Beauty Ternity

"What?" I asked as he stood in the doorway of his parents' bathroom watching me fix my hair and makeup for the coming day.  "I don't know," he answered quite honestly.  After a pause, he added quietly, "It's just been so long since I watched a woman do her hair."  It may seem odd to you, but this is one of the first conversations I can recall having with the man who is now my husband.  It endeared him to me in a way I can't fully describe.  He had been single for nearly 7 years when I met Mark, and, unlike most single men in their late 20's, he had not dated.  As it was, our dating was not really "dating".  I had 2 children.  He had one, and we lived 3 1/2 hours apart.  Our times together consisted of his staying at a hotel in my town or me staying at his parents' house in his town.  Times together were spent almost entirely with our kids, parents, other family members, friends, or any combination of the above.  Having done just about everything wrong in the book in previous relationships, Mark and I were concerned with doing things right this time for the sakes of our children and ourselves.  This may seem old-fashioned to most people, but we only had one chance to make our second chance work for everyone.  That being said, the exchange mentioned above took place between just him and me as his son walked away from the bathroom doorway that day (my first visit to the Iowa town in which my in-laws still reside).  It is still etched in my mind today.  

Our single-parenting days just about over... 

Last week, I watched my sister - red-headed and 9 months pregnant - as she got ready for a sisters' night out with me and my little sister from California.  As I watched a woman who feels quite certainly less than beautiful at this moment in her life, I recalled my husband's commentary some 6 years ago.  I was drawn in at the sight of her drying and curling her hair, applying makeup, and making herself more beautiful for our night out.  I couldn't take my eyes off of her.  Her beauty was quite (and quietly) evident to me - even if not to herself.


Women are beautiful.  The longer I live, the more I realize that it doesn't matter if we're 3 or 93, tall or short, chubby or thin, we are still the most glorious creatures God made on this earth.  Like you, I've been witness to all types of tainted beauty.  Beauty turned ugly by attitude or heart or flaunted immodesty, but for the most part, I love to look at women.  Often times, it's not her appearance that makes her grand.  It is her way.  Lord Byron wrote, 

"She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!"

Me snuggling a newborn Levi

The way she holds a sleeping babe... The way she nurses an ailing infant...  The softness in her voice as she sings a lullaby...  These are just a few of the true beauties of a woman.  

Claire - holding a cicada

Grandma Bowers at 18

Grandma Bowers now with Violet

Emily

Our ladies trip to the Bahamas

Violet

Granny

Claire

My mom and Sadie

My girls at the farm in Iowa

A week ago, I was helping at the local hospice home.  Specifically, I was helping to feed a woman.  She was very old and very frail and unable to speak - even a word.  She was awake and watching as we women (strangers to her) - nurses and volunteers gathered around her and spoke to her.  I was touched by the beauty taking place in that room as people whom she did not know clasped her hand, mopped her brow, spoon fed her, complimented her, caressed her face, and even kissed her forehead.  The patient's eyes looked intently at each of us in turn, and I couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking.  As I looked into her eyes I was noticed how beautiful and blue they were.  They were striking.  I told her so, and the corners of her mouth turned upward, ever so slowly, into a smile.  This woman, disheveled and worn, ill and bedraggled, had undoubtedly seen many a better day.  Had she been able to speak, she might have turned down such a compliment - as so many of us are wont to do, but she didn't.  She just smiled.  I spoke what we both knew but she surely doubted at that moment - she was beautiful.

One of my hospice patients died last week.  He was my buddy for a year.  As I sat by his bed a few days before he passed, I talked of news and weather and his health.  He talked of beauty.  In his old-fashioned way, he said, "Gee, you always look so nice.  You're always smiling."  "Gee, you have beautiful eyes."  For a man too sick to get out of his bed, there were obviously no ulterior motives in his compliments... no veiled creepiness or manipulative ploys.  He was closer to eternity than most of us will be for a long while.  Yet - his soul was being fed by what he perceived.  He reached out and we clasped hands.  He pulled my hand under his chin and held it close - slowly falling asleep.  I felt as I do with my children when they fall asleep next to me - that if I moved he would wake... and he did.  

Ecclesiastes 3:11 says (NLT), "Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end."

We instinctively know by observing the world around us - particularly beauty (which, incidentally has little evolutionary value if you believe [the truth] that physical attractiveness does not assign worth to a person) that this world is not the end of our existence.  It is not our permanent and only home.  No matter how hard we fight it.  Now matter how much we may deny it, we cannot see a sunset or a waterfall without knowing that we are not a whim of an evolutionary process.  

Are women the only creatures that are beautiful?  Are we the only thing that reflect eternity's promise?  Hardly.  Some of my most precious photos are of the handsome men in my life:

Austin - Summer 06

Austin - Autumn 07

Mark sharing nature with our children

My marriage is so happy, and I mean it's not just facebook happy.  It's genuinely happy.  We have hard times.  We have disagreements.  We have everyday life, bills, chores, and children but at the end of each day I am happier than I was the last.  I don't say that to brag.  I say it because people often ask me that question... if we are genuinely happy - if we are "doing okay".  I'm not offended by the question.  I think people are either genuinely concerned or genuinely curious about our "second time around".  Either of which is understandable to me.  After all, our marriage this time around wasn't built on strong feelings as much as on logical thought and a lot of prayer.  It was a marriage that met - not so much on desires of passion and longing (as immaturity often dictates) but needs of a practical nature, needs like partnership, friendship, companionship, and help.  Ironically, this "mariage of convenience" as I sometimes jokingly call it, is what I've found makes our marriage work - the end result of which has been a deeper passion and more intense longing than I've ever before experienced.  


