This is work!
And yet, happily I do it. Because I want so desperately to get OUT of my own head sometimes! The society of oneself can be great comfort, yes. Everyone needs to cultivate it. But along with that, everyone needs to seek the society of others. And until Star Trek: a.) perfects that mind meld thing, and b.) um, becomes reality, I guess we'll just have to do the work to get there.
And that's OK. It's nice work if you can get it. And you can get it, if you try...
Has this idea ever occurred to you, too?
...That perhaps you are your own best listener, because maybe, just maybe, you don't make much sense outside your own head?! :)
Seriously, there's something to the idea that each human being is his or her own best processor of thought. Often, we can move fastest when we think alone. I've witnessed some pretty fast zigs and zags of the mind when I'm not (or another person isn't) trying to fit into the confines of inter-personal communication -- when one is not consciously trying to "make sense."
Sure, we can sound like crazy people when stuck in our own heads, but we often know exactly what *we're* talking about. The trouble comes when we have to talk to another person.
Sometimes people can't move forward, together, at all -- because we can't shape our thoughts into a format that can be processed by anyone else.
And yet... and yet! Though it slows us down and makes us work harder, we are also built to desire a connection to another consciousness -- some "meeting of the minds" -- so very much that we're willing to edit ourselves all the time to achieve it.
Take the stream-of-consciousness thing happening in my car. No one could really follow that, but no one needed to. No one else was there. Had I been carrying a passenger, I would have automatically flipped on some internal regulator and started reformatting what was going on in my head -- or at least how it came out. I would probably not have said aloud (as I actually did in my car) "Oh, crap! Those things! I gotta do the ... eh... myeah... TODA-- do we need flu shots?!" Instead, I would assess and redact and repackage ideas into more tidy points before they slipped out.
(Well, mostly. I find the closer the company one is keeping, the greater the portion of the "internal monologue" that tends to slip out. My poor Jeremy gets no segues out of me.)
...But isn't it fascinating how every human society rears its own to make verbal adjustments like that?
And when members of a society make little or no distinction between their "interior" and "out loud" voices, they often aren't part of a very big society -- because most other people avoid their company.
It's like we've all been trained to be a little less us so we can engage more of them.
Have you ever thought how much easier it'd be to communicate if we could just merge heads and cut out the No Man's Land in-between? Like the Vulcan mind meld, without the near-insanity.
Have you ever dwelled on the idea that it's actually kind-of hard work to make sense to another person -- ANY other person?
It's not like talking to oneself.
Not to promote that I have a split personality (uhn -- pretty sure I don't...), but I've noticed I tend to separate into 2 roles when I talk to myself. Part of me generates the list of things that are important, and another part of me files those things away. The generator part of me is pretty scattered, I'll say -- her more orderly thoughts are interrupted and interspersed and overlaid with things that pop like corn up there. The other me holds a clipboard and rolls her eyes a lot. She's always sorting the kernels into action items.
If I'm gonna marshal my forces and speak out loud, I need both parts of me to work together, so Popcorn Brain doesn't take over, but so Quality Control has something to say. This is work!
And yet, happily I do it. Because I want so desperately to get OUT of my own head sometimes! The society of oneself can be great comfort, yes. Everyone needs to cultivate it. But along with that, everyone needs to seek the society of others. And until Star Trek: a.) perfects that mind meld thing, and b.) um, becomes reality, I guess we'll just have to do the work to get there.
And that's OK. It's nice work if you can get it. And you can get it, if you try...
9.21.2010
Unsolicited Advice for the Young & Broken-Hearted
An accident in my hometown has my heart weeping this week. A 16-year-old boy fell from the bed of a pick-up truck -- no crazy driving, no drinking, no shenanigans -- and suffered such head trauma as to never wake up again. His family had to disconnect him from life support two days later.
In the truck bed with him was the son of my dear, darlin' friend from childhood. (We girls probably rode in the back of more than one truck together, as kids, and in plenty of backseats later.) In the cab were three more teenagers, all good kids from solid families... the kind who teach their babies responsibility and good manners and how to stand faithful in a broken world.
But Friday night the world won out. It stole a great kid -- a talented classical pianist, an ace baseball player, a truly kind boy with a bright future -- right from the arms of the many who love him. And it forever damaged the driver and the witnesses -- also shining stars in our town, the kind of kids everyone celebrates as they succeed -- who had to bear witness to a trauma, one of them working feverishly to keep his buddy alive.
I'm not close to any of these teens. I just "know" them in the way everyone in a small town is known. I know their family names. I know about where they live, or where their parents work. I love one of their mamas. And so my heart gets to break, too, just a little bit.
This is the beauty and agony of being known -- what hurts one of us has to hurt us all.
I sincerely grieve for the lost life. I don't think I have the words for that mother. She has my prayers, because I fear no greater human pain exists.
I do know her boy is not hurting today. In the same measure his family is bereft, he is free from all worldly weight. He has broken the chains and is -- I am confident -- in the company of Jesus.
His friends, though, are still here below. And what they must feel holds my heart in a grip like a long-held breath. I almost can't exhale when I think about those suffering kids.
Because I'm not part of their inner circle, I will probably never get to speak to these teenagers about this horrible, horrible accident. Other people closer will tell them, time and again, that it was an accident -- that no one is to blame. As we should all say! I believe their guilt is thick, and we should do everything we can to help cut through it.
If I did have the chance to tell them something, I would add this:
Don't be any stronger than you need to be.
If you look ahead and can't see how you'll ever make it out of these feelings, stop trying for a minute. Just stop -- really, literally, if you need to -- and tell God the truth: That you're giving up for the moment. That it hurts too much to keep moving ahead. No more steps. You stop. And right then God will become your pillar of smoke by day and your pillar of fire by night.
"Neither the pillar of cloud by day nor the pillar of fire by night left its place in front of the people." Exodus 13:22.
Imagine that pillar moving in the hallways at HHS and through the parking lot and down West Main... because it's really there.
Just like God guided the steps of his people when they wandered in the desert, so EVERY STEP you have to take in these painful days will be following a single step of God's, one pace ahead of you.
Just like God provided food for the wanderers, so you'll be fed along your way. But remember the story of the manna? When the people tried to hoard extra, it went bad. These kind of "survival rations" cannot be saved from day to day.
In the same way, go ahead and use up every bit of coping skills you have for today. Use it all until you are so weary you have to lay down and go to sleep. When you wake up, God will have sprinkled your soul with enough grace for tomorrow. Just enough. For one day at a time.
Please believe us grown-ups when we say the manna will come to you. Even when you don't feel it, or the roof of your mouth sticks with the dry taste of it. God DOES gives us what we need -- but we often can't see the relief coming.
Not many of us have lived through anything this bad, honestly. But most of us have felt our own deep hurts. Damage is damage, in some ways, and from someone who has survived soul-numbing sadness, here is one of pain's deepest truths: You only need to get through this day. Don't be stronger than this day. There is grace enough for this day AND NOT MORE.
Keep moving until you can't. Rest often. Look up for the pillar of smoke and the pillar of fire. And one day you will have crossed a great desert, my sweet young friends, and you will wander no more.
