Throwback Thursday: Remembering, Rejoicing and Weeping

Well, it's Thursday.  In social media circles this is the day where people post old photos of themselves, family and friends.  Some go way back causing those of us who were teenagers in the 80s some serious shame and regret.  Some show photos of college parties or weddings.  Most - at least in my circle of friends - are posted by parents of their children.

We remember the awe of peeking at pink newborns swaddled tight.  We giggle at toddlers with cake smeared on their faces on 1st birthdays. We zoom in on baby faces, looking for familiar traces of the teenagers who tower over us now. We lament the lightening quick passage of time, commenting, "How did she grow up so fast?" and "What happened to this little pudgy toddler?" and "This baby is going to college?!"

In theory, I could choose a Throwback Thursday photo of my children from last year, last summer or even from last week.

But, what if as each day passed, my options for Throwback Thursday grew farther and farther in the distance?  What if I had no choice but to scroll down weeks, then months, then years to find a photo of my child?  What if I didn't have a new photo to compare to my old photo?  What if all of the images of my child stopped at age thirteen?  Or five?  Or  two?

This question stirred my heart at Curefest this past weekend - a national gathering to raise awareness for pediatric cancer which took place in Washington DC.  This reality hit me hard as I walked among throngs of grieving families after spending most of my summer away from fundraisers and awareness events.  Time had marched on for me, for my children, and for the world around us.  The question nagged me, Does time, in fact, heal the wounds of my friends?

READ THE REST HERE

Keep Your Eyes Open

 

 

So we made it through the first day of school on Monday. I looked through all the Facebook posts of excited, wide-eyed little ones and annoyed, sleepy-eyed bigger ones.  I didn't get all emotional and nuts like I usually do.  I didn't focus on the fact that my youngest was beginning his very last year at the elementary school where I have had a least one kid attend for the last eleven years.  I didn't register the fact that my middle son, who told me after his first full day of first grade that "it was just too long to be away from you, Mommy" was starting his first full day of high school.  And I really, really ignored the fact that the oldest one would likely only walk out my door one more time on the first day of school.  I also didn't throw a party or call a girlfriend for lunch or sit around and watch old episodes of Friday Night Lights like I thought I might. 

Honestly, had you said, "How'd that first day of school go?"  I would have been pretty much like this:

 

Listen, I was adulting like nobody's business.  About 72 loads of laundry got done.  I ironed a basket of clothes that had been sitting there for about three weeks.  All the grocery shopping happened. All the clean up got completed.  All the forms were signed.  Dinner was made right in time for those who could eat together and I even had it all laid out on plates and put in the fridge waiting those who wouldn't be able to eat until later. 

 

I KNOW!  Please hold your applause.  Because . . .

 

I also made a cake.  I repeat.  I MADE A CAKE. 

 

You may commence applause.

 

Then the 2nd day of school came and I read THIS.

 

And I sat at my desk and SOBBED LIKE A MANIAC FOR ABOUT THIRTY MINUTES BECAUSE WHY DOES GOD GIVE ME THESE KIDS AND THEN ASK ME TO SEND THEM OUT INTO THE WORLD?  WHY?  WHAT KIND OF CRUEL JOKE IS THAT?

 

Finally, I cleaned up my face because I had to go to Office Depot for the third time in two days to buy three more binders, three more packages of 5 tab dividers and a 24 pack of multicolor pens so I could pull out the one red pen since Office Depot is obviously involved in a conspiracy with the pen-making people. 

 

Due to my frustration with the conspiracy and the fact that some moron decided that college was a good idea for my babies, I started to cry again.  In the pen aisle.  I shut my eyes and blocked out the idea that this is likely going to happen to me.  This dropping off at college business.  It might happen THREE times.  Oh, the pain.  Oh, the fear.  Oh, the melting down right next to the Pilot Ballpoint Pens/Medium Point/Advanced Ink/Incredibly Smooth (Lord, have mercy.)

 

I made my way to sit in my car, still squeezing my eyes shut to keep the tears back and listened to a song from NeedtoBreathe called Keep Your Eyes Open.  My bestie's daughter went to college a few weeks ago.  A few days before she left we all went to see NeedtoBreathe and when they played this song, I tried really hard not to cry and to be a solid rock of support for my friend.  FAIL.

 

If you could soldier on

Headstrong into the storm

I'll be here waiting on the other side

Don't look back

The road is long

The first days of the war are gone

Take back your former throne and turn the tide

'Cause if you never leave home, never let go

You'll never make it to the great unknown till you

Keep your eyes open, my love

So tell me you're strong, tell me you see

I need to hear it, can you promise me to

Keep your eyes open, my love
So show me your fire, show me your heart
You know I'll never let you fall apart if you
Keep your eyes open, my love

 

This is the thing, friends.  We can't shut our eyes to the future God has planned for our kids no matter how scared and full of pain and anxiety we are.  The other day I heard some guy on the radio say this and gosh, I wish I heard his name because THIS IS IT, mommas.

 

"The safest place for your children to be is in the center of God's will."

 

They are supposed to do this.  God has a will for our kids and it might not be ours.  I have found that time and time again.  My will is not God's.  His is always, always better.  They are supposed to go. And let's put our humility aside for just a moment and remember something. 

 

YOUR kid?  YOUR kid is going to do something unbelievable if you let him do it.  YOUR kid going to kindergarten?  She might learn how to read this year.  YOUR kid getting to take that elective in high school?  He might find what makes him happy and passionate and motivated.  YOUR kid going to middle school?  She might make that shy girl feel like this new school might not be so lonely. YOUR kid in college all alone?  Well, he is going to find out exactly who this God is that you've been telling him about for 18 years. He is going to find out that he is not alone at all. YOUR kid and MY kid?  They might just do some mighty works for the Lord.  Yes, yes they will.  They might change the whole world for one person or maybe even for lots of people. 

 

We gotta open our eyes, y'all.  If we don't, we can't see the plans He has for them.  For us.  The plans, the kids, you and me?  We are all His.  Let's watch and see what He has planned, 'kay? Let's keep our eyes open.