I must admit that a large part of my happiness stems from the fact that my husband is aging.  To me, every day older he gets, he becomes more golden.  He is handsomer, stronger, and more alive than the days before, and I will explain after I tell you another story.

About two days after that day in his parents' bathroom, he called me (as he did every night) and said, "When I'm over at mom and dad's, I keep going into their guest room.  It still smells like you."  It may seem funny that I recall such simple vulnerabilities, but maybe those are the types of romantic moments that are permitted two single parents.  Unlike me, my husband isn't verbose.  He doesn't waste words.  The longer I've known him, the more precious these memories are, because, in a world of flattery and exaggeration, his utter sincerity was a rare gem.  He wasn't trying to persuade me of his affection.  He was just being honest.  I also say this, because he has a history of using compliments quite sparingly. 

I was talking with a friend this morning, and we got on the subject of our husbands.  We both agreed that they become more attractive with age.  I think that - whether or not he could put it into words - the older he gets, the more Mark realizes that vulnerability and openness is not a weakness.  It is a strength.  When a man is young, he is selfish and insecure - largely lacking the ability to love and certainly feeble to express it.  As they age, the best of men realize that to get they must first give.  Over time and through giving, they become secure and sure, and that is what makes a man attractive - at least in my opinion.  Our husbands have become men by setting aside what other people think and doing what they feel is right - unabashedly and unapologetically.  My husband's soft side is what makes him most attractive to me these days.

Mark and Levi

Mark and sleeping Claire

Mark and my girls

Most of our lives will be spent on the other side of eternity.  I am so glad God gives us one another as a (granted, dim) glimpse of what our eternity could look like.  For me, it is not merely a blessing but a responsibility to look as beautiful (on the inside) as possible.  I am, after all, reflecting (or not) the glory of Heaven to those around me.  I can attract or repulse.  I can draw closer or push away.  I can bring life or death.  It is a challenge to remember that giving life to my children does not have to end in the delivery room.  It does not end until I meet death.

As I lie in bed with my children before bed at night or when they wake up and come in bed with me, I am overwhelmed when they reach out a small, chubby hand to grasp mine or caress my hair.  These most precious moments of unconditional love and affection give me hope that we are passing a legacy of compassion to our children that will end in bedside send-offs to eternity future surrounded by those same precious children instead of the strangers with whom too many hospice patients spend their last hours.  

Before It Sneaks Up On You

Once again, it's been quite awhile since I last blogged.  I let time pass, and then I find it more intimidating by the day to write, because there are that many more things on my mind, and I feel this need to try to communicate it all.  Ugh... I won't do that to either of us.  I'll just give you a taste of what's in here.

Last Friday night (Christmas Eve Eve, incidentally) Mark and I got to go see a movie in Rockford.  After leaving the movie, I realized we needed a few things from the store  - at the top of the list:  diapers.  So we reluctantly headed toward Walmart.  I rationalized that at almost 11:00 PM Rockford's State Street Walmart would have been less busy.  I was woefully mistaken.  When we drove in to look for a parking space, we encountered what appeared to have been the apocalypse.  Carts were strewn about the parking lot.  Shelves were empty.  Employees looked like zombies.  And the shoppers?  Well, we all did our best to pretend that each other didn't exist... unless in one another's way.  Sometimes the need for diapers can just sneak up on a person.

Walmart aside:  Now, I am the first to say that Walmart provides much-needed employment for many people I know and love.  I appreciate that.  However, I have to confess my deep sense of loathing toward Walmart.  This Walmart was equipped with the usual - auto department, pharmacy, photography studio, nail salon, hair salon, etc.  It also, however, was equipped with a McDonald's and a walk-in clinic.  As I waited for Mark to use the restroom before we left the dreaded Walmart on Christmas Eve Eve, I watched a white kid who wore a gangster hat standing precariously on the top of his small head and a t-shirt that said, "psychotic records" standing in the checkout line with what I assumed to be his tired, annoyed, middle-aged mom in a Chicago Bears coat, I tried to conjure up why I am so annoyed with Walmart.  I think it's us that created Walmart... when I say, "us" I mean those of us in the U.S.A.  We love to waste things.  We wear disposable hats and disposable t-shirts (although, I'm fairly certain that if that young man ever gets married his psychotic records t-shirt will be one of the last he ever lets his wife throw out).  We don't buy clothes.  We buy fads and phases.  We don't buy food, we buy cravings and addictions.  Walmart makes luxuries affordable to the point where we are hard pressed to even identify or make any distinction between a need and a want, a necessity and a luxury anymore.  This is entirely aside from the fact that some part of me deeply resents anywhere I can get a haircut and manicure, then get my photos taken while my car simultaneously gets a lube job and tire rotation, then stop by the clinic for a cholesterol check and a flu shot, then stop by McDonald's for some cholesterol with a side of flu, then stop by the pharmacy to get some cholest-off, then stop by the meat department for some Lobster and some ground beef, the produce section for some coconuts and plantains, the dairy section for some milk and cheese, the bakery for some doughnut holes, the baby section for some diapers and Butt Paste, the boy's clothing section for a shirt and tie, the sporting goods section for some stink bait and a basketball, the automotive department for a new car battery, and the personal care section for some toothpaste and floss.... all before a pimple-faced kid manages to give me 25 bags for 23 items and still packages the Lobster and doughnut holes in the same bag as the basketball, Butt Paste, and stink bait - and all while never leaving the doors of one store.  It's marvelously annoying that I need but don't love Walmart!  Sometimes resentment just sneaks up on a person.

