Brielle: Making Space and New Stories

🌿 A triple ping sounds as I’m savoring the day’s first cup of vanilla flavored coffee and the shaded, early morning coolness of our covered patio. Just out there “being” before the heat rolls back. 

Opening the incoming text, I see a line of photos from my daughter, Jillian. Her first official mother-daughter date with her “new” two-year-old, Brielle—officially adopted just yesterday. 

🌿 As I gaze upon the two images of head-to-head silly faces and, the last one, a happy little pixie-girl… I get hit with all the feels. Leaky eyes and a pressing on my heart. 

It’s not like I haven’t received a few photos like this over the past year, but they were never labeled: mother-daughter. They’re the same kind of goofy-faced-girls selfies she used to send with her firstborn, Cadence—and knowing that first girl will soon turn fourteen brought its own wave of sentiment. And it’s all punching new love-and-wonder corners into my mama-gramma heart. 

🌿 Life is so wonder-full and fragile. That a little life can be plucked out of brokenness and planted into a path of redemption moves me to tears. Tears for what was shattered and for these sweet and silly glimpses of hope for a mended future. 

Our hearts have poured love for Brielle since our first FaceTime. And we’ve known she would likely one day be ours. But there is a reality of this grafting-in that takes time to settle, unpack… make a home. I can feel my heart opening that new space for her today. A real and forever space. A stretching that recognizes the broken-world labor pains that brought her to us, as well as the endless power of God to bring life and healing to her precious heart and soul… to her story… to all our broken stories. 

🌿 And for this little one, He has chosen to set her into our family’s story… into my story… knowing we will not be perfect, but that she can grow alongside us. We will make room for her days of joy and of struggle and show her that this is the way of life on earth. Weeds and blooms and making space for each other—together. Letting our stories breathe in the arms of the One who writes and tends and holds us close on quiet, patio mornings where new pictures ping through and new chapters begin. 

#motherdaughter #stories #newstories #adoption #fosteradopt #realLife #redeemingLife #familyLife #newLife #lifewithBrielle

No Words

Yesterday my dad had what they're calling a stroke. He arrived in the ER unable to answer simple questions, his attempts to speak, indiscernible. Though unaffected physically, his speech aphasia remains some 32 hours later. Making slight improvements, then waning once more.

According to Wikipedia: "Aphasia is an inability to comprehend or formulate language because of damage to specific brain regions... The difficulties of people with aphasia can range from occasional trouble finding words, to losing the ability to speak, read, or write; intelligence, however, is unaffected." 

I'm not sure how to process this, but these thoughts are the beginning.

It's so odd to see my Dad, the word man, without his words, yet still trying to speak. Sometimes giving up with a shrug or tossing up his hands, yet not overly flustered. That he remains content, is both mystery and relief. 

We often think we know how we'll feel about certain things, but I'd never really stopped to think about how it'd feel to be with Dad without his words. Speaking, writing, reading... these have been his greatest pursuits, his greatest joys. The crossword and the word jumble his daily challenge. 

Now it's his words that are jumbled and we are left to work out the clues of gesture and incomplete utterance. Can we discern the full thought he leaves dangling or decipher the nonsense syllables? And how the random full sentence becomes a moment of celebration! 

I am so connected to this word man. Even in my youth when my heart rebelled against our intersecting downs and acrosses, the words were woven in ways I could not see. His fascination with words planted in me. A gracefully ascending DNA of sounds, rhythm, syntax, imagery, poetry, and prose. 

Will he ever again toss a newly minted page of verse my way? Shaky handwriting adorning blue-lined paper. Phrases crossed out, re-rewritten once, even twice... 

"Try this one out. What do you think?" 

Well, Dad... right now I think I miss your words. 

 

'Tis A Week Before Christmas

'Tis a week before Christmas
And all through the house
Not a creature is stirring
Except Mrs. Mouse

The stockings aren't hung
By the chimney with care
Santa Dude's in a box
But I don't know where

I don't own a kerchief
The Hubs sports a cap
What we wouldn't give
For a long winter's nap!