In the truck bed with him was the son of my dear, darlin' friend from childhood. (We girls probably rode in the back of more than one truck together, as kids, and in plenty of backseats later.) In the cab were three more teenagers, all good kids from solid families... the kind who teach their babies responsibility and good manners and how to stand faithful in a broken world.
But Friday night the world won out. It stole a great kid -- a talented classical pianist, an ace baseball player, a truly kind boy with a bright future -- right from the arms of the many who love him. And it forever damaged the driver and the witnesses -- also shining stars in our town, the kind of kids everyone celebrates as they succeed -- who had to bear witness to a trauma, one of them working feverishly to keep his buddy alive.
I'm not close to any of these teens. I just "know" them in the way everyone in a small town is known. I know their family names. I know about where they live, or where their parents work. I love one of their mamas. And so my heart gets to break, too, just a little bit.
This is the beauty and agony of being known -- what hurts one of us has to hurt us all.
I sincerely grieve for the lost life. I don't think I have the words for that mother. She has my prayers, because I fear no greater human pain exists.
I do know her boy is not hurting today. In the same measure his family is bereft, he is free from all worldly weight. He has broken the chains and is -- I am confident -- in the company of Jesus.
His friends, though, are still here below. And what they must feel holds my heart in a grip like a long-held breath. I almost can't exhale when I think about those suffering kids.
Because I'm not part of their inner circle, I will probably never get to speak to these teenagers about this horrible, horrible accident. Other people closer will tell them, time and again, that it was an accident -- that no one is to blame. As we should all say! I believe their guilt is thick, and we should do everything we can to help cut through it.
If I did have the chance to tell them something, I would add this:
Don't be any stronger than you need to be.
If you look ahead and can't see how you'll ever make it out of these feelings, stop trying for a minute. Just stop -- really, literally, if you need to -- and tell God the truth: That you're giving up for the moment. That it hurts too much to keep moving ahead. No more steps. You stop. And right then God will become your pillar of smoke by day and your pillar of fire by night.
"Neither the pillar of cloud by day nor the pillar of fire by night left its place in front of the people." Exodus 13:22.
Imagine that pillar moving in the hallways at HHS and through the parking lot and down West Main... because it's really there.
Just like God guided the steps of his people when they wandered in the desert, so EVERY STEP you have to take in these painful days will be following a single step of God's, one pace ahead of you.
Just like God provided food for the wanderers, so you'll be fed along your way. But remember the story of the manna? When the people tried to hoard extra, it went bad. These kind of "survival rations" cannot be saved from day to day.
In the same way, go ahead and use up every bit of coping skills you have for today. Use it all until you are so weary you have to lay down and go to sleep. When you wake up, God will have sprinkled your soul with enough grace for tomorrow. Just enough. For one day at a time.
Please believe us grown-ups when we say the manna will come to you. Even when you don't feel it, or the roof of your mouth sticks with the dry taste of it. God DOES gives us what we need -- but we often can't see the relief coming.
Not many of us have lived through anything this bad, honestly. But most of us have felt our own deep hurts. Damage is damage, in some ways, and from someone who has survived soul-numbing sadness, here is one of pain's deepest truths: You only need to get through this day. Don't be stronger than this day. There is grace enough for this day AND NOT MORE.
Keep moving until you can't. Rest often. Look up for the pillar of smoke and the pillar of fire. And one day you will have crossed a great desert, my sweet young friends, and you will wander no more.
9.19.2010
Warning Labels
I think churches should come with warning labels. "Caution! Bitter, grouchy, small, selfish people within!" "Hypocrisy 100 feet ahead."
...But, then, I guess we'd have to label grocery stores, too. Elementary schools and strip malls, bars & grills and gas stations. Because churches are really nothing more than people. And everywhere people are, in any numbers high enough, people are mostly the same. And some of them will be grouchy. Some of them will be bitter.
The trick is probably being around all the small and selfish while not BECOMING small and selfish. (Hmmm.... what's that good advice Paul gives? Do not conform to this world but be transformed....) It's maybe more surprising when this is the kind of work you have to do at church. But it's always our work to do, as Jesus people. No need for warnings. We come prepared. And, at our best, we resist the labels.
...But, then, I guess we'd have to label grocery stores, too. Elementary schools and strip malls, bars & grills and gas stations. Because churches are really nothing more than people. And everywhere people are, in any numbers high enough, people are mostly the same. And some of them will be grouchy. Some of them will be bitter.
The trick is probably being around all the small and selfish while not BECOMING small and selfish. (Hmmm.... what's that good advice Paul gives? Do not conform to this world but be transformed....) It's maybe more surprising when this is the kind of work you have to do at church. But it's always our work to do, as Jesus people. No need for warnings. We come prepared. And, at our best, we resist the labels.
9.08.2010
Fast Funnies
It's a busy week and I fear my time to think and write is about up for a while. To keep the posts going when my mind can't really keep pace, I'm going to cheat and simply transcribe two amusing moments from the last week.
Scene: Dinner table. 3rd grader Miles has shared that his class got a new student today. A girl.
Daddy J, immediately: "Is she cute?"
M: "NO! ...Well, not really. Maybe." (Small wrinkle in brow shows consternation, or at least concentrated thought.) "...Cute or not, what does it matter?!"
Ah, young son! Give it two years, and you may find it matters. Maybe a lot. ;)
Scene: Shoe store. Miles and Daddy are shopping while I distract Owen. It's going very well or terribly, depending upon one's point of view. Owen is definitely engaged and staying put. He found an arcade horse and is riding him without the benefit of quarters to make the horse move.
O: "YEE-HA!! Wide 'em, COWBOYS!" (Followed by more whooping and yee-ing.)
Dad appears in our corner of the store.
D: "Buddy? Listen. You have to be a little quieter in here!"
O: "Why, Daddy?" (Shifts to his staged whisper.) "ARE BABIES SLEEPING IN HERE?"
...Speaking of this post, I noticed last night that I don't really document like the other moms. I followed a friend's Facebook link to a family blog. And I clicked through the blogroll to many other family blogs. Funny, a whole lot of them post those "vital stats" for their child's first year. A lot of them take a monthly photo, in the same spot or with the baby dressed in one consistent thing, with little signs or pins to give the age. A lot of them list the foods their growing baby eats and or the words he/she says.
I relate crack-ups that cause us to lose our Parent Facade. ;)
In general, I tend to beat myself up when I compare me to the Mommy Blogs. I feel I'm not doing it all right, somehow? But today I feel just fine about my fits-and-starts, highly selective method of documenting our lives. It's FINE, my system. Because it's mine. And so are they. And God knows what He's doing. So I got the boys I needed, and they got the Mom they needed. While I am FAR from a really excellent or a perfect mother, I'm pretty perfect for them. Amen.
(And now I have to go see why Owen just yelled "YEAH, BABY! Way to go, O!" from his perch on the toilet. Where he is in training. And evidently very proud. Next we're going to senselessly patronize Starbucks on the way to his preschool. "I not feelin' good, Mama," he says this morning. "Because I need a lil' coffee shop. I needa go to that coffee shop, ann ann I will feel better." And I bought it -- hook, line & sinker! ;))
Scene: Dinner table. 3rd grader Miles has shared that his class got a new student today. A girl.