Sunday morning I found out that Levi (age 4) was supposed to have been singing in front of the church with some other children.  It's a good thing I bought that shirt and tie at Walmart and put it on him Sunday morning.  (See?  They had me at, "Hello, welcome to Walmart.")  Levi knew this song.  He had sung it to me at home and in the car on many occasions.  It contained the words, "Celebrate the Child who is the Light.  Now the darkness is over.  No more wandering in the night.  Celebrate the Child who is the Light!"  He knew the words... well, most of the words.  He was pretty sure that it was "laundering in the night" that was to be no more, and I was all for that change in particular.  He stood up there looking sharp in his George brand shirt and tie, but he didn't sing a word.  Not a syllable... not a letter... did he utter.  Not a peep.  He resented the shirt, the tie, the outfit, and the obligation.  He may have been up in front of everyone looking sharp on the outside, but on the inside he was still at home wearing only black socks and threatening his sisters with a mere light saber and his sheer nakedness.  He didn't want to be singing.  So he didn't sing.  Sometimes responsibilities just sneak up on a person.

As Levi was unenthusiastic, his sister Violet (age 2) was as enthusiastic as her brother was not.  She longed to sing with the big people and set a hymnal in her lap as though she had the aptitude to belt out the Christmas carols like everyone else.  Never mind that the hymnal was upside down, because she's illiterate anyway.  She remained undaunted.  A more adorable sight was scarce for this mom to behold on Christmas morning.  Sometimes sweetness just sneaks up on a person.

This past Monday, we celebrated my dad's parents' 60th wedding anniversary.  My dad said that, when they were in line at the store to purchase the cake for the party, another patron looked at them (having read the cake's inscription) and said, "60 years, huh?  I guess it's working out then."  I love that... "I guess it's working out."  I suppose it's safe to make such a statement after 60 years.  As they sat there watching a photo montage of their 60 years together run across the screen, I couldn't help but wonder if sometimes 60 years just sneak up on a person.   

Grandma and Grandpa in 1952

My grandma was diagnosed with ALS a few months back, and her health is declining.  That being said, Monday's celebration was a bit more bittersweet than I would have liked it to be.  Sometimes unpleasant things just sneak up on a person.

family photos taken shortly after her diagnosis

 These days, the man who spent most of his life being well taken care of by the woman on his right is lifting her out of bed, helping her get dressed, helping her bathe, pushing her wheel chair, adjusting and calibrating her breathing machine, trying his hand at cooking for them, and even watching her sleep.  Her kitchen has become his kitchen.  Her life has become his life.  His job has become her.  As I type my heart breaks at the idea of it... but not in the way you may think.  "And the two shall become one flesh" is written in Genesis of God's intent and desire for the first couple He made - Adam and Eve.  "And the two shall become one flesh" doesn't happen at the altar or in the bedroom.  It doesn't happen when two people share a look of pride when their child is born or does something special.  It doesn't even happen when two people share hopes and dreams.  It happens when the word "love" becomes a choice - when it becomes an action that must be done on the other's behalf - an action undeserved, unmerited, and unable to be repaid - when he takes steps for her, when he cooks food for her.  When he does all these things on her behalf... they have truly become one flesh.  These days it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.  Sometimes beauty just sneaks up on a person.

A Tale of Two Mommies

"Momma said there'll be days like this" didn't quite cover this one.   I mean yesterday was a busy day for us - school in the morning and two afternoon appointments in Rockford, followed by some clothes shopping and grocery shopping, and then home to make supper.  All of these activities were enhanced by the fact that Mark had worked yet another double shift and wasn't available to help with any of them.  When I finally got the kids off to bed last night, I thought I'd be spending the next hopefully low-key day working on school with the kids, doing regular daily duties, and topping it off by going to a long-awaited supper with a friend.  I know this might not seem like an exciting day to most people, but I've come to sincerely cherish days with few things on the schedule... especially if that day might happen to end with a supper that someone else cooks and cleans up after... and especially if that supper is with another adult-type conversational person... most especially if that supper does not include sippy cups, cutting someone else's meat, and/or the dog ripping someone's beloved (if not carelessly dangled below the table's edge) cheeseburger from his or her tiny fingers leading to excessive, dramatic wailing.