 

 

 *Those eyes?  Those are the eyes of my best friend and my best friend's girl.  Beautiful eyes.  Beautiful, wide open eyes. :-)



Seeing Him Seeing Us

I had a dark weekend.  I mean the sun was bright and hot and shiny, but me?  Dark and gloomy.  Or more like snappy, snippy, grumpy, annoyed-y,  I huffed and puffed at people.  I stomped around.  I rolled my eyes a time or two.  I felt like there was too much to figure out and if someone might dare to suggest that I just relax and that everything would work out, I might have started a diatribe along the lines of OOOHHHH, really? Things just work out, do they?  Things actually only work out because someone WORKS THEM OUT.  

You feelin' me, mamas?  You.  The one who feels like summer is supposed to be relaxed and "chill"?  And it's so not, because you can't seem to get to the relaxed and chill part due to being up to your eyeballs working a whole mess of stuff out?  

It reminded me of a post I wrote three years ago at just about this same time of the summer. (I'll let you work out that coincidence in your head.)  You'll be shocked to know that the post resulted from something I thought of while watching a baseball game.  I had an epiphany when a baseball coach yelled out to my son, "Great hustle, kid.  I see you, #2!"

You can read that post here, but the gist was that when you're feeling unappreciated and swamped and overwhelmed, God sees you.  He sees you.  He sees you getting up early for swim team practice.  He sees you going to work and making sure the kids get to camp with their lunch and their sunscreen and their bug spray.  He sees you wake in the middle of the night and run down to the laundry room because you forgot to put the baseball uniform in the dryer.  He sees you packing up the sleeping bag and filling out the medical forms.  He sees you praying that the kid won't have an asthma attack or a nightmare in the middle of the night when he's away at camp.  He sees you taking care of your people.

This is a great thing to remember, mamas.  But I realized after my deplorable behavior this weekend that I only got half of that lesson.  We must remember that He sees us, but we have a part to play, too. We must remember to look back at Him.

Sunday morning after I had cried and sniffed and stomped around my people some more, I had to take a very long, very slow, very prayerful, tear-filled run.  And I had to crank up the Third Day music and only, the Third Day music - most specifically a new song, Soul on Fire, that I played numerous times in a row.  And I repeated these words as I ran.

(Out loud.  Don't mind the crazy runner that forgets people in the neighborhood can hear her.  She needs Jesus something fierce).

God I'm running for Your heart, I'm running for Your heart  'til I am a soul on fire.  

Lord, I'm longing for Your ways, I'm waiting for the day when I am a soul on fire.

Lord, restore the joy I had.  I have wandered, bring me back.   From this darkness, lead me through.  Until all I see is You.  

Lord, let me burn for You again.  Let me return to You again.

I realized that all week, I had stopped looking to Him.  I had only looked at me.  At my circumstances.  At things I needed to work out.  And, shamefully, I had looked scornfully at some of the people who needed me to help work those things out.  

Look. I'm not going to tell you to go out on the porch and drink a margarita and ask God to work all that stuff out and it will just happen.  We know that we have to make some effort to get that stuff done, but I did learn something from the past week and I imagine I'll have to learn it again.  I'm not doing it right if I'm not looking to Him before I start doing it.  

God does see us.  But we gotta see Him, too.  He's right there waiting.  Watching us, appreciating us, cheering us and loving us no matter if we do our work with a cheerful heart or even a dark one.  He's offering us patience, grace, strength and peace to deal with all that mess of stuff that needs to be worked out.

Today, let us run first for His heart.  Let us burn for Him again.  Let us return to Him again.  Before we put our heads down to power through the day, let us lift our eyes up.  See Him first, friends.  He's right there.

Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. 

-Hebrews 12:2

Perfection on the Porch Daybook: Monday, June 29, 2015

Outside my window:
THIS.

This state in which I have lived for 23 years and I have officially kissed and made up after a rocky period.  I scowled and stomped and pined for my Texas home all winter long.  Today, I am yours, Virginia.  You are perfection.
I am thinking:
about our 2nd All Star District tournament game tomorrow.  Yes, it's that time again.  I am thinking of schedules and practices, brackets and match-ups.  Of coin tosses to decide if we will be home or away, 3rd base side or 1st base side.  I am thinking of boys full of gatorade and sunscreen and bug spray and hope.  By all accounts, we are utterly and completely obsessed with Little League baseball here in SkinnerWorld.  I will have (or perhaps I already have had) at least one or two of my requisite "All-Star Season Meltdowns" during which I declare that THIS FAMILY IS INSANE AND DOES ANYONE KNOW I LIVE HERE AND WE HAVE GOT TO GET A GRIP, but then I will quietly fall in line because y'all, I sure do love watching that man coach and those boys play baseball.  Yes, I surely do.  Guilty as charged.
I am thankful:
for a Sunday night dinner with all five of us together.  It didn't look like a traditional dinner.  It wasn't at home, I didn't cook.  We had to meet up at a restaurant in three different cars after two of us returned from a baseball tournament in another state, two came from one golf course and one came from another golf course.  Still after a hectic weekend, we all met up together and ate and laughed (and argued a bit, to be sure.)  I love my people.  They get on my nerves.  Oh my word, do they.  But I love them desperately and completely.
In the kitchen:
there are four pair of baseball pants soaking in oxiclean, one cooler needing to be cleaned out and of course, the trendiest of all kitchen decor:  the athletic supporter in various colors next to the fruit bowl.
I am wearing:
white denim "boyfriend" shorts from Old Navy, a black Daniel Rain blouse and no shoes
I am listening to:
outside my screened in porch I can hear birds singing, children laughing and Judge Judy coming from the tv in the house.
I am going:
to make some Washington DC sight seeing plans for when my family comes this summer.  I, shamefully, do not take advantage of living so close to the nation's capital enough and there is so much to see and do.  Local friends, what are your favorites?  Leave a comment, please!
I am reading:
The Husband's Secret by Liane Moriarity (STILL) Unfortunately, I am having trouble finding time to read because I have been sucked into way too much reading on the internet. - mainly scrolling comments on Facebook.  Many of them filled with hate and name-calling and ugliness.  I am committed this week to spending zero time witnessing how gleefully anxious people are to rip each other apart from behind their computer screens.  My heart grieves for how we treat each other.  I consistently tell my kids to step away from the screen.  "Hello, Kettle, this is Pot.  Click the X in the top right corner.  Move away from the desk.  Live your life.  You've only one."
I am hoping:
for some days by the pool with a book or three this week.
I am looking forward to:
the 4th of July on a still, glassy lake.
I am learning:
that the sound of brothers' arguing might be my least favorite thing in all the world and that in all my lessons in parenting over the years, I have yet to figure out how to stop it. *sigh* 
I am praying:
for just every, last one of us.  All y'all.  All of me.  Yep, just the whole kit and caboodle, I reckon.
On my Ipod:
John Cougar, John Deere, John 3:16 by Keith Urban.  I do believe I have found my summer jam, y'all.
A quote for today:

"According to the Christian tradition, grace is not earned. Grace is not merited. It's not something we deserve. Rather, grace is the free and benevolent favor of God as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings. Grace.  As a nation, out of this terrible tragedy, God has visited grace upon us, for he has allowed us to see where we've been blind.  He has given us the chance, where we've been lost, to find our best selves.  We may not have earned it, this grace, with our rancor and complacency, and short-sightedness and fear of each other -- but we got it all the same. He gave it to us anyway. He's once more given us grace. But it is up to us now to make the most of it, to receive it with gratitude, and to prove ourselves worthy of this gift. . . .That reservoir of goodness. If we can find that grace, anything is possible.  If we can tap that grace, everything can change." - President Obama during the funeral of Reverend Pinckney.  Perhaps the most beautiful, important words that I have ever heard him utter.  Well done, Mr. President.

A verse for today:
"For from His fullness we have all received, grace upon grace." - John 1:16 ESV
One of my favorite things:
The sweet, funny and intelligent movie, Inside Out, that I saw last week with Nancy and our boys. I might need to see it again a few times because I think it has so much to say.  Especially for my friends who are grieving, I think the idea that sadness and joy can work hand in hand was quite powerful.  One of the few good things I read on the internet last week was this article, "The Inside Out of Grief" , It is a beautiful response to a beautiful movie.
I am pondering:
This quote from Traci Loux, the author of the article mentioned above:
" Anger is not bad. Feel it. Acknowledge it. It’s ok. It’s not a place to stay, but at times a visitor that creeps in to the journey. But as I am learning and as I am teaching my children, never let the Anger push Sadness to the background for too long. Sadness must be felt because Love is great, and together we are learning the unique dance that Joy and Sadness share. Joy comes in waves. Sadness comes in waves. And at times one hits with more intensity that the other, and at other times they wash up against us with the same steady rhythm hand in hand."
A few plans for the week:
A lot of this.

Daybook idea from www.thesimplewomansdaybook.blogspot.com

Choosing to Become His Love Swept Low

-Quote from Touch the Sky by Hillsong United

There has been so much harsh news in our community lately.  Down my street.  Around my block.  In my schools.  And in my paranoid, somewhat selfish mind, I imagine it inching ever closer to my front steps.

I know.  I know.  There is harsh news everywhere.  No one is immune.  "In this world there will be trouble - even in your tidy, HOA-controlled suburb", my Savior said. - (NIV:  somewhat edited)

So, I show up here where I tap out words to make sense of sorrows as they build up like bricks closing in around me.  I feel burdened.  I feel scared. I feel confused.  And a number of my friends and neighbors are all of those things plus some:  they are angry and bitter and lashing out in despair because there HAS GOT to be someone or something to blame for this pain.  There just HAS GOT to be some explanation for this hurt. And if we can't find something specific to blame, we find ourselves resigned to calling this world ugly and tragic and worst of all?  Utterly hopeless.

And my being physically recoils from a world filled with no hope.   When tale after tragic tale seems to be closing in, my first instinct is to turn completely inward;  to make my world smaller.  Focus only inside.  Curl up.  Shut out.  Because I start to think that only in staying within my walls, in my thoughts, with my safe-for-now people, will I be able to protect my family from a world of evil and random tragedy.  From a world where I notice friends that have lost faith in the idea of a good and loving God.

So I sit at my desk, all tensed with my faithless mind.  It sees the cancer that has infiltrated our neighborhood children.  It pictures it sauntering down my street, deciphering my garage code and slinking into my house, up my stairs to my child's bedroom,  

It sees the alcoholism and emotional problems that plague so many teenagers and in fact, sit deep in the roots of my own family tree.  It imagines those addictions lying in wait for my boys, ready to strike as soon as they have a flicker of a thought to succumb to peer pressure.

It sees the tragic, random accident that stole a devoted father and husband from our community on the same day that I celebrated my husband's 47th birthday.  It conjures the next accident showing up at the intersection as my husband's car pulls up.  It reminds me that my husband's father died suddenly only a few weeks after his 47th birthday.   My mind allows fear to pelt rocks at my window shouting, "Oh ye of so much faith?  Hey, Pollyanna, sit in your warm, safe home, sweetheart, and just you see how much control you have over your tomorrows."

And there I sit.  Unable to write comforting words, unable to find joy in this morning because my mind tells me, "You and your hope and your faith?  YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT."

But in a few moments if I sit still, my heart and my soul will wait patiently.  They nudge me in a quiet, but insistent whisper, "Yep, it's true.  You do not know much. But, there is one thing and only one thing, that you know for sure.  You know Christ.  That's it. You don't know His plan.  You don't know His ways.  You don't know His purpose.  But you do know Him. And you know He won't let you sit down here in the pit for long." 