Daddy J, immediately: "Is she cute?"
M: "NO! ...Well, not really. Maybe." (Small wrinkle in brow shows consternation, or at least concentrated thought.) "...Cute or not, what does it matter?!"
Ah, young son! Give it two years, and you may find it matters. Maybe a lot. ;)
Scene: Shoe store. Miles and Daddy are shopping while I distract Owen. It's going very well or terribly, depending upon one's point of view. Owen is definitely engaged and staying put. He found an arcade horse and is riding him without the benefit of quarters to make the horse move.
O: "YEE-HA!! Wide 'em, COWBOYS!" (Followed by more whooping and yee-ing.)
Dad appears in our corner of the store.
D: "Buddy? Listen. You have to be a little quieter in here!"
O: "Why, Daddy?" (Shifts to his staged whisper.) "ARE BABIES SLEEPING IN HERE?"
...Speaking of this post, I noticed last night that I don't really document like the other moms. I followed a friend's Facebook link to a family blog. And I clicked through the blogroll to many other family blogs. Funny, a whole lot of them post those "vital stats" for their child's first year. A lot of them take a monthly photo, in the same spot or with the baby dressed in one consistent thing, with little signs or pins to give the age. A lot of them list the foods their growing baby eats and or the words he/she says.
I relate crack-ups that cause us to lose our Parent Facade. ;)
In general, I tend to beat myself up when I compare me to the Mommy Blogs. I feel I'm not doing it all right, somehow? But today I feel just fine about my fits-and-starts, highly selective method of documenting our lives. It's FINE, my system. Because it's mine. And so are they. And God knows what He's doing. So I got the boys I needed, and they got the Mom they needed. While I am FAR from a really excellent or a perfect mother, I'm pretty perfect for them. Amen.
(And now I have to go see why Owen just yelled "YEAH, BABY! Way to go, O!" from his perch on the toilet. Where he is in training. And evidently very proud. Next we're going to senselessly patronize Starbucks on the way to his preschool. "I not feelin' good, Mama," he says this morning. "Because I need a lil' coffee shop. I needa go to that coffee shop, ann ann I will feel better." And I bought it -- hook, line & sinker! ;))
9.07.2010
Snoozus Interruptus
So all I really wanted for Labor Day was to sleep in. And both my kids managed to wake me up early over the long weekend.
;)
No big deal, really. One of them wakes me up EVERY weekend, what with his early-bird toddler ways.
The other has long since outgrown coming to ask Mommy for cereal and a drink, for a Pull-Up change, for the Saturday morning cartoons to be turned on, etc.
And, knowing how fast they go from bright-eyed announcements of "Look at me! I waked up!" to silent, stealthy creeping straight to the TV room... I don't deep-down mind the morning interruption.
The notable thing about both of them needing me this weekend, one morning after the other, was the vastly different styles the two brothers employ.
Miles, as just referenced, can be soft-footed and sneaky. Owen shows no restraint.
Saturday a.m., Owen up: First I hear a dream-like voice (maybe I was dreaming?) as he calls from his own room down the hall.... "Oh! I'm A-WAAAAKE!" Ugh. I roll over and squeeze my eyelids together. I hear our door handle give and then rustling feet... the drag of Monkey and Yummy Puppy across the carpet. Still squeezing, just in case he switches things up and goes for Daddy. No such luck. Seeing me "asleep," Owen goes for the stage whisper. "MOMMY. MOMMY. IS YOU SLEEPING? ....DON'T BE SLEEPING. TIME TO WAKE UP!" I mumble out something like, "Five more minutes!" to which he says: "Don't be looking at the minutes in your lil' machine [alarm clock]. Just waked up! Hurry and waked up, Mommy! To get me juice. I need juice. This minute. Right this one!"
Sunday a.m., Miles up: Something indefinite disturbs my sleep. Can't put a finger on it but something... is... different. I wake up with eyes still closed. Can I hear anything suspicious? No. Do I sense anything wrong? No. Do I really need to open my eyes? Yes.... because there is breathing to the right of me when I should only hear Jeremy to the left of me. A slow opening, one lid at a time... then BAM. There's a dark, skinny form hovering right above my face. "mom. um... mom?" he whispers. "do you know where my DSi is? I can't find it." Seriously, child? Still hoping I haven't said that out loud, the left-side breathing becomes a groggy voice: "I know where it is, son, and you're just gonna have to live without it until 8 a.m."
Oh, the Brandt brothers! No one will ever drive us parents as crazy, make us as humble or as holy, as these smart, serious, sassy, preciously goofball little boys.
;)
No big deal, really. One of them wakes me up EVERY weekend, what with his early-bird toddler ways.
The other has long since outgrown coming to ask Mommy for cereal and a drink, for a Pull-Up change, for the Saturday morning cartoons to be turned on, etc.
And, knowing how fast they go from bright-eyed announcements of "Look at me! I waked up!" to silent, stealthy creeping straight to the TV room... I don't deep-down mind the morning interruption.
The notable thing about both of them needing me this weekend, one morning after the other, was the vastly different styles the two brothers employ.
Miles, as just referenced, can be soft-footed and sneaky. Owen shows no restraint.
Saturday a.m., Owen up: First I hear a dream-like voice (maybe I was dreaming?) as he calls from his own room down the hall.... "Oh! I'm A-WAAAAKE!" Ugh. I roll over and squeeze my eyelids together. I hear our door handle give and then rustling feet... the drag of Monkey and Yummy Puppy across the carpet. Still squeezing, just in case he switches things up and goes for Daddy. No such luck. Seeing me "asleep," Owen goes for the stage whisper. "MOMMY. MOMMY. IS YOU SLEEPING? ....DON'T BE SLEEPING. TIME TO WAKE UP!" I mumble out something like, "Five more minutes!" to which he says: "Don't be looking at the minutes in your lil' machine [alarm clock]. Just waked up! Hurry and waked up, Mommy! To get me juice. I need juice. This minute. Right this one!"
Sunday a.m., Miles up: Something indefinite disturbs my sleep. Can't put a finger on it but something... is... different. I wake up with eyes still closed. Can I hear anything suspicious? No. Do I sense anything wrong? No. Do I really need to open my eyes? Yes.... because there is breathing to the right of me when I should only hear Jeremy to the left of me. A slow opening, one lid at a time... then BAM. There's a dark, skinny form hovering right above my face. "mom. um... mom?" he whispers. "do you know where my DSi is? I can't find it." Seriously, child? Still hoping I haven't said that out loud, the left-side breathing becomes a groggy voice: "I know where it is, son, and you're just gonna have to live without it until 8 a.m."
Oh, the Brandt brothers! No one will ever drive us parents as crazy, make us as humble or as holy, as these smart, serious, sassy, preciously goofball little boys.
9.06.2010
Stop Light Theology
I was just thinking about traffic lights. I was thinking how much I dislike them. And the silly things I do to avoid them.
(That one at Paluxy and the Loop, especially. NIGHTMARE! But I digress...)
Sometimes, I turn to the right just to avoid waiting at a red light. It'll mean more driving -- oh I know! -- but I'd somehow rather stay in motion than stay on the correct path.
My spiritual life is just about like that. Lot of right turns, even when I'm pretty sure straight would serve me better.