The bare tree is nestled
All snug in it's stand
Well, bare, but for lights
Deftly hung by the hand

Of a kind, handsome elf
Who just drove off to shop
So I've hauled up a bin..
Now a star sits on top

Soon I'll hang shiny orbs
Of green, red, and blue
And in no time at all
Be enjoying the view

Of my festive fake tree
With it's twinkling lights
And the window of snowflakes
They are quite a sight

Sometimes Christmas comes slow
To the outsides of things
But my heart holds it tightly
The Truth, and it's ring

For Jesus came quietly
In a Mid-Eastern cave
Left heaven to free me
Sin no longer enslaves

This is the garland
That hangs round my heart
All the rest are traditions
Not the whole, just a part

We deck halls with bright lights
For the Light who has come
He alone’s the adornment
I need in my home

B. DesChamps 2017

Most Of All

We grandparents tend to develop a mooshy new heart chamber when it comes to our grands. Love pours in. Love pours out. In most cases, unobstructed by any primary responsibility; a mid-life gift of unconditional love. We have been blessed with six.

The three who now live in Maine, and their mama, just spent three weeks with us. Three weeks of in-the-flesh time -- real hugs, squeals, spats, pool splashing, piano banging, Play Doh pinching, puzzles, toys, bubbles, field trips, and read-all-the-books snuggles.

All this followed by the heart-trudge to the airport, the last goodbyes, and the day after of wonderful, miserable quiet. A silence ushering in tears and much reflection, not to mention eight loads of laundry. 

Do I miss those kiddos and all their crazy energy? Yes! But as I sat with my coffee and leaky eyes on that first solitary morning, I realized this: when we're apart, it's my daughter I miss most.

Truth is, I loved her first. 

We've shared twenty-seven years. That's a lot of life glue and heart stitching.

All through this visit when the kids were napping or in - and out - of bed at night, we'd slip right into our shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch thing while planning her next remodel or my first, raiding Pinterest for favorite haircuts, laughing, bantering, or getting real about life. One night, she asked if I'd play the piano "like I used to" when she was little, so we could worship a while. Two hours of singing left us spent, but refreshed; hearts aligned.

You see, my love for the littles is tightly woven into the miracle of watching my daughter become a mother and be a mother. Watching this girl of mine love, teach, train, pull her hair out, fall to her knees, find strength again, and become more beautiful and wise in the struggle. I see a little of her in each of them.

To me, she is friend, cheerleader, prayer warrior. She speaks truth and encouragement over my life and calls me out when my thoughts and actions go south and sideways.

So even as my heart weighs heavy over my wide-eyed, busy, brilliant grands, when a continent lies between us, it's my daughter I miss most of all.

The Faces of Motherhood

I stumbled upon these half-written reflections that began on Mother's Day. My life is littered with unfinished projects, so in a rare burst of determination I decided to circle back and finish this one. Some of you may find kinship here.



Sometimes the doing takes hold so hard that quiet moments drag me off to some mindless distraction. Today, the distraction dragged me back to mindfulness. Even social media can be the all things that are worked together for good. Wonder of wonders.

As I scrolled through my Facebook newsfeed, I was struck by the many faces of motherhood. Women cradling newborns, tales of sleepless nights and toddler antics, bedside hospital vigils, celebrating plays and proms. So many snapshots and shared thoughts that reminded me of my journey as Mom. So many seasons - all of them simultaneously happy, hard, wondrous, tedious, heart-wrenching, mind-stretching, and somehow good for my soul by the mystery of the unseen Hand that held me.

Soon I was nudged back to real-time by tears painting picture upon picture across my older, life-worn face. Tears that longed for the simpler, exhausting days gone by. Streaks that celebrated the joys, mourned the griefs - some yet raw. Tears that declared I've not yet found a place of peace in the so-called empty nest season...

...mostly due to the unexpected season: watching our own moms, and others, age in ways that we celebrate, but also in ways that keep me up at night once again - anxious, wringing hands grasping for elusive wisdom. Who knew the same uncertainty that gripped those long ago firsts would resurface in caring for the generation who raised us?