As inadequate to make sense of life as I am, as full of anxiety for the future as I am, as truly low down to the ground as I am?  It is only by being this curled in deep, that I'm able to see clearly the full, sufficient hope of what's above.  It's only in feeling someone else's pain and replacing this broken world's faces with the faces of my own people, that my heart and my soul can begin the work He needs me to do.  Two things have come to my mind as I have stayed huddled up this morning.  One verse and one song.

The first line from Psalms 121 says, "I look to the mountains.  Where does my help come from?  My help comes from the Lord.  The maker of heaven and earth."

And THIS SONG says, "I've found heaven is love swept low.  My heart beating. My soul breathing.  I found my life when I laid it down.  Upward falling.  Spirit soaring.  I touch the sky when my knees hit the ground."

We can't look up until we are swept low.  We can't see the maker of the mountains until we are on our knees with arms not huddled and wrapped tight inward, but open and raised up.  We can't find the full realization of His purpose for us if we stay folded in fear.

And this.  This is what God asks us to do every morning.  He asks us to choose.  It's fine to have some time to huddle in for a bit.  It's fine to sit in quiet and feel pain and despair.  Jesus, Himself, went in to the garden to pray - alone and frightened.  But He did not remain inward.  He didn't coil around his 12 disciples.  He turned out.  Surrendered up.  Opened His arms wide. 

Look, as believers in a world full of unbelief, we must be careful.  We are not the Christ.  We are not the healer.  We are not the miracle maker.  We do not have all the answers.  When reaching out to the suffering, we must choose words carefully or perhaps choose no words at all.  But we must choose .

We can defy the ease it is to be angry and hopeless.  We can know that yes, we will someday be the ones weeping and mourning.  It will happen. But sunken in, we are not protected.  We are simply alone and fearful.  Turned out, opened up, we will look to the maker of the mountains.  Arms open wide, welcoming the suffering of our friends and neighbors, offering our presence to them?  It is only then that we can strive to be as much like Him as we can possibly be when our friends can't seem to find Him.   

Until He comes to heal and save, until He brings heaven, we do the best we can to pull out of our fear and meet our friends in the valley of their grief and suffering. We make the decision to trust Him or not.  And if we decide we do, we go out.  We show the world the hope of heaven by becoming love swept low.  When it comes down to it, we who have been given another day to live in a world full of brutality and beauty?  Well, in reality, I think we have no other choice, do we?

(For some really wonderful words on practical ways to become love swept low for the grieving, please see my friend, Anna's, blog post HERE.)

These Many Moments Wrapped in His Grace

There is a ritual here on Fridays called {this moment}.  Well, that's really only true if you're a person who has a very loose definition of "ritual".  The idea came from a blog called Soulemama by a writer who takes beautiful photos and then prompts other bloggers to follow along and link to their own photo of the week, showcasing a special moment. The only words are to be these:

{this moment}:  A Friday ritual.  A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week.  A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

The image is to speak for itself.  It should tell of all the emotion of a moment in a single shot.

Well, I'm not good at consistency here. I'm not a great photographer.  I'm not really good at being able to pick just one moment. You know what else you might guess I'm not very good at?  

No words.

I need words.  I need to roll them around in my head and figure out the one that suits the situation perfectly.  I need to speak them out loud and write them down in margins of notebooks and fill up blank screens with them.  I need to listen to them and sing them and analyze them.

It makes the Husband so tired.

But for me, it is enormously frustrating when I can't find the words adequate for a situation.  There are times when I am desperate for the right words and they elude me.  And I really hate that.

Sometimes I look for words to soothe pain.   Like if I'm spending a Saturday night in my pjs texting with a sad friend who just cannot make time go backwards.  My fingers beg God to pull something out of them that might help.  Or if I'm holding my breath as a grieving father shows up to bravely speak in front of a stadium full of people in the hope that his story might affect change even though the memories of that stadium are just about more than he can bear.  Or if I'm averting my eyes as a boy walks the same path that his deceased brother walked only a year before - again to show support for children in the same battle as his brother fought..  What are the right words there?

Is it courage?  Is it sacrifice?  Is it vulnerability?

And sometimes I want exactly the right word to express happiness.  Like if I'm watching a boy who has played baseball for over ten years have a season like he has never had before and grow into a man of confidence in front of my eyes.  Or if I am watching that same boy handle victories and disappointments with grace and character.  Or if I am setting myself up for an ideal photo with the other kid after he played at Nationals Park and the background is perfect and it's going to be a sure-fire framer. But then it gets photo bombed by one of his best friends.  And I realize that the photo bomb makes the picture absolute perfection because HOW AWESOME ARE TEENAGE BOYS?  What are the right words there?

Is it pride?  Is it perseverance?  Is it triumph? Is it joy?

Sometimes I look for the right words to describe moments that make my breath catch in my throat.  Like when I see my boy stand captivated by an empty major league field.  Or when I discover gratefully that sometimes in the childhood cancer community we actually DO hear miracle words like normal range, no evidence of disease and remission.  Or when I stand back and observe a group of teammates learn lessons that far exceed how to hit a curveball as they show grace and favor to a sick child.  What are the right words there?

Is it awe?  Is it compassion?  Is it gratitude?

There aren't words adequate to describe the depth of emotion that happened in the past week.   In the dark of my family room as I shared my heart with a friend.  On the floor of my son's room as we talked about lessons that life teaches us whether we want to learn them or not.  In the bright sunshine at all manner of baseball fields: a majestic major league park where children walked the same path as their heroes, a high school field where players celebrated victory and a little league diamond where a curly haired girl took the hand a red haired boy and instantly melted my heart into mush.

I couldn't pick just one picture of one moment expressing one word this week.  There were many moments and many photos.  And a picture really can be worth a thousand words.  They tell tales of loss and pain.  Of hope and promise.  Of joy and laughter.  Of gratitude and awe.  They tell the story of a multitude of spectacular moments and ordinary days weaved together into a life full of God's infinite grace.