These dreams of such a day and such a meal were not meant to be.  You see, my throat had started to hurt around 6:00 pm.  At about 11:00 pm, when I was just about finishing up my mommy alone time, Violet came wandering into the kitchen.  She was restless but not feverish, and she said that her throat hurt.  She asked me to give her medicine, and after a little bit of Tylenol and some snuggling in her bed, she fell asleep... for about 20 minutes.  As I was in bed starting to drift off, she came wandering in asking me to help her - that her throat hurt.  Obviously, there was little else I could do for her.  So we followed the same routine as before, minus the Tylenol, about half a dozen more times that night until I just had her sleep in bed with me.  I use the term "sleep" very loosely, because that's not what actually happened.  She was awake nearly the entire rest of the night and up for good by 4:00 am.  It's amazing how quickly it seems that a person goes from being accustomed to nightly feedings and waking at all hours to getting to sleep for at least 6 hours in a night.  So much worse than being awake was watching her pain and being helpless to do anything about it.  She kept asking me to help her, and there was nothing I could do.  I called Mark, who was obviously working nights, and he insisted that he would take us both to the prompt care doc when he got home that morning.  (He didn't want me to drive on so little sleep.)  


When we got up, Violet cried if I had to put her down for any time at all, which, when Levi woke up - his usual, chipper, very early morning rising self - became a necessity.  He insisted on trying to get his own cereal.  He hopped up on the counter to get a bowl, and, finding all the plastic bowls missing, decided on glass one which he promptly dropped on the tile floor.  The bowl and floor met with an ear-shattering crash, and I spent the next 15 minutes trying to find every shard of glass - which had gone far and wide all over the kitchen.  Fortunately, Austin came upstairs at just that moment and was able to help with Violet while I cleaned up the mess.  Unfortunately, he brought with him the news that Claire's kitten had drowned in the pool.  Mark arrived home shortly after and discovered that Levi had thoroughly wet his bed in the night.  Austin was telling me that he had finally decided that he wanted to play basketball this season and that his first basketball practice was... when else?  Tonight.  I texted my mom who was on her way to pick up Levi and Violet (as she often does on Thursdays) to tell her what was happening, and she offered to try to help.  I didn't even know where to begin.  I knew if Mark was going to take me and Violet to town that he would not be able to wake up when I had to leave for my dream supper at 4:30 pm.  I also knew that it would be hard for him to pack up a sick baby to take Austin to basketball practice.  As my dreams of a relaxing day and evening faded so crazy quick into the background of all our unexpected hustle and bustle, my emotions were all over the place.  They were bouncing from sympathetic, to annoyed, to controling, to helpful, to happy, to sad, to loved, to exhausted and most of all overwhelmed.  My day was not really my day at all - which isn't that different from any other day, but I had to try to figure out how to administrate all the chaos that came with this one.  As it turns out, I canceled all my evening plans and was better able to work through all the different things that needed to be done for this long day.


I have a book titled, The Miracle in a Mother's Touch.  I can't tell you who the author is.  I can't tell you what it says.  I can't tell you how I came to own it.  You see, I don't really care for whole books so much as I like titles and ideas, and my mind starts to wander as I read, and I develop my own ideas about what point of the book must surely be, and then I become lost.  I have reading ADD.  The title of this book has captivated me from my night stand on several occasions, and I have decided or determined to decide to read it.  I have started the first chapter on more than one occasion.  I must make a confession.  I'm not naturally a cuddler or a hugger.  I have to push against my natural desires for personal space and open my arms to those around me - especially my kids.  When it seems like it must be automatic and desireable for so many moms, it isn't always that way for me.  In fact, I've been that way for as long as I can remember.  I come from an affectionate household, and I can remember everyone thinking me strange when, as a child, if I had someone sleep over in my room I would pull out the rollaway bed and sleep on it - giving my guest the bed.  I liked my own space... still do.


Today was a sad day for many here in our town.  Several years ago, one of my cousins married a lady and had some sweet boys.  His wife became ill and passed away.  In time he remarried, but, as it turns out, his new wife was not good and kind to his first wife's sons.  In fact, she abused and injured one of his sons quite badly.  This little boy ended up with severe brain damage, but, after making several improvements, was able to gain some consciousness and be placed back with family members.  After much struggle and hope, the boy died - today.  The tragedy is indescribable... these boys lost one sweet mother and received the wrath of the next.  I can only trust God that He has reunited mother and son in His presence, and that there is no more pain or suffering there.  You see, God doesn't just understand a mother's love.  He didn't even just invent a mother's love.  He is a mother's love.  


Luke 13:34b AMP Jesus says, "How often I have desired and yearned to gather your children together [around Me], as a hen [gathers] her young under her wings, but you would not!"

God said through the prophet Isaiah in Isaiah 66:13, “As a mother comforts her son, so will I comfort you.”

God, as a masculine deity, often gets forgotten as the author of feminity... softness, gentleness, beauty, and the kind of strength that is not coarse or brash but is sure and true and trustworthy - the kind that says, "Lean on me, and I will support you with all I have".  (I say this not to negate the obvious masculinity that He is including provider, avenger, protector, leader, and the kind of strength that says, "Count on me, and I will lead you and cover you," but this isn't a tale of two daddies.)  In our day and age where every boundary must be pushed and every limit defied, we are often uncomfortable in labeling gender roles.  People claim to believe there is no absolute truth defining those roles - or any absolute truth at all, for that matter.  I have yet to see anyone actually try to live with the conviction that there is no absolute truth.  After all, we wouldn't survive very long if we tried out the theories that the law of gravity may not be an absolute truth.  We wouldn't advance in intelligence or technology if we tried out the theory that 2+2 may not actually equal 4 either.  


I tend to believe that God created both man and woman for the purpose of displaying a portion of His being... and that those two portions combine to make - in an ideal world (which ours is far from) - an accurate picture of His whole nature.  