What I once pictured as carefree, possibility-full days of walking alongside my kids and grandkids has been fraught with cares and dreams deferred. I wrestle to lay down my vision of this season. There's no grace in how it's looked - this struggle - but much grace surrounding me in it. I am trying to find stillness in this storm, to soak up mercy, comfort, wisdom, love.

Who am I in all this? What can I hope for and work toward? Questions that took flight even as our first child married have had no space or length of time to land as I've bounced from one major life event - or crisis - to another these past several years.

Who am I? How do I fit, how does the rest of life fit, in to the new normal of caregiver in perpetuity, for that is how it often feels: never-ending. In part, this is who I am, what I do well, what I'm called to in this season. But the responsibility overwhelms at times, and I am clumsily learning to navigate, delegate, and find healthy boundaries, instead of mentally curling up and giving up.

This is my face today. Acknowledging the joys and sorrows, the struggles, fears, confusion, clarity. So often trying to hide the weariness, anxiety, depression. Confessing the resentment and sad state of a malnourished soul, but lifting a chin to look up, and leaning an over-weighted shoulder into my Savior once more.

This has always been the face of motherhood for me.

The Long Mourning

It had already been an emotional morning -- revisiting another grief, decades old. But isn't that the way of grief? Sneaking into ordinary days that begin the same as every other: cooling coffee to the right, discarded cereal bowl to the left, morning paper refolded, and me scrolling for news of friends, enjoying insights, perusing photos...

My husband and I were not expecting the old loss to surface, both left wondering at a hidden significance in the timing. For as we wade through this season of midlife, taking lingering second looks at those roads less traveled, we know an increasing desire to invest in things that last. Even the prodding of an old wound can be an awakening. Such was the vein of my thoughts in the aftermath: patiently unresolved, sent up in prayer, waiting raw... a familiar place.

Now, coffee fresh, I resumed scrolling posts and pics, when I found myself stilled by a new photo...
My beautiful daughter. Tucked in close to husband and friends, her sparkling soul of a smile grabbed my heart and squeezed more tears.

Seven years since she first left home, then hometown, to the south, then southwest -- my grown up girl was on her way to yet another coast, a new home, a new adventure. This snapshot a piece of that journey. Her deeply loved family will settle far from here, once again. And even as I trust the Lord's directing her path, I felt every mile as a slow gouge across my heart... I'm so wrung out with goodbyes.

Standing in the kitchen sometime later, I felt it keenly -- life is the long mourning.

I've known it most profoundly as my children moved away. Each visit too brief. Each time to go chaffing the wound of the first goodbye. At least their childhood milestones kept them within arms reach, though they whispered a misty-eyed prelude to all that is now.

I've known it in hopes deferred. Relationships broken. Friends moved on, passed away, or caught in all manner of devastation. So much upheaval added to a lifetime of transitions. Season upon season, loss and change coming steadily, often leaving no time to process. Lives and issues demanding attention. No time to feel. Just move. Do. Now.

And always... the goodbyes.

Everyone's journey with loss etches differently, but is no less real. And I'm realizing that I often diminish my own pain, sweeping it away as pale in comparison to your pain... or their pain...
or suffering of global proportions. In doing so, my grief is shamed into some dark corner with no arms to comfort, no outlet for tears, no truth to lead it back to life and hope. The weight of it, unresolved, a silent shackle diminishing today's joy. And by deciding it does not matter, I am in effect saying
I don't matter.

This revelation brings a grief all it's own.

There is much stirring in these midlife days that I both welcome and want to run from. Healing requires revisiting storms past and a closer look at new issues swirling. All that wind... messing my hair... and messing with my emotions. I don't like either messed, but the hurts have been in disarray for a while. Hair is an easy fix. Maybe that's why I like doing hair.

I'm rambling now...

...and trying to make light of things that need light. That need honesty. That need a level of brave that has me on my tippy toes, longing for solid footing. Stretching for faith. Sorting through distractions that include voices, within and without, "Hurry up already!" Voices that throw out white-washing platitudes... "Let's just plaster you over with a few positive-thinking posters. Here's one with a Bible verse! There, now! Stand up straight so we can read your posters. We feel so much better now.
Don't you?"