[Some images(the best ones, actually) thanks to Carly Glazier Photography]

(Other Images from Christine Remy, Nancy Stopper, Regena Williamson, Holly Henderson & Jenn Skinner's Iphone)

Sugar and Spice and Little Pink Cleats

If you've read this blog long enough you know that I am the lone, relatively small female in a house of full of four men. (one small, one medium, one large and one extra-large, but who's counting?) And though I joke about the smell, the mud and the incessant ESPN, I believe I was made to spend my days among snips and snails and puppy dog tails. Despite all my kidding about my dreams of sharing shopping and salon trips with "Fake Daughter", I adore my boys and have never once felt any deep sense of loss or absence in not having another girl in my home.

And yet.

As a girl who loves make-up and bubble baths and shoes and a good Kate Winslet movie, there are those times when I need a little sugar and spice and everything nice in my life.

Saturday, after a long, tedious week of filling in practice and game schedules on my calendar, washing stains out of white pants and buying cleats, athletic supporters and 327 gallons of milk, I found myself on the way to the third of seven baseball games that were on the schedule for the weekend. It was a beautiful day for baseball and I really was excited to sit down in  my chair in the sun and watch my boys play. 

I also remembered that my little friend, Sabrina and her mom, my friend, Christine, lived quite close to the park. Sabrina is a little girl who was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 16 months. Sabrina has kicked a little cancer booty of late. At the age of four, she is just about 18 months cancer free and she will be one of the Patient Ambassadors for my son's baseball team when we play in the Kyle's Kamp Memorial Day tournament to benefit pediatric cancer research at Children's National Medical Center. 

Sabrina came out to our baseball game on Saturday to meet the boys and coaches of the 14U Stars baseball team before the tournament next month. Before she arrived, our coach told the guys to be ready to greet her and make her feel welcome. There might have been a warning along the lines of try not to act like chuckleheads, guys.

When Sabrina arrived,  donning her Giants Little League jersey and hat, my son, Kyle, put his hand through the chain-link fence of the dugout and she grabbed onto his finger and held tight for awhile. So enchanted was my 14 year old, that I'm pretty sure he almost stuck her in his bat bag and took her home. Kyle's teammate, Drew, grinned a million dollar smile at Sabrina as she told him she would have her first tball game later that day. Our catcher, Andrew, decked out in all of his gear, squatted down to meet Sabrina face to face and asked her if she'd like him to draw some black lines under her eyes to match the rest of the team. (She politely declined, "No, thank you.  I don't need that.")

Sabrina met all of the parents and coaches as well. She taught us Spanish words and discussed ballet and baseball. She skipped and smiled and sang a few Frozen songs for "Miss Jenn's friends".

Girlfriend apparently had some things to say to "Miss Jenn's Friends".

A LOT of things to say

JUST SO MANY things to say:

After the boys finished their game, a number of them decided that it was the perfect time to grab a Slurpee and head over to watch their favorite littlest Giant play her first t-ball game.

Let me tell you something. There is nothing that will make your heart bust open wider than watching a group of rough and tumble teenaged boys struck still and captivated by a little girl with bouncy curls and a baseball glove.

And you know what else busts open a heart? It's when I realize that there is never a mistake in who God brings into our orbit. Sometimes He brings in people to help fill big, gaping holes. Sometimes we just have a little bitty hole that needs to be filled. I'm grateful that I don't have any big, gaping holes. The Lord has given me everything I need in this family of men. I am blessed beyond measure. But sometimes - not too often, but sometimes - the boyness overwhelms and there's a little gap that just needs to be filled up with a little girlness.

A little bit of sugar and spice and everything nice. And some pink cleats just to keep it interesting. 

Te amo mucho, Sabrina. Mi corazon esta lleno.

Sunshine and Hope on Opening Day

It was Little League Opening Day on Saturday.  It is one of my favorite days of the year.  The sun shone bright and we almost forgot about the bitter winter we had endured.  My older boys have aged out of Little League, but the little man gets to start his first year in the Majors this season.  He, as my husband likes to say,  was "shot out of a cannon" as soon as he woke up.  I was to miss the opening ceremonies because I had to take Kyle to a basketball game, but I raced back to the park as quickly as I could to make it for Drew's first Little League game of the season.

I pulled into the full parking lot as if a child looking for Santa.  The ceremony was over but the park which had been empty and snow covered only weeks before was bustling with activity.  Lines of children snaked between moon bounces and food trucks.  Music blared and flags flew high over the fields.

This was a day my community needed.  After such a brutal winter, we deserved the bright morning and the changing of the season laid out before us.  Opening Day is the hope of pristine white pants (a hope that is dashed as soon as those cleats hit the grass).  It is the possibility of a winning season.  It's the promise of not one, not two, but three chances to swing for the fences.  I was ready for this. I barely had my car in park and I was ready to rip off the seat belt and run up to find a flame-haired, freckle-faced boy with black lines smeared under his eyes.  A boy who would adjust his catcher's mask with the utmost confidence that though he is small, he is fierce.  Opening Day is full of promise.

But I didn't hop out of the car right away.  I looked out at all those little children running through the grass and I had to take a minute to take a deep breath and to tell myself to focus on all the wonderful things that are wrapped up in the promise of Opening Day. 

The sun and the spring bring us hope.  They bring us sweetness and light.  But I know, and my neighbors know, that even when flowers bud and birds sing, our world can still be full of bleak darkness.  Of sickness and fear and doubt.  Our little neighborhood received alarming news last week that one of our own is sick.  This is not a little boy I met due to volunteering with a childhood cancer charity.  This is a little boy who rides bikes down my alley and plays kickball in the street. The son of one of my friends who I've known for years.  A friend with whom I've sipped wine and discussed books.  One with whom I've shared block party potluck dishes and with whom I've worshipped.  She woke to the same bright sun that morning, but also to the harsh reality of a long journey ahead that she most certainly doesn't want to take with her boy.  So, I stayed in the car for a bit.  And I watched them.