I just don't find it easy, any more, to pause my mind... to full-stop and wait. My soul's tendency is to stay in motion. Yet, I know that I also tend to take lots of wrong turns without pause for reflection.
My head can make a tidy little connection here -- I need short pauses to reflect, while red lights provide just such short pauses. But my gut says, "let's be honest... prolly not gonna happen." (And, yes, my gut speaks colloquially.)
I have to confess, I'm just not the kind of girl who is zen enough to use each traffic stop as "found time" to reflect and pray. I'm not so big on "found time," at any time, at this stage in life.
I go, go, go (sometimes in circles) and then I mentally stall. That's how I roll in 2010.
I am the girl who turns right once, then left twice to get past a roughly 4-block area of backed up cars... in my medium-sized town of "Oh, You Ain't Seen Traffic Yet!"
...Where is the holy in that personality trait, I wonder?
Because, see, I'm assuming that to wait in perfect patience would be the much holier choice. And I'm kind of mentally berating myself right now. Patience is a virtue, right? 1 Corin. 13: "Love is patient, love is kind..."
So where does that put me, one who abhors waits and wants fervently to keep the wheels rolling?
I try. Look, I do!
I slow down, you know. And I stop for the signs. I just don't like the unknown waiting time of a re.... Ohhhhhh! So that's what this is about?!
We're back to me and my control thing. More plainly, my need to control things. Just my humanity, comin' out. How simple was that? Strange I never put it together until I wrote it all down.
And so here's the holy I'm craving more of, I now figure: If I can see where I fall short of the glory, then I can ask for a little more of it. Alone, I probably can't change how I am -- even down to a small, daily habit of greater patience. As devout as I get, I'll still be me. But maybe I don't need to change that much. Maybe it ISN'T the more excellent way for me to find a mantra or breathe deeply when I'm the 8th car back. I think, maybe, change doesn't have to be that hard.
Maybe I can just remember how much I need Jesus' presence -- before I get cranky and lose my cool. Maybe I can be just a little less me and a little more Him. Maybe Jesus understands why long red lights crawl under my skin. And maybe he can make me laugh while we wait.
(That one at Paluxy and the Loop, especially. NIGHTMARE! But I digress...)
Sometimes, I turn to the right just to avoid waiting at a red light. It'll mean more driving -- oh I know! -- but I'd somehow rather stay in motion than stay on the correct path.
My spiritual life is just about like that. Lot of right turns, even when I'm pretty sure straight would serve me better.
I just don't find it easy, any more, to pause my mind... to full-stop and wait. My soul's tendency is to stay in motion. Yet, I know that I also tend to take lots of wrong turns without pause for reflection.
My head can make a tidy little connection here -- I need short pauses to reflect, while red lights provide just such short pauses. But my gut says, "let's be honest... prolly not gonna happen." (And, yes, my gut speaks colloquially.)
I have to confess, I'm just not the kind of girl who is zen enough to use each traffic stop as "found time" to reflect and pray. I'm not so big on "found time," at any time, at this stage in life.
I go, go, go (sometimes in circles) and then I mentally stall. That's how I roll in 2010.
I am the girl who turns right once, then left twice to get past a roughly 4-block area of backed up cars... in my medium-sized town of "Oh, You Ain't Seen Traffic Yet!"
...Where is the holy in that personality trait, I wonder?
Because, see, I'm assuming that to wait in perfect patience would be the much holier choice. And I'm kind of mentally berating myself right now. Patience is a virtue, right? 1 Corin. 13: "Love is patient, love is kind..."
So where does that put me, one who abhors waits and wants fervently to keep the wheels rolling?
I try. Look, I do!
I slow down, you know. And I stop for the signs. I just don't like the unknown waiting time of a re.... Ohhhhhh! So that's what this is about?!
We're back to me and my control thing. More plainly, my need to control things. Just my humanity, comin' out. How simple was that? Strange I never put it together until I wrote it all down.
And so here's the holy I'm craving more of, I now figure: If I can see where I fall short of the glory, then I can ask for a little more of it. Alone, I probably can't change how I am -- even down to a small, daily habit of greater patience. As devout as I get, I'll still be me. But maybe I don't need to change that much. Maybe it ISN'T the more excellent way for me to find a mantra or breathe deeply when I'm the 8th car back. I think, maybe, change doesn't have to be that hard.
Maybe I can just remember how much I need Jesus' presence -- before I get cranky and lose my cool. Maybe I can be just a little less me and a little more Him. Maybe Jesus understands why long red lights crawl under my skin. And maybe he can make me laugh while we wait.
Dumpster Diving
So, Owen has lately developed an interesting habit. He digs things out of the trash can.
...It isn't (always) as disgusting as it sounds. And it makes a certain kind of sense if you think like an almost-3-year-old. Or a rat terrier.
It started when I would throw his gum away. (Anyone wondering why a 2-year-old gets to chew gum? Two words: OLDER BROTHER.) Owen is OBSESSED with gum. And, for his age, he does OK keeping it inside his mouth for a good stretch of time. But, as soon as Owen begins to play with it, I take it away and put it in the trash.
So it occurred to Sneaky Pete that he could simply wait until I leave the room, lift the lid and retrieve his treasure. It's right there on top! ;)
Soon enough he discovered other "treasures" can be found with just a little initiative, hiding under the top layer in said receptacle. Kids meal toys. Broken cars. Used-up markers. Bio-hazard level stinky summer sandals. As if the kitchen trash were simply another storage bin located anywhere in the house, O began to reach in and repossess things he was CLEARLY not done with.
Interestingly, he never flaunted these repos. He instinctively shoved them behind his back when I came into the room. Curious...
So, we had a long talk to reinforce concepts like "germs" and "dirty" -- plus the need for NEW GUM EACH CHEW -- and I haven't noticed any out-of-the-trash episodes since. (He did grab some Ramen noodles off the floor yesterday, but I think that's a whole 'nother thing. ...Just keepin' it real for posterity.)
As the dumpster diving seems to be winding down, I've been wondering was I more disturbed or impressed at the natural inclinations of childhood? (Hmmm! So often the question when raising boys... I should coin a term for the equal mix of "disturbed" and "impressed.")
Should I understand as much as I reprimand? After all, Owen is hardly the only kid who's valued something adults don't, or who doesn't blanch at getting a little dirty to get what he wants.
It does make me happy, on some fronts, that he wanted to hold on to imperfect things. There's wisdom in that. But there's also wisdom in letting things go, because they're only just things.
It's such a lot to learn, isn't it -- how to evaluate all the objects that flow through modern life. Trash or treasure? Toss or keep? Recycle or donate? A decision before us all the time. And just what makes that T-shirt with the scratchy collar more valuable than the 101 Dalmations figurine? He must have cocked his adorably curly head and wrinkled his eyebrows over that one. ;)
The thing I take from this episode of toddlerhood is to respect the way they come to us. Sometimes we have to train our children out of an inclination -- it's both right and duty of parenting -- but we should also try to value their instincts. Owen's have certainly made me stop and think each time I lift the kitchen can lid. "Would I want to see my child playing with this again later?" I ask myself. "Could I do anything different with it?" And, maybe most important of all, "if no, should I hid it in a taller trash can right now?"