We're all so uncomfortable with pain. Covering over is what we do, to ourselves and others.

Sigh...

Somewhere in this jumble of frustration and fear is a woman who longs to be set free of griefs deferred. To take hold of everything for which Christ has taken hold of her. To press on.

I know that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. He has redeemed me and calls me His own -- deeply loved, forgiven, accepted -- I do matter. And He's gently calling me to this heart-tending, lighting up dark corners, infinitely patient in my struggle. Amidst the storm, He will bring quiet, turning gusts to refreshing breezes as the Spirit bears truth and healing.

So, despite the desire to run away, I'll lean into Jesus, then lean into the wind, and keep on walking. Sometimes pressing on feels more like being pressed, but I know I'm safe, in Him, in the mess of
this long mourning.

Because of the LORD'S great love we are not consumed,

For His compassions never fail. They are new every morning;

great is Your faithfulness.

~Lamentations 3:22, 23

To everything there is a season,

A time for every purpose under heaven...

A time to weep,

And a time to laugh;

A time to mourn, 

And a time to dance. 

~Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4

 For all that gives rise to mourning, I am so thankful there remains a time to laugh.

  

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

How about you? Is your pain cast aside or covered over?

Are you running or leaning in?

I pray you'll let Jesus tend your heart.

His compassions never fail.  

The Dad, The Daughter, and The Depend-able Airman

I originally posted this story on Facebook, then decided it was too fun not to chronicle here as well. Family stories should be...passed on. 


Once upon a time a young airman was dating our daughter. We'd all gathered for her dad's birthday and, no doubt, had a grand time. Later that night, Dad headed to bed only to find a surprise gift nestled in front of his pillow...a 12-pack of Depends. So hilarious! 

Well played, young airman.

A few months later, while Airman was out of town, Dad talked Daughter into letting him set up a little payback. With painstaking care and devious creativity, Dad hid every single pair of whitey-not-so-tighties all over his apartment...and truck. For months after his return, young airman would find plastic puffy pants wedged in the oddest places...his guitar case, ski boot, zipped into a flight suit... Nothing's quite as fun as a prank that keeps on pranking. "Touché!"

That was seven years ago. Airman is now Captain and married to Daughter.

Today a package arrived from the couple addressed to Dad. Considering they've been in the throes of packing and moving, we had no idea what it could be. As Dad ripped open the parcel, what to his wondering eyes should appear...but nearly a dozen tightly packed pink Depends. 

Hahaha! Dad could hardly stop laughing.

Well played, Captain. Well played. All I can add is...

To be continued.

One Mother's Day

When your daughter lives some two thousand miles away in the lovely state of Arkansas, it's quite a bonus to get to spend a holiday together. This May, I enjoyed two such special days: my birthday and today... 

Mother's Day.

Here to meet my newest grandson, goof off with the other littles, and make myself as useful to Mommy and Daddy as possible, I've enjoyed giggles, songfests, poopy diapers, sticky hands, laundry, dishes, sleep deprived nights, lots of coffee, Thai food, Chick-fil-A, my first taste of hushpuppies, several episodes of Jake and the Pirates, a few HGTV marathons, and some fun outings with my girl and the fam. 

So as I lived this Mother's Day with her and her passel o' young'uns, I found myself a bit awestruck amidst the ruckus - and sort of chuckled inside - to think that this had been my life just a couple of decades ago. And, somehow, I had survived it all (and the teen years) to become Grammadette to these three and two more in Oregon. Holy smokes! God is good. Truly. There's no way I made it through without Him. And the times I tried? Well, I won't get into that today.  

I've often thought that the greeting "Happy Mother's Day," while lovely in it's sentiment, places an onus of expectation on a random day, filled with all the ordinary things that must and will happen in the life of a mother. Motherhood is a journey, full of the happy and the hard and the calendar doesn't determine the order and duration of either. 