Little boys everywhere.  Little boys running and jumping and sometimes tripping over each other.  Little boys wearing the smallest pants their mamas could find that still had to be cinched in at the waist and rolled up at the ankles.  And there were spunky little girls, too.  Little girls with ponytails pulled carefully through their new caps.  Children basking in the newness of spring.  Of hope.  Of light.  Of all the things children are supposed to be and do and have in a new season of their lives.

I stayed in the car and held tears down and I asked God to bring us a child-like faith.  A child-like hope.  A belief that even if you are the smallest, you can catch a fastball thrown or hit by the biggest.  That even if you are the weakest, you can connect with the red stitching on that baseball hurtling at you at lightening speed and send it through the gap.   That even when the opponent is formidable, if you rely on your team and your heart and your God, you can fight with courage you might never have known you had.

I asked Him to come to us on that gloriously beautiful day when our souls were feeling scared and dark to remind my friends and neighbors and me of the fact that faith is bigger than fear.  That hope is bigger than doubt.  And that in our weakness His power is made strong.

My little flame-haired, freckle-faced boy and I are praying mightily every night for our neighbor, Matt.  Might you join us?

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. -2 Corinthians 12:9

An Opening Day-book: April 6, 2014

Outside my window:
It is absolutely the most stunningly beautiful, bright, clear, non-windy, sunny day I can remember in a very, very long time. Deep breath.  He really does make all things new again.  Even me.
I am thinking:
about spring menus, spring sports, spring clothes, spring cleaning and spring hope. Spring Break was a great time and I feel like it was truly the end of a season for me.  I think I needed the new season to spread out before me with hope and promise and light  We spent some time at home and at Lake Anna.  Some time with friends and some time with family. I did some reading, some running, some March Madness watching and some shopping. While the boys fished and shot BB guns, I did some sleeping and Bible studying.  I did no writing.  The words eluded me.  I'm ready for new things.  I'm ready to leave the Winter Me in the past.  I think I like the Spring Me better.  My family does, too.
I am thankful:
for sitting squished in between my guys at the Easter service at my church which was bursting full with more in attendance than I can ever remember seeing.  For little girls in new dresses, for little boys in bow ties, for voices singing louder than usual and the communion line taking longer.  For the realization that I think this year for the first time all three of my children "get it".  I always cry on Easter and they are always happy tears.  The way my Jesus took all of that pain, all of that suffering, all of that ridicule?  For me?  For me?  Y'all, it's just too much.  Easter Sunday.  I CAN'T EVEN.
In the kitchen:
the fridge and the pantry are bursting full of snacks that made their way back from our few days at Lake Anna and leftovers from an incredible Easter dinner at my brother and sister-in-law's house. It is time to do some clean out.
I am wearing:
jeans, bright yellow, sleeveless(!) top and bare feet
I am listening to:
The Opening Day game at Nationals Park.  GO NATS.
I am going:
to get back to running on a regular schedule this week.  There is rain in the forecast for the next three days, so I'll have to hit the Dreadmill, as my friend, Elizabeth calls it.  Still, I must.  I am a mess when I don't take time to run.  A big, giant mess.
I am reading:
I started Paula Hawkin's The Girl on the Train which I was reading on Joe's Kindle.  Then I forgot the Kindle when we went to Lake Anna for a few days so I found Mercy by Jodi Picoult on the shelves there and started that one.
I am hoping:
to keep my promise to eat cleaner this week.  No sugar. Blech.  The hope of Easter makes me feel awesome.  The food of Easter?  Not so much.
I am looking forward to:
Baseball Season!  Now, Baseball. It's time now!
I am learning:
that as much as I lament technology and the way it has changed us, I can't help but be grateful that my man can join us for Spring Break at Lake Anna - for all kinds of moments that I don't think our fathers were able to -- just a quick call by the water and he's back in.

I am praying:
for way too many children with cancer.  Just too many.
On my Ipod:
The new Third Day album!!  I love every song - especially THIS ONE.
I am wondering:
why they even sell olives with pits and if there is a classy, appropriate way to eat them.  This was the subject of discussion around the Easter appetizers.  Miss Manners?  Emily Post?  Anybody?
I am pondering:
reading THIS BOOK. I think Husband would argue that I am not one who likes listening more than talking - a definition this book gives for introverts.  But I do think I gain energy from time alone. I crave time alone after I've been with crowds or in groups. I'd rather work alone in most, but not all cases.  Both of those are qualities of introverts according to the book. I am curious as to how this book would speak to me.  How it might help me understand me better.  It would be nice to understand me better.  I mean, I do have to hang out with myself quite a lot. :)
A quote for today:
"It is finished.  All the necessary work, all forgiveness, all the reconciliation, all sacrifice.  Nothing left to do but sing hallelujah."- Jen Hatmaker
A verse for today:
"He is not here.  He has risen, just as He said." - Matthew 28:6
One of my favorite things:
Two guys and a fish

A few plans for the week:
We've got four baseball games on the calendar, a whole mess of practices, planning for Kyle's Kamp Diamond Dreams baseball games and one of my favorite days of all:  Opening Day for Little League!
A peek into my day: 
Hoping for a Harper Home Run or two.

Hearing God's Extraordinary Voice on an Ordinary Day

Much of last week was really icky.  I couldn't seem to look past the cold, the grey, the heaviness of the air.  My Weather app on my phone couldn't either.  Ugly cloud icons hung on each day and then gave way to that darn snowflake on Friday.  And I tried to ignore it, but it just stayed there taking all my hope of spring, renewal, and light away.  Yet as much as I had wished away this winter, the unsettling thing was that I had let it take hold of me.  I had trouble getting up and getting dressed and being where I needed to be.  Little tasks, lunch meetings, carpools, packing lunches(!), things that I had committed to do - even fun outings - they seemed like such a burden.  Did I really need to show up?   Did those people really need me?  On most mornings as I first opened my eyes and trudged downstairs, I wondered if I had suddenly given up to become one with winter.  Because in those early hours before the kids and the husband came downstairs, I felt as cold and grey and icky as the sky.  Worse yet, I felt little motivation to change course.