Back to the miracle in a mother's touch.  Maybe the author uses statistical data or anectodal evidence.  Me?  I have a mother.  She used to hold my hand.  She used to caress my skin when I was tired.  She used to touch my feverish forehead when I was sick.  She touched me daily.  When I think of my mother's hands, I remember them the way they looked when I was a child.  I remember her fingernails, her freckles.  I remember how I felt when she used them to nurture me - sometimes even through discipline.   A mother's touch is a reflection of a mother's heart.  Some mother's are loud and showy with their affection as if to impress.  Some are discreet and sincere.  Still others have trouble even managing to reach out and touch at all.  


This morning, as I sat in the chair with a sick daughter pulled close to one breast and a heartbroken daughter pulled close to the other - trying to decide how the rest of the day was going to be for my family, I recognized that it was more critical to my family at that moment that I decide how I was going to be for my family for the rest of the day.  Proverbs 14:1 says, "EVERY WISE woman builds her house, but the foolish one tears it down with her own hands."  I may look at an abusive or neglectful mother and get on my "high horse".  I can think to myself thoughts that are (by God's grace) true - that I am not in danger of beating, abusing, or neglecting my children and that this makes me a good mom, but there's so much more to the job than meets the eye.  I have a choice to make, every moment of every day - whether I will nurture and build my home (the people in my home) or whether I will tear it down with my own hands (words).  The difference between a cutting word and an encouraging word - a critical spirit and a nurturing spirit - is often a much more crucial difference than I will ever perceive or can fully appreciate.  


Who are the two mommies, you may wonder?  I  am.  I can be controlling, demanding, exasperated, annoyed, frustrated, angry, and put out.  Or I can release control to God which enables me to give up my demands, be patient, be kind, be soft and strong.  The truths God's placed in nature reveal that it is possible to be soft and still be strong and that it is particularly endearing to do so.  Just ask cotton... it makes up my favorite old t-shirt, my daughter's 10 year old "blankie", and the dear, old undies that my husband might still have in the rotation when the toddlers graduate.  Ah, me... the glories of being strong enough to fulfill my role and not just fulfill it but to glory in it.  I think of that book title whenever I am mopping a feverish brow, bandaging a scraped knee, or pulling a burdened, little heart closer to mine.  There is no question for those of us who have watched tales of two mommies unfold... which is the more endearing one.

Frank Sinatra, Puppies, and Violets

As a mom of young children, nice, long showers can be difficult to come by.  So when my husband told me he'd handle supper prep tonight while I took a shower, I was happy to oblige.  He headed to the kitchen, and I headed to the bathroom.  About 5 minutes into my shower, I heard the bedroom door slam. I could recognize that particular door slam just about anywhere.  It is the property of a little blond girl who looks almost exactly like this:  

Now, this is Violet.  She is a little girl with a big way about her.  I don't want to put it in negative terms... not attitude or naughtiness really... just personality plus.  She also has a habit if shutting doors with flair.  The doors of our house shudder when they see her coming, and the entire household wakes up with her.

On this particular occasion, Violet wasn't mad or even annoyed.  She was just being her cute, little, door-slamming self.

She said in her sweet voice, "Mommy?"

I replied, "Yes? What ya doin', baby?"

"Mommy, I got poops."

"You do?  Want me to change your diaper?"

"Yep."

"You know daddy's out there, right?  Maybe he could change it for you since I'm in the shower."

"Nah.  I want you do it."

"Um, okay.  You'll have to wait till I get out."

"Okay, I'll wait here."

Now, I know this is trouble.  She's in the master bathroom which is full of fun and exciting things for children of all ages (toilet brushes, tooth brushes, makeup brushes, and hair brushes), but Violet thinks she's a princess.  I don't know why she thinks this.  We've not indoctrinated her with princess talk.  I honestly have never had a princess in the house.  The other two girls might have gone through a month or two phase of wanting to dress up in a dress or crown, but these days they'll barely touch a dress with a ten foot pole.  Violet is entering about month 6 of trying on every shoe in the house - especially the ones with heels.  She loves jewelry - the bigger the better.  She stands next to me during every makeup application begging for her "share" of the pretty paint.  She carries not just one but several purses around the house and bids everything smaller than her (which in our house only includes pets and stuffed animals right now) to submit to her governing authority.

The "rest of the story" from the above photo.  Violet with 4 purses and some sweet heels...

Last Sunday morning, she crawled into bed with us and told my husband that she needed him to make her a horse.  "Make you a horse?" he asked groggily.  "YES," she replied with urgency. "Because princesses need horses to ride, and I am a princess."  Ugh... all I can think is, "Is this going to be a long next 16 years or so?"

Well, she passed the time in our bathroom trying on my glasses, jewelry, shoes, and about anything else she could find... as I tried to finish my shower at warp speed.  Violet is extremely "helpful".  She spends half our mealtimes getting everyone extra napkins and facilitating the passing of food and condiments.  Helpful as she is, when I got out, she was kind enough to give me a towel.  She wanted to help put lotion on my legs, and was doing so, but her overwhelming diaper stench was stinking up my sweet smelling lotion space, and I said, "You stink.  Are you sure you don't want dad to change your diaper?  He offers a great full-service poopy diaper change, you know?  Three wipe minimum, a little powder, and a kiss when you're all done.  If I wore a diaper, I'd be happy to have him change mine."  She looked at me with her head tilted to the side (kind of like a confused puppy), and smiled broadly saying, "No, I want you change it."  I acquiesced - to the smile, the smell, and the sweetness of the request (not to mention what turned out to be well-founded concerns of the very real possibility that daddy might be overwhelmed trying to cook dinner all by himself), and after I got dressed we got her diaper changed.