Today, after a fitful start and a few actual fits, the afternoon gave way to an unscripted, though much hoped for, peace-filled naptime. In simple terms: all the littles actually slept. Given this gift, I finally sat down to put some thoughts together for my daughter. 

If you are or have been the mom of little ones, this may resonate...

Dearest Jillian...Spending this Mother's Day with you in the chaos of today - when mom of two kids is still finding balance as mom of three - pokes at deeply filed memories. On this day when oldest was being ridiculously willful and disobedient, while middle boy treated your commands as white noise to his single-minded toddler pursuits, and new one fussed instead of eating then spit back half upon clean sheets and showered body...on this day I'm reminded of the stretching. Body still stretched from new birth, mind stretched toward wits end, and emotions close to snapping. Gah! ... The stretching!

It seems trite today to wish you a "happy" Mother's Day. So I honor your journey, encourage your faith, marvel at your persistence, and am warmed by your heart to love and raise your children well.

And I'm thrilled that you are now fast asleep on the sofa. A quiet victory on such a day, and a lovely way to celebrate. 

Love you so,
Mom

Heart-squeeze

Holding Ellena tightly I whispered, “If I hid you in my purse and brought you home, do you think Mommy and Daddy would notice?”

“What?” Daddy had overheard, so I confessed my scheming. As we all laughed I told them they needed to have lots more kids so if one accidentally went missing when we left for home they might not notice right away.

Sigh…I loathe goodbyes.

How do I hold my newborn grandson on the morning of our departure without a huge heart-squeeze of tears?

I’m pretty sure that tear ducts are mysteriously connected to our hearts by some unseen pathway. Biology may say otherwise, but I reside in the world of what is seen and unseen and tears are often what speak in the overflow of my heart. Wet words that cannot be spoken for sometimes words are just not deep or high or wide enough.

So I savored making Little Missy her breakfast this morning, sitting next to her with mine, and had no trouble maneuvering my spoon with one hand as precious bundle of boy lay cradled in the other arm.

No trouble but the tears.

Then, snuggled next to my daughter after watching her do the same with her dad, my heart rested next to hers in a long sigh. So many words spoken in that time of not speaking…surely the well sprang up, though we hid it just a bit longer.

I have often tried not to cry in front of my kids as we hug, pray, give thanks, and hug again in those goodbye moments. I’m not sure why. To make it easier for them…or for me? Regardless, the puddled eyes and sniffs are inevitable no matter my intentions. It’s that heart-squeeze thing, I suppose.

Today as we held one another in one last circle of prayer, I sensed the words unsaid; the pouring out of hearts that was surely heard as clearly by our heavenly Father...perhaps more clearly.  

For He was, is, and always will be. Taught this as a child, I embrace it with whole heart and mind. He knew me before I was ever formed in my mother’s womb, just as He did little Charlie. He knows all my days, including this one, and has already provided comfort for it, promising to never leave me nor forsake me. As precious as my children are to me, so much more am I to Him.

I can’t hide my heart from my Father like I sometimes hide behind words not spoken or tears held back. I’m so glad of this. For, truly, I need a safe place to rest my heart…especially today.

Thank you, Father. I feel your arms holding me…holding my heart together.

Charlie lay sleeping where I’d gently laid him just moments before. Caressing his cheek one last time, tears threatening yet again, I picked up my bags and walked out the door. Another long embrace with my daughter - “I love you” - and I crossed the street to the car. It’s a small street, but that walk from curb to curb seemed endless. As we drove off, there was Daddy, tender-eyed, holding Sweet Pea as she opened and closed her little “bye bye” hand, with Mommy standing by his side…letting the tears flow.

And, finally, so did I.


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I am reminded of a much beloved song. Truth that brings comfort and rest:

He Knows My Name
Tommy Walker

I have a Maker
He formed my heart
Before even time began
My life was in His hands

He knows my name
He knows my every thought
He sees each tear that falls
And He hears me when I call

I have a Father
He calls me His own
He'll never leave me
No matter where I roam

He knows my name
He knows my every thought
He sees each tear that falls
And He hears me when I call

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Here's what filled our hearts for the squeezing: Blessings From Medford and Overdue.