You know that feeling?  The "not enough" one?  I simply did not have it in me to be enough.  Not a good enough wife.  Not a good enough friend.  Not a good enough mother.  Not a good enough cook to make something that's healthy that everyone will actually put in their mouths.  Not a good enough exerciser to tie her shoes and make her way to the treadmill.  Not a good enough writer to take the words past this place.  Not a good enough will power-er(?) to resist the Girl Scout cookies.  Not a good enough Christian to spread the light that God asks me to spread, because I'm pretty sure He made a mistake.  Not me, God.  I am useless for You.  Surely, you do not need me.

When I feel that I am not much, I decide that I don't need much either.  I don't need other human beings, because I can't give them much.  So I decide I will huddle with my books and my tv and my internet.  Maybe the fictional characters there are enough for me.  Maybe the occasional text or click on the "like" button are enough to keep one foot in the real world without submerging myself into real relationships and real work.

On one of those days last week, under the blanket, on the couch,  I clicked on my friend, Elizabeth's blog.  I saw THIS article which said exactly what I was feeling in words, black and white, in front of my scowling face:

And now, the tempter in the desert is hissing loudly in our ears. Not good enough. Not patient enough. Not organized enough. Not diligent enough. The hissing reaches a wild, unfettered crescendo. Not enough. Never enough. Never will be enough.  The accuser is taking up residence inside our heads, and he is speaking to us in our own voices. We hear him talking; the things he’s saying — we are allowing him to say — are things we’d never say to another person. We’d never be so unkind, never be so accusatory, never be so relentless. Somehow, though, the self-evaluation of this season has given way to well-entrenched habits of self-recrimination. We talk to ourselves inside our heads in ways that would astonish people who hear us speak aloud. The enemy has taken up residence, and it’s his voice that is drowning out God’s. God calls to repentance along the path to forgiveness.

As much as I wanted to insulate myself from outside voices, I had been unsuccessful.  I was not alone. I was letting the enemy, the accuser, the tempter take a seat next to me on the couch and talk to me in my own voice.  And with one look at the date on the calendar, I realized something else.  (insert smacking hand against forehead) 

Ladies, do you know who the enemy's trusty sidekick is?

PMS.  The devil's right hand man, y'all. 

So I knew what I was dealing with.  I knew that I would feel better in a few days.  Probably just at the time that I needed to reach into the cabinet under the bathroom sink for that pink box.  And I wish I could tell you that after reading all of Elizabeth's words and praying on them, that I jumped up and started takin' care of business.  But I didn't.  I think I sighed and wrapped the blanket tighter.

On Saturday morning - the day after the cold, grey spring snow fell and turned to cold, grey rain - the sunshine peeked in through the blinds and woke me up earlier than I wanted to get up.  Steve and the littlest guy were away for the weekend.  The big boys were still asleep.  But now I was awake.  I tried not to be angry at the sun because WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE, SUNSHINE AND WHY DID YOU PICK THIS UNGODLY HOUR TO  SHOW UP ON A SATURDAY MORNING?

Before the boys woke, I spent more time reading Elizabeth's words and the words she had relayed from Corinthians:

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation.^[a] The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.

I'd read it before.  I knew it to be true.  But somehow I still wasn't letting God's voice drown out the other voices.  I clicked away.

Later that morning, the big boys were out of the house and I tended to the things I had let go during the icky week.  I vacuumed and dusted and cleaned and laundered.  I turned up my Iphone and I sang: THIS and THIS and THIS.  And I felt a little bit, kinda, sorta happy-ish.

And then the 14 year old walked in from practice and gave me a hug while I still was holding the vacuum in one hand.

Let's write that again.  THE 14 YEAR OLD CAME IN AND GAVE ME A HUG. 

And then he asked if we could go get him a haircut.

Let's write that again.  HE ASKED ME ABOUT THE HAIRCUT.  HE ASKED.

So I looked around to see if I was being punked and I got dressed in real clothes.  And I brushed my hair and put on some lip gloss.  And we went to lunch.  The 14 year old and me.  And we talked.  Like, we talked - the both of us - not just me.  And we laughed.  Later, the 14 year old and I sat on the couch and switched between Cops and Walker, Texas Ranger.  And we talked.  And we laughed.

Saturday evening, the 14 year old had a church event, so the 16 year old and I went to dinner.  And we talked and we laughed.  We discussed our busted basketball brackets.  And then we sang songs in the car.

When I shut my eyes that night I realized that I was actually smiling - a big, goofy grin.  I thought about my ordinary, extraordinary day.  It occurred to me that God has some pretty trusty sidekicks of His own.  Sometimes, at least with me, He has to gather them all up together to make a point and to drown out that other voice.

God's voice had come to me through a small sliver of sunlight waking me before I meant to wake.  It had come to me as I sipped a fizzy diet coke and shared buffalo wings in a booth in a sports bar.  It had come to me when we hit rewind again and again and cracked up at a ridiculous commercial on some random cable channel.  It had come to me over a brownie sundae with two spoons and a boy who grows taller by the second.  It had come to me through the strangest, most confusing of His creations:  the teenager.

God made me new a long time ago.  He made me enough a long time ago.  He forgave me a long time ago.  And even though I know all of that, I, so often let other voices drown His out. 

But His voice is always there right in front of me.  In His word, in a friend's blog post, in a song, in a changing season, in the sudden bursting laughter of my teenagers.

His voice assures me in the most ordinary circumstances:  You are loved. You are blessed.  You are enough. 

(and just to be sure I remember next time, I counted out 28 days on the calendar and I wrote myself a note)

My Fears, His Plans and Happy Meals (Titles are Hard)

Well, due to the time change and the fact that we actually had school every day this week, I am confused as to what day it is.  It's somewhere between Throwback Thursday and Flashback Friday. Since I'm feeling rather annoyed by my inability to control time in the lives of  my children, I'm throwing it back as far as it can go for my oldest boy.