...It isn't (always) as disgusting as it sounds. And it makes a certain kind of sense if you think like an almost-3-year-old. Or a rat terrier.
It started when I would throw his gum away. (Anyone wondering why a 2-year-old gets to chew gum? Two words: OLDER BROTHER.) Owen is OBSESSED with gum. And, for his age, he does OK keeping it inside his mouth for a good stretch of time. But, as soon as Owen begins to play with it, I take it away and put it in the trash.
So it occurred to Sneaky Pete that he could simply wait until I leave the room, lift the lid and retrieve his treasure. It's right there on top! ;)
Soon enough he discovered other "treasures" can be found with just a little initiative, hiding under the top layer in said receptacle. Kids meal toys. Broken cars. Used-up markers. Bio-hazard level stinky summer sandals. As if the kitchen trash were simply another storage bin located anywhere in the house, O began to reach in and repossess things he was CLEARLY not done with.
Interestingly, he never flaunted these repos. He instinctively shoved them behind his back when I came into the room. Curious...
So, we had a long talk to reinforce concepts like "germs" and "dirty" -- plus the need for NEW GUM EACH CHEW -- and I haven't noticed any out-of-the-trash episodes since. (He did grab some Ramen noodles off the floor yesterday, but I think that's a whole 'nother thing. ...Just keepin' it real for posterity.)
As the dumpster diving seems to be winding down, I've been wondering was I more disturbed or impressed at the natural inclinations of childhood? (Hmmm! So often the question when raising boys... I should coin a term for the equal mix of "disturbed" and "impressed.")
Should I understand as much as I reprimand? After all, Owen is hardly the only kid who's valued something adults don't, or who doesn't blanch at getting a little dirty to get what he wants.
It does make me happy, on some fronts, that he wanted to hold on to imperfect things. There's wisdom in that. But there's also wisdom in letting things go, because they're only just things.
It's such a lot to learn, isn't it -- how to evaluate all the objects that flow through modern life. Trash or treasure? Toss or keep? Recycle or donate? A decision before us all the time. And just what makes that T-shirt with the scratchy collar more valuable than the 101 Dalmations figurine? He must have cocked his adorably curly head and wrinkled his eyebrows over that one. ;)
The thing I take from this episode of toddlerhood is to respect the way they come to us. Sometimes we have to train our children out of an inclination -- it's both right and duty of parenting -- but we should also try to value their instincts. Owen's have certainly made me stop and think each time I lift the kitchen can lid. "Would I want to see my child playing with this again later?" I ask myself. "Could I do anything different with it?" And, maybe most important of all, "if no, should I hid it in a taller trash can right now?"
8.23.2010
Not That Painful
I'm trying to write more, of late.
Well, actually, not so much "more of a thing" but "anything."
I'm trying, lately, to write anything.
It's like relearning some athletic feat, long dormant and last practiced with a much more agile body.
But anyway, I'm posting again. Sort-of. And I can't say I'm fully pleased with my fledgling efforts, but hey, ya gotta start somewhere, right?
I think this about sums up the self-critique of my current journaling: It's not great. It doesn't totally suck. It's just somewhere in between.
And that seems apropos, somehow, because "in between" is where I really live these days.
It works on almost every level of my life I want to examine. And I do want to examine it all! I do. But I'm a little overwhelmed at the effort just now, so I'm gonna sign off without courting any more pithy observations. ...Expect maybe to note there's probably a darn good reason I feel stuck in an in-between stage. And once I get past it/ through it/ over it/ into it, I bet I have a lot to say.
Well, actually, not so much "more of a thing" but "anything."
I'm trying, lately, to write anything.
It's like relearning some athletic feat, long dormant and last practiced with a much more agile body.
But anyway, I'm posting again. Sort-of. And I can't say I'm fully pleased with my fledgling efforts, but hey, ya gotta start somewhere, right?
I think this about sums up the self-critique of my current journaling: It's not great. It doesn't totally suck. It's just somewhere in between.
And that seems apropos, somehow, because "in between" is where I really live these days.
It works on almost every level of my life I want to examine. And I do want to examine it all! I do. But I'm a little overwhelmed at the effort just now, so I'm gonna sign off without courting any more pithy observations. ...Expect maybe to note there's probably a darn good reason I feel stuck in an in-between stage. And once I get past it/ through it/ over it/ into it, I bet I have a lot to say.
8.20.2010
Just Listening...
Now here's something interesting.
(And, well, depressing if you happen to be me.)
So I'm cleaning up the "dashboard" of this blog (while also working, of course) on a Friday afternoon, and I find I have ALL these random past posts -- mostly written but never shared for want of a little editing.
This post, for instance, is coming off the shelf right now, because it's a funny one. I vividly remember the first exchange below, and it makes me laugh still today.
...But it's also depressing as it was written 2 calendar years ago, and WHY have I not posted it before?! WHERE are the other amusing memories I've never committed to written space, anywhere, over the past 18 months? (I didn't even remember the 2nd exchange at first... and even after the "oh, yeah!" moment, the edges are a little hazy.) So what am I losing, all the time, every day, in not journaling/ scribbling/ filing away everyday bits of our lives with young kids?
I HAVE to get back into this.
Because observation is what I'll have to offer my boys later. And it will probably matter more than most of the other things I try so hard to offer up now and can't always achieve. (Adventure! Quality family time! Real meals with hot food and side dishes!)
My gut tells me I gotta shift into "trained writer" gear, for real, because only I to give my children what's genuinely me -- all the little things that strike me as significant enough to chronicle.
Whether their truths or only mine, these moments are building the story of our lives. And, like all stories, they help make us. One day, I hope they help make us feel loved and whole.
So, Owen, babe: You're not in this one only 'cause you didn't yet have the words in 2008. Plus, you had just started going to Growing Stick, so Daddy picked you up after school while Miles was the only boy in my car each afternoon. Now, you possess A LOT of language. You fill our backseats with it. And you bend it to you amazing, upbeat, zealous little will. :) I'm posting this now -- and maybe lots more of Miles talk soon --but I promise I will keep remembering your early days until I write down a skyfull of Backseat Stories, all your own. xoxo...
Nov. 2008 -- Backseat conversation is one of my all-time favorite parts of motherhood. I love the things Miles throws at me as we ride around, him strapped securely in his quadrant of the car, me in mine. Maybe it's because we're just voices in these moments -- thoughts in the other's head more than a physical presence in each other's space -- that we have such good "talks."
Well, that and the fact that he's such a deep thinker.
First grade Miles is prone to some very SERIOUS pronouncements. He just says amusing, insightful, kooky things in the most solemn way.
A recent example...
M: "Have you ever noticed that we have a castle in Tyler? Welllll... it's kind of a castle, or maybe a museum.
Me: "Hmm... Not really...."
M: "It's that building right over there with the gate shut. Was it a castle before they closed it up?
(Let the record show the boy pointing to the old Brass Lion on South Broadway.)
Me: "Well, actually, it was a jewelry store."
M: "Then I'm not surprised it's closed, because it looks pretty scary. What kinda women would buy jewelry from a scary castle? (Then, under his breath), they should have made it like a museum. Women like museums!"