Overdue

Kids always keep us on our toes, don't they? Little Charlie surely decided to keep us guessing and finally made his entrance a week overdue. I'll never get over the miracle of birth, and your child's child is like a double miracle.

But a baby was not the only thing overdue here in Medford. If your grands live far from you, you'll understand.

As grandparents we've enjoyed varied monikers over the years, some given us by our sweet grands, others by circumstance. We are Gramps and Grammadette to our spunky southern princess, Cadence, and her lively brother Desmond.

And our little Sweet Pea in southern Oregon? 

Well, to Miss Ellena, who understands everything but has been slower to enunciate, we are Gah and GahGah. But since I've been here, I've made a game out of getting her to say Grammadette. 

"Ellena, say Graa-maa-DETTE!" To which she responds with her pixy grin and adorable transposition, "Daah GAH! Daah GAH!" Back and forth we volley... because it makes her giggle. 

At the end of the day, I don't care what she calls me...as long as she calls me. If I end up being Gramma GahGah or just GahGah, that'll just make me giggle. I certainly don't aspire to any kind of Gaga-like fame, though I do have my own share of ridiculous antics...

But, seriously, my one hope in her regard is a place of love and permanence in her heart. That's fame enough for me.

For all these precious long-distance kiddos, I refer to myself as Flat Screen Gramma. Macbook to Macbook is how we've bridged the miles. Skype is our friend. 

I love my grandkids to pieces, but I confess I will never entirely love being Flat Screen Gramma. Gramps and I make the most of our flat screen status playing games like peek a boo, goofing with the sock monkeys, singing songs, and pulling out our repertoire of silly sounds and faces. It's all great fun, but being here reminds me of all the long overdue hugs, kisses and heart to heart snuggle time.

In light of this, watching Gramps gain instant "favored status" with Ellena upon his arrival the other day was as good for my soul as it was his. Even as I write, she is clamoring for his lap as we all share the comfy sofa. I've been demoted to second fiddle and that's ok with me. Gramps has far fewer shares in real-time skymiles and snuggles.

Witnessing his first cuddles with newborn Charlie was a precious milestone, as well. Photo op time, for sure. And as he gazed lovingly upon his sleepy-eyed grandson, we couldn't help but comment on their matching dastardly cowlicks.

"Really?" he said.

"Totally!"

Looking down again he sighed, "Sorry, Charlie." 

It's so good to be here. Coffee outings, conversations, walks in the sun. Watching our "kids" continue to grow as parents. Giggles and snuggles, lots of singing with Sweet Pea. Memorizing little Charlie's face while willing him to memorize mine. Filling our hearts with as many cuddles as possible till it's time to go.


Time to go...

It will come all to soon. It always does.

But in the meantime, there's Ellena...leaned in, tucked under Gramps' arm watching Aristocats.

Sigh....

We're soaking up these overdue moments.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

For two more "snapshots" of this overdue visit see Blessings From Medford and Heart-squeeze.

Blessings From Medford

Some days I forget to see God's blessings. Do you? 

Blessings are always there, beckoning quietly. They live in fleeting sun breaks, in a tiny child's voice painting stories with endless imagination, and in the words, "Thank you, love." They live in bare winter trees with spring hidden deep as well as in the first golden smiles of daffodils. Even the patter of rain all day belies the grey as it harkens every shade of green to breathe again. Sometimes life brings even more obvious beauty, yet, still, I can breeze by with my lists and my one hundred clamoring thoughts.

Until today... 

Ironically, it happened as I struggled to bring mascara to lashes that would not come into focus no matter how I strained these grandmother's eyes. (Putting on makeup by memory? Another musing for another day.) As the blur brought an inward smile, I found clarity. My mind's eye gathered scattered blessings.