A little while later I found myself wondering if everyone says weird things like that to their kids.  I talk to her about things she can't possibly understand because it's fun.  Don't get me wrong, I like to try to get daddy to change her diaper sometimes.  I think it provides good "quality time".  I have to be honest.  I'm at the stage where I'm between wanting another baby to cuddle and being so happy I'm not dealing with cribs, high chairs, and other baby paraphernalia anymore.  I'm more on the second side.  And, as Austin likes to remind me, I'll probably have grandchildren before my kids are even all out of the house.  Ah, the joys of big families...  Not hoping to rush any of that, but since he's 13 years older than Violet, he's probably right.  Mark and I got a surprise pregnancy 3 months into our marriage, and Levi was born on our 1st anniversary.  So we've been dealing with diapers since early in our marriage, and I dare say it will be a happy day in this house when the last diaper has been changed.  Mark has been offering the kids a bounty to whoever potty trains her... which is way easier said than done.  She's keenly aware of what everyone else in polite society does, but she likes the convenience of her own way - not unlike Frank Sinatra and puppies.

Eye Was Wrong

Tonight as I was relegated to the back seat as Austin drove us home from church.  This often has the effect of making me a little car sick, but tonight it gave me an opportunity to hobnob with the little ones in the back seats more than I normally would.  As we drove toward home and I snuggled with Levi, something must have dawned on him.

First, you might need a little back story.  You see, last night Levi and Violet had to sleep at my mom's so that we could pick up some extra people on the way to church in the morning.  (Seven people in a seven-passenger van doesn't leave much room for extras.)  When we had been on our way to drop them off at my mom's last evening, 4-year-old Levi said, "Oh, I love to have a sleepover at Grandma's.  My friends are gonna be there, and that's my favorite."  (He was referring to his cousins who sometimes also sleep over when my mom has giant - and getting more giant all the time - grandchild sleepovers once in a while.)  When Mark explained to him that his cousins wouldn't be there and that it would just be him and Violet, he was disappointed, but insisted that there would probably be some other kids there at some point.  Nothing more was said on the subject, if I recall.

Back to the car ride this evening... as we sat together in the back seat, Levi sat up and said to Mark in the passenger seat, "Dad, I'm sorry."  Mark asked, "What for, buddy?"  Levi replied, "For saying I was right when I was wrong.  Last night was just a sleepover for me and Violet - not any other kids, and you told me that, but I didn't believe you.  So I'm sorry.  You were right."  Mark and I looked at each other, and I am sure we were both thinking the same thing.  This was an absolute first for Levi.  This sweet (mostly unnecessary) apology from the child who, whenever you tell him most anything at all, likes to say, "Yeah, I know that already."  (I, for one, was thinking how nice it would have been to have a tape recorder for replay about 6-8 years down the road.)

Mark told Levi that it was okay.  I leaned over and whispered to Levi how proud I was of him that he was willing to say that he was wrong about something.  At which point he leaned up toward Mark again and said, "Dad, you were right, and I was wrong."  There are moments in parenthood that I swear I could see an iridescent almost angelic glow around one of my children.  Yes, it's ridiculous, but that is the kind of pride that wells up within a parent almost irresistibly.  Some parents are proud of achievements in academics or sports.  Some are proud of how beautiful or handsome or strong their children are.  I know that a lot of parents these days seem to think their children are especially gifted with intelligence.  These are all good things, don't get me wrong.  I'm finding that the older I get and the older our children get the more I value acts of good character.  They're in no way perfect.  They mess up like I do, but when I see an act of good conscience or character, it gives me hope that something we're doing is helping produce things in them that will bring honor to God.

Levi also said tonight as we were driving, "Are there any deer out at night?" (We had seen some on the way to church earlier when it had been daylight outside.)  I said that there were.  He said, "Is it hard to see them at night?"  I said that it was much harder to see them at night.  Then he said, "I bet if I turn my light on (the overhead light) I'll be able to see them better."  That's a logical conclusion for a child to draw, of course, but an adult knows that turning lights on inside the car only obscures the view to the outside.  The exchange got me thinking that sometimes we think in a similar way.  We think that if we can see clearly in our own, little sphere - if we can navigate our own minds and thoughts - that we can see others too.  God has been crushing me in the area of pride lately.  I don't say crushing in a negative way.  After all, it's the crushing that makes wine from grapes.  I just mean that He's been weighing on that area in me and showing me the ugliness that accompanies self-reliance and self-focus.