Oh, and here's another gem from the backseat...
M: "Mom! Mommie! Did you know.... (irritatingly long pause) ... that sometimes, when I drink a lot of a certain drink -- well, actually, it has to be a soda drink... (a-n-o-t-h-e-r t-e-d-i-o-u-s p-a-u-s-e) so, when I drink a lot of one soda at a time, and then if sometimes if I have to burp afterwards, then my burp will almost always taste like soda. Isn't that weird? Have you ever heard of that?"
Yes, son, it's called the human condition. You are rife with it. And it makes you beautiful.
love,
the mama
(And, well, depressing if you happen to be me.)
So I'm cleaning up the "dashboard" of this blog (while also working, of course) on a Friday afternoon, and I find I have ALL these random past posts -- mostly written but never shared for want of a little editing.
This post, for instance, is coming off the shelf right now, because it's a funny one. I vividly remember the first exchange below, and it makes me laugh still today.
...But it's also depressing as it was written 2 calendar years ago, and WHY have I not posted it before?! WHERE are the other amusing memories I've never committed to written space, anywhere, over the past 18 months? (I didn't even remember the 2nd exchange at first... and even after the "oh, yeah!" moment, the edges are a little hazy.) So what am I losing, all the time, every day, in not journaling/ scribbling/ filing away everyday bits of our lives with young kids?
I HAVE to get back into this.
Because observation is what I'll have to offer my boys later. And it will probably matter more than most of the other things I try so hard to offer up now and can't always achieve. (Adventure! Quality family time! Real meals with hot food and side dishes!)
My gut tells me I gotta shift into "trained writer" gear, for real, because only I to give my children what's genuinely me -- all the little things that strike me as significant enough to chronicle.
Whether their truths or only mine, these moments are building the story of our lives. And, like all stories, they help make us. One day, I hope they help make us feel loved and whole.
So, Owen, babe: You're not in this one only 'cause you didn't yet have the words in 2008. Plus, you had just started going to Growing Stick, so Daddy picked you up after school while Miles was the only boy in my car each afternoon. Now, you possess A LOT of language. You fill our backseats with it. And you bend it to you amazing, upbeat, zealous little will. :) I'm posting this now -- and maybe lots more of Miles talk soon --but I promise I will keep remembering your early days until I write down a skyfull of Backseat Stories, all your own. xoxo...
Nov. 2008 -- Backseat conversation is one of my all-time favorite parts of motherhood. I love the things Miles throws at me as we ride around, him strapped securely in his quadrant of the car, me in mine. Maybe it's because we're just voices in these moments -- thoughts in the other's head more than a physical presence in each other's space -- that we have such good "talks."
Well, that and the fact that he's such a deep thinker.
First grade Miles is prone to some very SERIOUS pronouncements. He just says amusing, insightful, kooky things in the most solemn way.
A recent example...
M: "Have you ever noticed that we have a castle in Tyler? Welllll... it's kind of a castle, or maybe a museum.
Me: "Hmm... Not really...."
M: "It's that building right over there with the gate shut. Was it a castle before they closed it up?
(Let the record show the boy pointing to the old Brass Lion on South Broadway.)
Me: "Well, actually, it was a jewelry store."
M: "Then I'm not surprised it's closed, because it looks pretty scary. What kinda women would buy jewelry from a scary castle? (Then, under his breath), they should have made it like a museum. Women like museums!"
Oh, and here's another gem from the backseat...
M: "Mom! Mommie! Did you know.... (irritatingly long pause) ... that sometimes, when I drink a lot of a certain drink -- well, actually, it has to be a soda drink... (a-n-o-t-h-e-r t-e-d-i-o-u-s p-a-u-s-e) so, when I drink a lot of one soda at a time, and then if sometimes if I have to burp afterwards, then my burp will almost always taste like soda. Isn't that weird? Have you ever heard of that?"
Yes, son, it's called the human condition. You are rife with it. And it makes you beautiful.
love,
the mama
8.19.2010
When We Became Ordinary
Once upon a time two very smart, and very dumb, young people met and fell in love. The love happened slowly and yet all-at-once, over clandestine witticisms sent in lieu of taking notes. In the same class. Three screens apart. It grew over later-night ice cream, dished out after dates, as they "pursued other interests" while a perfect fit sat across the futon.
Like most young and smart/dumb people, they hardly ever thought of themselves as ordinary.
Quirky? Yes. Flippant? Definitely. Blessed? Sure thing! ...And, hey, don't forget lucky!
Eventually, the very smart/ dumb young people saw just enough to know they should be married and always together. For years of email and lots of bowls of ice cream.
And so things went as things will go, while the smart/ dumb young people aged (only slightly), and gained (a few worldly things plus a bit around the middle), secured interesting jobs and bought their first home.
They acknowledged to each other that they had a very fun life. They planned overseas vacations in their emails. And they bought very expensive ice cream.
They also dreamed daydreams and grew discontent and sought new jobs and tried new things -- and then they became parents.
And, still, they were not ordinary.
Two very smart/slightly less dumb young people + 1 first-born child = nothing so very commonplace (to one another, anyway).
Everything, in fact, was original. All new. Premiering, every night.
Even the horrible parts were washed in glory, and the silky-fine, orange-gold hairs that graced that perfect first baby head seemed like God's special sign, a blazing torch that shed light on how very special and unique they must all be... this never-before-made family of three.
But something shifted along the way, as things went how things are wont to go.
The fairly smart/less dumb young people grew in the ways of their new tribe, called Parents. They gave up the "no TV" rule but held firm on "no McDonald's." (Mostly.) They learned about "good enough" and "getting through the day." They occasionally startled upon sight of the small and petty and lazy in themselves, and sometimes they wanted to shoo these lesser things away. Other times, they greeted the things with a wordless handshake.
Soon enough, they moved to Texas. Where a lot of good and sacred and a lot of hard and heartbreaking things happened. Sometimes all at once.
And so for years the family grew and laughed and cried and wondered about its place and, ultimately, sought for itself one last missing piece.
Eventually, they got it. Another baby -- the boy who lived -- arrived and he also bore the torch of special in his fiery fine locks. This time, with curls.
But no story ends at a beginning, and the family of three-who-became-four were far from over once their forth arrived. They had years of figuring-it-out ahead. And more than a few stops at McDonald's.
Flirty emails got scarce and ice cream went generic. Just like the shampoo, the cleaning products, and the diapers that used to be Huggies. Grocery lists got longer, time got shorter, and someone started shorting bedtime stories.
All those little changes, amassing in one very big wave, surged the story forward until one day, the not-so-young/ often absent-minded/ never-really-dumb Mom came to email the slightly-more-aged/ definitely-more-subdued/ and-clearly-never-dumb Dad to say, "I must clean this office! When did I become such a pig?"
And, typing, she suddenly knew.
An answer appeared to her fleeting, silly question. It was, in fact, quite real, and her mind reeled with its own reply. It happened when she became ordinary.
Before, she was a girl with passions. Abilities. Focus. Full of Light and Effervescence and Boundless Energy. While her messes and her projects could pile high, she could never survive disorder for very long. Nope. Because her Type could not allow it.
Special people, you may know, set special expectations for themselves. They aim high.