This is the first time Joe looked at me.  (Just in case you're wondering, he is much cuter in color)  Earlier this week, after coming home from an appointment with the doctor who delivered two of my three boys,  I went on a frantic search for this photo.  I was a bit of a mess when I got home because that day I had had a sonogram - the first sonogram I'd ever had where we weren't looking for something wonderful like baby heartbeats and baby spinal columns and baby fingers and toes.  (ALERT:  Earmuffs, Male Readers) I'd had some sort of odd "female issues" happening in the last month, so my doctor was mildly concerned and to be on the safe side, he wanted to check things out.  The good news is that there was not anything very interesting to see in there.  Perhaps a very, very minor thing, but nothing scary, nothing unmanageable and most certainly nothing wonderful.  *sigh*

Looking at that screen, I knew for sure what was not in there this time. There was no baby, of course.  Still as I looked at those black and white shadows while the technician drew lines measuring ovaries and fallopian tubes and whatnot, I have to admit that I imagined for a few minutes what it would be like if there had been some sort of wonderfully crazy and highly medically improbable story to tell when I called my husband later that day.  What would it be like to see one more little fluttering flickering light? What would it be to know that there would be one more of us?

Don't be alarmed, I wasn't delusional.  It's just that I needed to keep my mind occupied since they had told me that I had to have a full bladder for the procedure, so I lay there and imagined the impossible possibility that there could be something wonderful on that screen so that I wouldn't focus on how desperately I needed to pee and how ridiculously fast I had become a mother of a child with a GPA and daily mail from colleges flooding my mailbox.

I imagined that I was just like all the women who had sat next to me in the waiting room a few moments before.  The one whose shirt stretched tight against her growing belly as she shifted in the chair trying to get comfortable.  The one whose young husband sat nervously beside her, his hand on her knee while they filled out paper work.  The one who leafed through a Parenting magazine as she used her foot to rock a newborn baby in her carrier.

I know, I know.  For some reason I forgot about the hemorrhoids and the economy size bottle of Tums that sat next to my bed and the fact that every time my husband made me laugh I peed. (DUDES.  I was pretty clear:  Earmuffs!)  I forgot about how I threw up every time I ate pizza and how I had to change from sleeping on my back to sleeping on my side.  Who am I kidding?  I forgot about the fact that there really was no sleep anyway.

But I also remembered how Husband and I would stay in bed on Saturday mornings watching Saved by the Bell and talk about names.  He would say no to about 90% of them.  If he liked one, he would try it out by putting on a mad father voice and yelling out "JOE CHARLES, GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW".  When I suggested Kelly for a girl, he would sing the Kelly, Kelly Kelly Song that Woody sang on Cheers and I would picture a green-eyed girl with a blond ponytail and a daddy who would be wrapped around her perfect little finger.  I remembered how I went to Whole Foods and bought whole wheat flour and all the other stuff they told me to buy in What to Expect When You're Expecting, but how I ended up at the Taco Bell drive-thru a couple times a week.  I remembered that first sonogram and how we sat in my 1996 Honda Accord in wonder for awhile.  I don't remember which one spoke first or much of what we said, but I do remember that although Husband was not the rallying activist type, he said he thought he might need to find a ProLife rally to march. Instead of that, I think we went to Taco Bell.

And then last night, that little grainy baby who I swear to goodness was in my belly five minutes ago and I went to the high school to listen to a panel of folks talk to us about College Admissions.

And I cried about it at least twice during the day leading up to it.  I thought for a bit that maybe I'd changed my mind about the whole higher education nonsense.  I loved my college experience, but I forgot about it for a good part of yesterday. I mean, were my parents completely INSANE?  Who decided that 18 was a good age for that madness? Sure, there's learning and expanding your horizons and meeting new people, but College is not HERE in my HOME.

I got there a bit before Joe did and took my seat among other neglectful parents who were considering this colossally bad idea.  For a few minutes when those college people started talking it took all I had not to stand up and shuffle past everyone in the auditorium shouting, "NEVER MIND, WE'VE JUST MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE IN COMING HERE.  WE'RE GOING TO NEED TO JUST SCOOT BY REAL QUICK.  MAKE WAY, PLEASE.  WE'RE JUST GONNA STOP OFF FOR A HAPPY MEAL.  IT'S JUST THAT WE'RE COLLECTING ALL THE MONSTERS, INC. TOYS, YA KNOW?  WE HAVE LIKE THREE OF THE SULLY TOYS, IF ANYONE WANTS TO TRADE? WE NEED THE GUY WITH THE ONE EYE?  WE'RE FEELING LUCKY TONIGHT, SO WE'LL JUST BE ON OUR WAY NOW.  CARRY ON,"

Then Joe came in and sat next to me.  He's gigantic now. And he's handsome.  And he's funny. And he's sweet and smart and he loves Jesus. And sometimes he gets on my last nerve.  And, OH MY WORD, I just love him so darn much. 

And I almost laughed out loud because it is so ridiculous how soon I forget one incredibly important fact.  God made my child who he is.  God thinks he's all that I think he is and He knows what he will be later.  God is not at all panicked about this boy's future.  God does not feel like He's gonna puke.  God loves that kid so darn much.  Even more than I do. EVEN MORE.

It was only two days ago, that the intro speaker at my Bible study read the verse from Jeremiah:

"For I know the plans I have for you", declares the Lord. "Plans to prosper you and not to harm you.  Plans to give you hope and a future."

So, I tried really hard to focus and listen to the panel.  I tried really hard to remember that the plans He has for my kid are His plans, not mine. And I tried to remember to talk to God about my fears and to trust God with whatever path this boy decides to take.  And I tried to remember my friends who would gladly skip into that auditorium if only their children were still here to look toward a future.

Then I forced my hand to grip tight to my pen so that I wouldn't reach over like some crazy freak and hold my 16 year old boy's hand.  And I took a deep breath and realized that even if I couldn't hold his hand, God would.  Forever and ever.  No matter what, He would not let him go. 

"I will give them eternal life and they will never perish.  And no one will snatch them out of my hand."

John 10:28