Wandering

I have been reminded to pray for provision.  It seems simple enough. (For a rootin', tootin' Christian, that is.)  Why should I need a reminder?  But I was so focused on my poor stewardship; I assumed I couldn't ask for help.  I didn't deserve help.  I thought I must first get myself and my bad habits in order before I could approach the throne.  So I never actually approached the throne...not for this.
Don't we do this with everything?  Each issue--financial, relational, situational--seems so legitimately our own problem to deal with.  We take care of our part, and then, only then, can we ask for help.  I'm gonna pretty myself right up, and then God will really want to help me, because he'll be so dadgum pleased with me.
Each time I wander in this wasteland I forget the Light I had before.  I don't have ears to hear the promises even when I read them, speak them.  I see the promises as meant for others, but first I have to deserve it.  I forget that the last time I was here I eventually learned that my Father loves me and wants to shower me with his love, even though I am a fly on a dung heap.
I've wandered for a long while this time.  For years now, I have been trying to make myself presentable, so that I could ask God for help.  Okay, seriously. I know that is nowhere in Scripture.  I know that.  But we lie to ourselves...or allow lies to enter in.  And we always believe that this time it's on me.  This time I really do need to get my junk in order before the King will entertain my company.  I don't deserve to keep company with the King.  Not only am I a peasant.  I am a selfish-hearted peasant.

I don't know what happened.  Maybe my feet got tired.  Maybe he had pity on me.  I honestly don't know.  But peace has reentered my soul in this particular area.  The proverbial lightbulb came back on, and I realized---I remembered I need to ask.  Not, "all I have to do is ask."  No.
I Need. To Ask.
Stop focusing on my weaknesses.  Stop worrying about the doom glooming overhead.  When dogs or wolves want to threaten another, they literally loom over the other's head.  Do I really believe the God-Father I have devoted my entire life--my children--to, wants to threaten me?  Where do you think that gloom is coming from?  Who is holding the stick?
My Father does not hold a stick.  He let his precious Boy be nailed to two huge, splintery sticks so I--so we all could be with Them.  How could I let myself forget that?
But he remembers.
He always remembers.
His people always forget.  And Christ came.
Because we always forget.
While I am sitting here with my stacks of pennies, forgetting, counting the want, he is who he has always been.  He is so much more than we know.
While my faith is catching up with my theology in this most pathetic way, He Is that He Is.
He loves me as a parent loves his child.  Except he told us expressly that as we love our children--and do we ever!--he loves us so much more.

I don't know if I am past this phase of wandering.  With its proof of longevity, it may persist.  But tonight I have faith and hope that my Father sees, listens, hears, responds.  Despite my weaknesses, and not because of my strengths, he loves me.  Whether I inflict pain, or pain is inflicted upon me, he loves me.  And oh, how I love him for loving me!

Thank you, God, that all of this is not for naught.

Some things we are reading...

Against my better judgement, and despite my warning that the author is not lying when he tells us the series truly does not have a happy ending, my older two are listening to a very bad book.  We borrowed the first from the library, Ladybug refused to listen, but the other two were hooked.  They will start Book 2 this afternoon while Ladybug's ears are safely plugged by nap time sleep.  Perhaps it is Snicket's candid explanation of interesting terms, or Tim Curry's uncanny ability to contort his voice from evil to innocent to empathetic narrator.  My favorite story though, is something my friend told me.  Her more than slightly brilliant boy is reading this series to himself.  Amid his silent reading he will, totally engrossed, cry out, "No!"  Oh, the literary tragedy!  Why do we love them so? 

In a much more wholesome experience, we love reading Ballet for Martha.  I have always loved Appalachian Spring, and Shermee found this book for us a few years ago.  It is a gem!!  We like to read the story, and then watch this video, followed by three parts.