And that is how they come to have so far to fall.
This particular mom and this particular dad were forced to face that their unvarnished life looked a lot like anyone else's -- full of messes and always listing to one side. With detours and sidetracks and no straight climb to the pinnacle of anything. Unable to deny the exits they had taken on the way to SPECIAL and SUCCESSFUL and BEST SELVES EVER, they reached the only, inevitable conclusion. You can't be important to a lot of people at once, not when something important is happening at home. You can't even *always* be important yourself. No human can have it all or do it all. Just not possible. But, to a very few people, for a short while, you can be an entire world.
Dear Miles and Owen: I am humbled and privileged to have become ordinary for you. To give you an ordinary, good life. You are worthy young men, worth any sacrifice we have so far made or will ever be called to make, to keep our family woven tightly together. You have been worth facing the worst in myself; worth digging deep for the best. You are valuable and precious and so, so loved. You are my messy middle. You make me special. --Mom
Like most young and smart/dumb people, they hardly ever thought of themselves as ordinary.
Quirky? Yes. Flippant? Definitely. Blessed? Sure thing! ...And, hey, don't forget lucky!
Eventually, the very smart/ dumb young people saw just enough to know they should be married and always together. For years of email and lots of bowls of ice cream.
And so things went as things will go, while the smart/ dumb young people aged (only slightly), and gained (a few worldly things plus a bit around the middle), secured interesting jobs and bought their first home.
They acknowledged to each other that they had a very fun life. They planned overseas vacations in their emails. And they bought very expensive ice cream.
They also dreamed daydreams and grew discontent and sought new jobs and tried new things -- and then they became parents.
And, still, they were not ordinary.
Two very smart/slightly less dumb young people + 1 first-born child = nothing so very commonplace (to one another, anyway).
Everything, in fact, was original. All new. Premiering, every night.
Even the horrible parts were washed in glory, and the silky-fine, orange-gold hairs that graced that perfect first baby head seemed like God's special sign, a blazing torch that shed light on how very special and unique they must all be... this never-before-made family of three.
But something shifted along the way, as things went how things are wont to go.
The fairly smart/less dumb young people grew in the ways of their new tribe, called Parents. They gave up the "no TV" rule but held firm on "no McDonald's." (Mostly.) They learned about "good enough" and "getting through the day." They occasionally startled upon sight of the small and petty and lazy in themselves, and sometimes they wanted to shoo these lesser things away. Other times, they greeted the things with a wordless handshake.
Soon enough, they moved to Texas. Where a lot of good and sacred and a lot of hard and heartbreaking things happened. Sometimes all at once.
And so for years the family grew and laughed and cried and wondered about its place and, ultimately, sought for itself one last missing piece.
Eventually, they got it. Another baby -- the boy who lived -- arrived and he also bore the torch of special in his fiery fine locks. This time, with curls.
But no story ends at a beginning, and the family of three-who-became-four were far from over once their forth arrived. They had years of figuring-it-out ahead. And more than a few stops at McDonald's.
Flirty emails got scarce and ice cream went generic. Just like the shampoo, the cleaning products, and the diapers that used to be Huggies. Grocery lists got longer, time got shorter, and someone started shorting bedtime stories.
All those little changes, amassing in one very big wave, surged the story forward until one day, the not-so-young/ often absent-minded/ never-really-dumb Mom came to email the slightly-more-aged/ definitely-more-subdued/ and-clearly-never-dumb Dad to say, "I must clean this office! When did I become such a pig?"
And, typing, she suddenly knew.
An answer appeared to her fleeting, silly question. It was, in fact, quite real, and her mind reeled with its own reply. It happened when she became ordinary.
Before, she was a girl with passions. Abilities. Focus. Full of Light and Effervescence and Boundless Energy. While her messes and her projects could pile high, she could never survive disorder for very long. Nope. Because her Type could not allow it.
Special people, you may know, set special expectations for themselves. They aim high.
And that is how they come to have so far to fall.
This particular mom and this particular dad were forced to face that their unvarnished life looked a lot like anyone else's -- full of messes and always listing to one side. With detours and sidetracks and no straight climb to the pinnacle of anything. Unable to deny the exits they had taken on the way to SPECIAL and SUCCESSFUL and BEST SELVES EVER, they reached the only, inevitable conclusion. You can't be important to a lot of people at once, not when something important is happening at home. You can't even *always* be important yourself. No human can have it all or do it all. Just not possible. But, to a very few people, for a short while, you can be an entire world.
Dear Miles and Owen: I am humbled and privileged to have become ordinary for you. To give you an ordinary, good life. You are worthy young men, worth any sacrifice we have so far made or will ever be called to make, to keep our family woven tightly together. You have been worth facing the worst in myself; worth digging deep for the best. You are valuable and precious and so, so loved. You are my messy middle. You make me special. --Mom
8.11.2010
In the Time of the Owie
Owen got his first burn over the weekend -- a perfectly oval blister marring his otherwise perfect right pointer finger. He's just two months shy of 3 years old, so it's pretty impressive no bigger hurt has already befallen him.
He came rushing into my room saying, "Owie, owie, owie. Mommy! Look! Mommy, what is it? Owie, owie, owie..." I think my actual answer was something inane like, "I don't know. That wasn't there before."
I asked him to show me what hurt him. (Because endless bad possibilities will wrack a mother's brain. Was it a wasp and he's allergic? A chemical burn?) He led me to his room, where I had taken the shade off a lamp in order to exchange it for a smaller size. He couldn't resist the glowing 40-watt bulb, of course.
As soon as I registered what was wrong, I calmed down went for ice. As soon as he registered what was wrong, he freaked out.
I think the initial shock protected him from some of the pain. As the finger began to throb in earnest, with a hurt he had never quite felt before, Owen lost all control. He wailed. He bawled big hot tears that left tracks down his cheeks. He shook his hand as vigorously as he could and tried to slam it against anything he could find. He stamped his feet. And then he screamed. That pain simply would not go away.
Both parents got involved, pulling out all the distraction/ first aid tricks we know and managing to calm him in just a few minutes. He still tried to rub the blister off with the towel surrounding his ice pack. He still heaved every few seconds, with suppressed sobs. He snotted all over two towels. But he listened to us when we told him it's OK to feel hurt but don't feel scared, because we're sure it will get better soon.
No more than 10 minutes later, Owen and I were settled on a couch, me rubbing his feet while he licked a sour Bomb Pop.
...And then the stillness shifted. He became euphoric. I mean, literally, bouncing off the furniture happy. He giggled. He cracked jokes. He sang songs. He was the sudden court jester of Sherry Lane. Juggling was not out of the question.
This swift uptick in mood first made me downplay the whole drama that came before it. "Was that really necessary?" I thought. But then I thought about Owen's accident in terms of my adult emotions, and it all made perfect sense.
Isn't this the same way we adults react to pain? I mean real, psychic pain? As soon as we realize we hurt -- hurt in that deep, gut-punching, breath-stealing way that, once confronted, will command our complete attention -- pain is all we can feel. Perspective is out. Pain is in. Our throbbing souls get in the way of better decision making.
Flailing, shaking, aching in the middle of it, we have no idea where our pain will end.