I’ve been hotel-ing on my daughter’s sofa here in Medford for the past week and a half waiting for baby number two to arrive. Suitcase living and being far from home and routine can bring it's own kind of blur: new surroundings, adjusting my life to theirs, late nights of conversation or board games, going with the flow, remaining, basically and happily, without a plan of my own. And as we all daily wonder if "today" will be the day, all lists are held loosely. Yet woven throughout the days of waiting, sacred moments are everywhere. 

And this morning a blessing did come very quietly... 

As I lay snoozing in tucked sheet and fleece, my dream-state sensed a small presence. Groggy and bleary, I opened my eyes to the sweetest angel face: strawberry curls, eyes, wide-set puddles of blue, sucking two fingers while the other tiny hand reached out to “boop” my nose. What a precious "good morning." 

Pulling her up with me I closed my eyes again and, reveling in my frequent Skyping Gramma dream, enjoyed her nearness, her warmth, even just the sound of her breathing.  

Once sated with snuggles and kisses, she toddled off to help Daddy prepare a pan of blueberry muffin deliciousness. With perfect view into the kitchen, I took in that precious father/daughter moment seeing much more than measuring and mixing. That was love, right there, and deep blessing being cultivated into the heart of a father and a daughter. A sacred moment. 

And then he brewed fresh coffee. 

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For more on Medford see Overdue and Heart-squeeze.

A Morning With My Wild-Haired Girl

Just out of arms reach twirls the poster child for epic morning hair. Strands of wispy, honey blond ponytail escapees frame her green tinted eyes with an explosive wad of tangles pouffed out in back like a Victorian bustle gone wrong. I haven't seen anything that teased up since the 80s!

Dancing free in crisp new diaper she chimes, "I'm naked! I'm naked!" (Well, yes, except for that cute Micky Mouse Huggie on her bum.) And so she jabbers on with intense earnestness and I have to suppress the smile and chuckle that are tickling up from my Gramma's heart as I try and listen with equal seriousness. Her mama had that same sweet, sing-songy voice as a child...

Oh the wonder of this precious girl...soft eyes, cheesy grin, and a full-on, two year old, adorable, tongue sthickin' out lithp! "Hasta la vista" tumbles out as "lot-tha pizztha!" (Which means we love to get her to say it as often as possible.) 

She bends down now to look me straight in the eyes as she touches her hand to her chest, "I go downthairs wiss Mom." Not a question, you see, but an announcement. She is two, after all. 

Basement errand complete, she's engaged in a morning dinosaur show. And as I type these last lines, she's wiggled her way onto my lap for a cuddle and another look at my owl necklace. How I love these sweet snuggles...savoring and saving them up for the months ahead. Embracing today, while she's here, even as the tears sneak up on me...

My little darlin' lives in Little Rock and my heart sometimes gets ahead of itself as another inevitable goodbye looms on the horizon. 

The Lord has been teaching me to hold all things loosely these past couple of years, stretching my long-distance Gramma heart to the breaking point, then pouring out sweet grace to ease the tautness just in time...every time. I don't love the feeling, but I adore His nearness. 

And, today, I adore her nearness too.  

Now back to my wild-haired girl. Time-tha wayth-tin'! 

A Woman-in-the-Making

She stands with cute, cropped hair, eyes sparkling, delicate ear-bangles dangling, face framed by deep magenta scarf...and while I'm shooing her out of here to run her errand, I know I'd rather just sit and stare at her...you know, like I used to when she was a little girl. 

Have you ever been mesmerized by your child's face? Those tiny features, lively eyes, precious smiles... As her features matured I thought I'd get over it, but apparently I haven't. Because, really, she's as much a miracle at 23 as she was when I first laid eyes on her. 

And here she is all grown up and poised, with just enough sophistication in her funky self to let you know she's a woman, not a girl, and just enough youthful excitement to make you wish...well, make me wish...that she didn't need to run off today.

As usual our conversation bordered on ADD...fun earrings, what the kids will need when they wake up, wide-eyed smiles and mutual gushes over colors we adore...like the deep rose-magenta of her scarf that we'd both secretly love to paint on a wall in our homes. We've always been able to skip happily through those mind mazes. Hand in hand, never lost in the transitions, and happy as clams to meander off the linear path. 