Mark and I took a few minutes last week to drive down by the river and talk... which, because of his work hours, we'd been unable to do for quite awhile.  We somehow got on the subject of hypocrisy and how funny it is that people are quick to point it out in others.  The irony, of course, is that as soon as you start thinking how haughty and above-others another person must think he or she is, you've become the hypocrite yourself.  You have begun to judge the other and are so glad that you are not a hypocrite like that.  I see that happening a lot in just about every circle in which I find myself, from homeschooling to church to motherhood.  For some reason, our human nature dictates that we must try to make ourselves feel as though we are superior to someone else.  Don't kid yourself... even if you are feeding the poor, sheltering the homeless, and loving everyone, you're feeling pretty good about yourself that you're doing better than someone(s) else.  I don't know whether it's based in a deep-down feeling of inferiority that we're fighting against or just that we're so self-centered that we can't give other people grace.  We don't ever automatically assume that God is working on the other person just like He's surely at work on us.  We're all just as desperately in need of His grace working out our many bad character traits as the guy/girl in the next car, house, or seat.

It reminds me of the analogy of a Builder who begins working diligently on building a house.  He's working on it daily for 3 whole days when someone else comes along, proclaims himself an inspector, and declares the house condemned.  "This house is no good.  The construction is shoddy, and it's not livable," says the "inspector".  The Builder says, "But it's not done.  In fact, I just began work on it.  I have help, and I'll get it done.  I just need more time."  We are all the man longing to see our house built - with the Builder's help.  We are working on it together, by His grace and in His strength, on a daily basis.  There will never be a shortage of "inspectors" claiming that they can obviously tell, with their own eyes, that this house is not acceptable.  It is not up to the inspector's standards.  However, the self-proclaimed inspector doesn't see the whole picture... the Master Builder and His crew... the blueprints that are perfectly planned and mapped out... the wealth of highest quality building supplies in a warehouse just waiting to be used... the dogged determination of the Builder.

Anyway, that's the way I tell a short story - make it long.  It was just another reminder to me - that I hope you could use too - that pride and hypocrisy are foolish for an infinitely imperfect people to try to wield against one another.  They are tools we don't have any right to use, because we can't even begin to be perfect ourselves.  This "inspector" needs grace to become more willing to admit that my eye was wrong, and I need to be able to give grace to those other "inspectors" suffering from the same kind of blindness.

Survival of the Fittest

Something blogworthy occurred to me today and, for the first time in awhile, I am trying to find the motivation to write about it.  I realize that "blogworthy" is a very loose term.  While one person might find a reason to blog about a flea market find or a craft project finished, I tend to desire a deeper lesson inside a regular story to make it worth the time to journal it.  The whole blog world still mystifies me in some sense.  I rarely have time to read blogs.  However, in the rare case that I do, my expectations defy their own meeting.  I want to read something that is not controversial.  After all, if I wanted my mind changed, I wouldn't have my own blog.  (I hope you find this as ironic as I do.)  I don't read for stress.  I read for stress-relief.  Second, I want to read something that is not too lengthy.  I could never read my own blog, for instance, because I'd be interrupted at the most interesting parts (if I thought I was interesting which, of course, I do) by someone who needs a nose (or some other part of their body) wiped, kissed, or investigated for signs of injury.  Interruptions aren't so bad when I'm doing something boring, but if I'm interested in what I'm doing, interruptions are more than a little annoying and essentially unacceptable.  Third, if I'm going to read a blog it needs to grab my attention... which is not all that easy to do.  It can be about the mundane, as long as it's done with flare, but I prefer it to be junk food for my mind.  Therefore, it must not be good or "worthy" for the most part.  That's what those guilt-inducing e-mail forwards that shame me out of buying pre-bagged baby carrots or purchasing gasoline at the BP are for.  


Part of my confusion about blogging is whether or not this is a permanent medium.  I mean, I may have said this before, but I can't tell you how disturbing I find it that 5 generations from now a descendant of mine might lose reverence for my memory over my fear of balloons and pit toilets and the awesome dance moves I threw down to the pizza place juke box playing the music of "D. Ghetto".  What confuses me even further is why anyone bothers to read what I'm writing right now.  Will someone other than my mom (who might occasionally read out of obligation or fear that I might refer to my last blog in passing conversation and she have no idea what I'm talking about) actually read this?  And, if so, why?


So you might wonder why I would write if I doubt the value in it and fear its possible outcomes.  I do it to put some thoughts in order.  I sometimes need to stand back from my life and try to objectively put my thoughts in order.  For me, writing is a way to do that.  I think that's probably true of many, if not most hobby bloggers.  


What I actually meant to write about today was that my Austin started driving this past week.  I took him to get his driver's permit on Saturday morning, and, despite being short on a bit of the "essential" paperwork (which it seems wasn't so essential after all), the kind (yes, surprising) lady behind the DMV desk gave him his test sheet - which he passed without missing any - and handed him a learner's permit.  I knew he was turning cartwheels on the inside, but he didn't crack a smile until we were walking out the door.  He said, "I couldn't let those people think I was a big dork."  I love how teenagers think everything is embarrassing... it makes them so much more fun to embarrass.  Like he'd be the first 15-year-old to crack a smile after getting his permit?  Yes, those people who like to make fun of others who are enjoying momentous life milestones - they're lurking around every corner.  Ah, me... to be young and self-conscious again...