Owen was completely overcome by an experience that he could not predict. That he could not control. That did not feel good to him. And I totally relate.
It's a compelling reason why we need a God. Because grown-ups can't exactly ask for popsicles to ease our hurts. Most of us can't live our lives with hovering mommies and daddies, ready to pull out all the stops to stop the burn.
But we do have a source of comfort. A promise that the pain will not always be all we see. In the the midst of the very worst of it, we have a Holy, sacred presence that can keep us from feeling the fire alone.
Stuck within ourselves, we can't know when and where a painful period of life will end. But we can pray. We can plead and cry, in fact. And we can listen for a reply. Because, sometimes, just hearing it will end makes all the difference.
And, amazingly, we don't have to feel "all better" to feel bracingly better. Just as Owen's pain lessened enough to let his naturally chipper self show through, we grown-up sufferers can, suddenly and floodingly, feel better. Long before all is healed, the return of a simple horizon ahead can make us a little giddy. This is a super-helpful thought for me to dwell on. Because we can all use a little more peace and perspective during our Times of Great Owie.
...Well, that and a Bomb Pop. ;)
He came rushing into my room saying, "Owie, owie, owie. Mommy! Look! Mommy, what is it? Owie, owie, owie..." I think my actual answer was something inane like, "I don't know. That wasn't there before."
I asked him to show me what hurt him. (Because endless bad possibilities will wrack a mother's brain. Was it a wasp and he's allergic? A chemical burn?) He led me to his room, where I had taken the shade off a lamp in order to exchange it for a smaller size. He couldn't resist the glowing 40-watt bulb, of course.
As soon as I registered what was wrong, I calmed down went for ice. As soon as he registered what was wrong, he freaked out.
I think the initial shock protected him from some of the pain. As the finger began to throb in earnest, with a hurt he had never quite felt before, Owen lost all control. He wailed. He bawled big hot tears that left tracks down his cheeks. He shook his hand as vigorously as he could and tried to slam it against anything he could find. He stamped his feet. And then he screamed. That pain simply would not go away.
Both parents got involved, pulling out all the distraction/ first aid tricks we know and managing to calm him in just a few minutes. He still tried to rub the blister off with the towel surrounding his ice pack. He still heaved every few seconds, with suppressed sobs. He snotted all over two towels. But he listened to us when we told him it's OK to feel hurt but don't feel scared, because we're sure it will get better soon.
No more than 10 minutes later, Owen and I were settled on a couch, me rubbing his feet while he licked a sour Bomb Pop.
...And then the stillness shifted. He became euphoric. I mean, literally, bouncing off the furniture happy. He giggled. He cracked jokes. He sang songs. He was the sudden court jester of Sherry Lane. Juggling was not out of the question.
This swift uptick in mood first made me downplay the whole drama that came before it. "Was that really necessary?" I thought. But then I thought about Owen's accident in terms of my adult emotions, and it all made perfect sense.
Isn't this the same way we adults react to pain? I mean real, psychic pain? As soon as we realize we hurt -- hurt in that deep, gut-punching, breath-stealing way that, once confronted, will command our complete attention -- pain is all we can feel. Perspective is out. Pain is in. Our throbbing souls get in the way of better decision making.
Flailing, shaking, aching in the middle of it, we have no idea where our pain will end.
Owen was completely overcome by an experience that he could not predict. That he could not control. That did not feel good to him. And I totally relate.
It's a compelling reason why we need a God. Because grown-ups can't exactly ask for popsicles to ease our hurts. Most of us can't live our lives with hovering mommies and daddies, ready to pull out all the stops to stop the burn.
But we do have a source of comfort. A promise that the pain will not always be all we see. In the the midst of the very worst of it, we have a Holy, sacred presence that can keep us from feeling the fire alone.
Stuck within ourselves, we can't know when and where a painful period of life will end. But we can pray. We can plead and cry, in fact. And we can listen for a reply. Because, sometimes, just hearing it will end makes all the difference.
And, amazingly, we don't have to feel "all better" to feel bracingly better. Just as Owen's pain lessened enough to let his naturally chipper self show through, we grown-up sufferers can, suddenly and floodingly, feel better. Long before all is healed, the return of a simple horizon ahead can make us a little giddy. This is a super-helpful thought for me to dwell on. Because we can all use a little more peace and perspective during our Times of Great Owie.
...Well, that and a Bomb Pop. ;)
5.24.2010
Miles Writes
So I wanted to compare two grade levels, to create this inspiring display of growth and learning I could print out and show my eldest kid, in support of his own burgeoning skills. ...But not so much, when I actually went to do it.
I'm not sure much, um, grammatical progress has been made from the 1st to the 2nd grade. But I'll take what I can get. And I don't get many writing samples back from school.
As I examine them again (skipping the red-pen impulse in me and trying to get at the "voice" in the text"), I'm not discouraged. Not at all.
...Though he would deny it and doesn't like the discipline of it, I'm still hopeful that what we have on our hands here -- is a WRITER! ;)
Miles writing sample, last six weeks 1st grade:
A life-size baby giraffe is bigger than you wold think. It's eye is about as big as your fist. It hase a very long neck. On it's very long neck there is a mane. It has a long leg its coverd in hair. The baby giraffe has yellow fur and on top of that is brown spots. The baby giraffe has hoofs like cylinders.
Miles writing sample, last six weeks of 2nd grade:
Today we named our invetions. The name of my invention is the Speaker Cheater what it does is it makes a video game last longer. Today we also started building our inventions it was very fun but also chalenging. We put batteries, cables, plugs and many, many more! Oh I almost forgot we also went to veseted the Thomas Edison museum we looked at the phonograph. We also looked at Thomas Edison's lab today we looked at the light bulb. It was very fun and cool. We also stored our inventions in a gigantonormus vault.
{Added later:}
I relly, relly, relly hope that I get a patent on the Speaker Cheater and I can't wate until I make my next invention or inovation.
I'm not sure much, um, grammatical progress has been made from the 1st to the 2nd grade. But I'll take what I can get. And I don't get many writing samples back from school.
As I examine them again (skipping the red-pen impulse in me and trying to get at the "voice" in the text"), I'm not discouraged. Not at all.
...Though he would deny it and doesn't like the discipline of it, I'm still hopeful that what we have on our hands here -- is a WRITER! ;)
Miles writing sample, last six weeks 1st grade:
A life-size baby giraffe is bigger than you wold think. It's eye is about as big as your fist. It hase a very long neck. On it's very long neck there is a mane. It has a long leg its coverd in hair. The baby giraffe has yellow fur and on top of that is brown spots. The baby giraffe has hoofs like cylinders.
Miles writing sample, last six weeks of 2nd grade:
Today we named our invetions. The name of my invention is the Speaker Cheater what it does is it makes a video game last longer. Today we also started building our inventions it was very fun but also chalenging. We put batteries, cables, plugs and many, many more! Oh I almost forgot we also went to veseted the Thomas Edison museum we looked at the phonograph. We also looked at Thomas Edison's lab today we looked at the light bulb. It was very fun and cool. We also stored our inventions in a gigantonormus vault.
{Added later:}
I relly, relly, relly hope that I get a patent on the Speaker Cheater and I can't wate until I make my next invention or inovation.
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