Chipmunk's ABC, by Roberta Miller.  I'm cracking down on my rebellious Ladybug.  She's a slippery one, and I still have no clue which letters she legitimately does not recognize--if any--and which she's just keeping from me, just for sport.  I guess you could say she's the "class clown".  Nevertheless, it's high time she got her facts straight.  This is one of our favorite alphabet books.  We have at least a dozen on our shelf, but this is the one I always want to read.

Finally, a little something for me!  I started this one years ago, and got side-tracked with moving back to Mass.  It surfaced last week, and I have thoroughly enjoyed starting over from the very beginning.  The characters, the history, the imagery, the tension--it is all very beautiful.

Fear Not, Mama

When a woman has in her care a tiny baby, there seems to be an aura about her.  A certain glow, nay--a lightning bolt, that says, "Please tell me what to do!"  

I, author of present article, am an introvert, which I enjoy.  (No, seriously. I do.)  Introverts do not enjoy strangers talking to them, let alone telling them how to rear their most precious babies whom they love more than they ever thought possible.

Once, I was reprimanded by a most gentle and caring, elderly man.  I was in Walmart (typical) being harsh with my three tiny kids.  His reproach was beyond patient and loving, which encouraged me to 1) stop being mean to my kids, and 2) be open to kind, loving strangers.

One such stranger approached me not long after the Walmart event.  I was hauling my kids into the ol' minivan on a busy Medford street when a bent over Italian woman clutched my arm.  With all her heart she said, "Don't have anymore. It's too much. It's just too much."  Imagining what her generation dealt with, yeah. I could see her point.

The most ominous advice we get is, "Treasure this time!  They grow up so fast!"

And then they're gone.

For all eternity.

Into adulthood.

And you'll never get them back.

We seem to only get this advice when our kids are under twelve pounds and we are sleep deprived to the point of torture.  Knowing we are NOT on our A-game, we fret, thinking we are missing some huge piece of the puzzle and will one day wake up when all our babies are 14, 16, and 18, and then it's too late!!!

~~~

Babydaddy is working late tonight. 

I was feeding my "babies" pizza, chatting about the day and the weekend to come.  I realized that I'm not missing it.  I just knew I would.  But I'm not.  When you're in that fog of constant demand and sleeplessness, you assume you cannot possibly recover until the kids are out of the house for good.  And that would be too late.

But my kids are still tiny.  Well, small-tiny.  

I just couldn't believe my eyes tonight.  I'm sitting with my kids, just 4, 6, and 8, and I'm loving it.  They still have chub on their cheeks and fingernails I have to cut, and I am present enough to relish all of our time.  I am subconsciously and willingly loving this!  

I never thought this was a possibility.

Every time I was nursing a newborn to sustainable life, fear lurked in the corner of my mind.  I held these babies I loved so much, but felt I was wishing it all away for lack of sleep.

I guess now there's a little more light on the subject.  

I loved my babies, just like you all have loved your babies.  And any moment I was cognizant enough to reflect on the moment, I savored it.  Every few feedings I'd stop my brain and realize I had the most beautiful creation in my own arms.

So tonight I'm thinking about all my girlfriends who are nursing their first, second, or third babies.  And I'm hoping they can all rest well--for no more than three hours at a time--knowing that they are doing everything they possibly can to love their babies.  

The photos below are out of order....they are my visual reminiscence of the moments I sleepily savored.

My sweet Ladybug, and the sweetest moment I ever had after giving birth--thanks to my wonderful midwife...below....

Holding a still demanding and sleep-depriving Gizmo...with our Melissa who saw us through it and is now with Jesus.

We were SO young, with our first, Li'l Bit. God has been merciful.

Ladybug's midwives: Jill and Connie.  I spent the most beautiful, thundery night with these women and my man, bringing this baby into the world.

Gizmo, our handsome little man-cub, with his best gal-pal, Stac. 

Jill holding our screaming Gizmo.

Handsome even when he was screaming.

Several years later, we all survived.  And we still like each other.