I'm not sure what had come over me, but before he took the test, I handed Austin the keys and asked him if he wanted to drive home.  I think I wanted him to know I believed he could ace the test, as I could tell he was nervous.  He said, "No," and pushed them back at me.  Again, permit in hand, he handed the keys back to me, and said he was too nervous to drive.  So I drove him to lunch, and we sat and talked about "regular stuff" till he said, "Okay, I want to drive now."  So we flipped roles, and I started to be the nervous one.  Now, I don't know about you, but I seem to remember driving with my instructor for several hours before being given my permit.  Nowadays, in Illinois, at least, you don't have to have one minute of drive time with the teacher before you receive your permit.  So there we are - in the parking lot - now I'm the sweaty one.  He drove us around town, to a birthday party, and back home without major incident.  There were a few hairy, scary moments for this mama... especially when he decided he wanted to wait to turn left on green until he got an arrow.  The plain old green light was not quite green enough for him.


On the way to town for an orthodontist visit today, an overwhelming desire pray for Austin overtook me.  What for?  Everything - his future job, his future wife, his safety, his welfare, his happiness... his walk.  It's not that this is the first time I've ever felt the need to pray for him.  What surprised me was the "why" of the desire.  I'm not a good person.  The good within me is not of me.  It is despite me.  It would be foolish for me to take credit for whatever good God inspires in me.  


I've been suffering the ill effects of what appears to be a food-borne illness since I returned from what seems may have been an ill-fated trip to the Bahamas in May.  These effects include but have not been limited to daily fevers, stomach upset, and headaches.  While ignoring these symptoms for three months did not make them go away, letting it slip to the doctor that I had made a trip overseas did get me a one way trip to the "infectious disease specialist"...   By the way, if you want to get someone to leave you alone, you might try mentioning that you have been seeing an infectious disease specialist to track down a pathogen of unknown origin that may or may not reside in, on, or around your person.  

A sun-toasted, smiling, Bahaman me... pathogen unawares.

The fact that there are ugly things that reside in us all is not a surprise to any of us.  We like to think that we're basically good and that we're corrupted only by our own environment.  This not only lacks Scriptural basis, but is a fairly obvious untruth if you ask me.  The Psalmist states clearly in Psalm 51:5 "Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, And in sin my mother conceived me."  In Job 14:4, Job laments, "'Who can make the clean out of the unclean? No one!'"  and again in Job 15:14, "'What is man that he should be pure, or he that is born of a woman that he should be righteous?'" In other words, if you take two sinful people and put them together, will there offspring be born sinless?  Not so much.


I bought some boxing gloves at a rummage sale Saturday.  There were two pair of over-sized gloves that I thought Mark and the boys would like to use when they're wrestling around in the basement.  When I brought the gloves home to show my 4 year old son, he was thrilled.  He was so thrilled, in fact, that his bedtime prayer consisted entirely of the words, "Dear Lord, thank you for some punching things and that mom bought us some punching things and thank you for mom and that we can punch things now with our punching things."  He was also quite excited at the prospect, as he told me this morning, of punching people who "be's mean to me".  After trying to recall the alien thought that overtook me the day of the imprudent purchase, I tried to explain to him that they were only for fair play with dad and Austin and anyone else who really and truly wants to be sucker punched in the gut.  He seemed to comprehend.  Ask me if I feel that way when I'm posting photos of an injured sister in a later blog.  


Here are some of my favorite photos of the ugly things that reside in us:

Levi - obviously peeved at other people having "FUN"

Claire's artist rendering of a one-sided snowball fight

I took this photo of a woman left askew on a Goldwing outside Menard's in the misty rain.
What's ugly, you ask?  The man who left her out there while he went in for "just a second".

Yes, even chewing with your mouth open... is ugly.

And now for some of my favorite photos of GOOD things that live in us, by God's grace alone:

Fresh Starts

Levi sharing his water with Violet

brotherly love

The thoughts that followed my urge to pray for Austin were jumbled up, but in there somewhere was a thought about the ludicrousness of the evolutionary process - in any form.  "Survival of the fittest", you see, is all well and good as an explanation for the baser evil instincts of man - for mothers who leave their newborns in trash cans and such things, but it is sorely lacking in explanation for the finest acts of love and beauty... or for love or beauty or feelings at all, for that matter.  Survival of the fittest doesn't account for parents who raise orphaned children as their own or for a soldier who pulls a dying brother off the battlefield.  It makes no allowances for social programs or "welfare" or charity of any form at all.  It bids the weak and burdened to retreat and die so that the rest of us might live better lives.  It is sorely lacking to explain any emotion aside from anger or fear... particularly any positive emotions.


No, it doesn't surprise me at all that bad, ugly things live inside us all.  What does amaze me is that good things do.  How and why does God waste His time with what we so often see as the "lost cause" that is humanity.  John 2:24-25 says, "²⁴ But Jesus did not commit Himself to them, because He knew all men, ²⁵ and had no need that anyone should testify of man, for He knew what was in man."  Jesus, despite knowing "what was in man" decided we were worth dying for.  That is the remarkable power that is at the fingertips of those who walk by His strength and through whom He lives His life.  We can choose sacrificial love, by God's grace, when we don't feel it.  And by this same Grace, we can choose kindness when we feel unkind, forgiveness when we're hurt, and rest when we feel anxious.  I am so glad I don't have to rely on my nonexistent "goodness" to transform me.  After all, I was born unrighteous and haven't become righteous by any "right doing" of my own.  Jesus' sacrifice ransomed my impurity and made it purity.  So, the next time you do something "right" or "good", get lost... in the wonder of how that could have possibly happened and give glory to the One who is responsible for it.