Our personalities are very similar, our struggles have been too. Last night, as had been our habit in days gone by, we talked long into the night of the deep and the difficult, of relationships, of who we were and who we are becoming. We walked the path of Jesus' hand in all of it, sharing common insights and more than a few "aha" moments.  

So as I gaze today, taking in far more than her animated words, the thought comes, "She is gorgeous...from the inside out. My daughter is beautiful!" 

She makes it halfway across the room before turning with something new to share. I chuckle, saying, "Go! You know we'll just keep talking forever." And so she finally drives off, but she's left a bit of radiance behind...and I think of her. 

I love hearing her heart, her struggles, her victories. I love sharing the ordinary and the fun things, shared passions and silliness. It is a privilege to journey as women together. 

Even when she was a girl that is how I saw her...a woman-in-the-making. Always in process. 

I never tire of watching God fashion His masterpieces.  

Women-in-the-making are beautiful.

Motherhood: A Message to My Daughters

Phone is buzzing...somewhere. Next to me? Reaching for it, half groggy, thinking, "Is she ok? Are they ok?"

As quiet voice from miles away tells of tiredness and queasy tummy, that "mom" thing kicks in. That mom muscle memory. You are suddenly awake, alert, and from someplace deep within, from Someone always there, you are calm. 

Seeking words of comfort, you speak. Wanting to know the right questions, you listen...and keep listening. And all the while you're praying. 

Two plates spinning is what you've done forever it seems. 

And then it comes to doing battle out loud...laying thousands of miles away on the same sofa that's seen many a night of prayer...for her...while she was a young girl, a pre-teen, a young woman in the making. So many battles fought on that very couch. 

Phone to ear, eyes closed, hand raised to the One who never sleeps...the words pour out, pleading strength, protection, and that all surpassing peace. Peace for bound up body...for arms, legs, tummies, peace for furrowed brow and aching head. "Jesus...please say peace be still over the waves of anxiety and yuck. Calm the storm...Send Your angels to stand guard in every room. Over the children, over my child."

And after a while (you are amazed at her perfect calmness), she calls her neighbor who comes to be hands and feet. Truly an angel, I say. And storm subsides. We say "I love yous" almost three hours from that first deep sleep phone buzz...and we hang up.

And then I weep. 

And I wonder...Does she know that this has always been the way with me? With motherhood? Each new battle with shield of faith, sword ready...knocking knees...and game face on.

Did they ever know that you were just as frightened as they were? Did they know that you held it together in the moment so that they would trust? And yes, your trust was there...There...too, but it did not mean you were not afraid or bone-weary. And always praying those thousand silent prayers as you nursed their wounds, comforted midnight fevers, sought wisdom, asked for healing. 

They need to know now. Now that they are "mom."

My daughters: You will be strong for the sake of your child...by the power of the One who gives lavishly, perfectly, lovingly. And when you are done, or even in mid-battle, you will draw away and cry...hopefully crying out to the One who is always there to hear, to catch tears, to lift your weary head and heart. You will let your weakness wash over you and be strengthened by His strength. 

Do not fear the fearing and the doubts. They come every time. But your trust in Jesus will prove itself. He will prove trustworthy. It is part of your journey, this collapsing on the sidelines when you've left it all on the field. And you will marvel that you're still alive! 

And after all is done, joy plants itself a little deeper. 

Faith stands taller. Gratitude for His presence...come what may...

will be the banner for your next battle.

This morning after my tears were spent, I opened the living Word and found life. Then I slept a little while...

Let the morning bring me word of Your unfailing love,
for I have put my trust in You.
Show me the way I should go,
for to You I lift up my soul.
~Psalm 143:8

 

 

Why We Battle

My sweet granddaughter. Silly, spirited, feisty...and dearly loved. Her father, an officer in the United States Air Force. But to her, he is "Daddy."

Such a precious image as we honor the sacrifice of our military, past and present, this Veteran's Day.

But this picture also reminds me that so often, for all of us, life is a battle. Battles without and battles within. Conflicts encroaching on our safety, our health, our joy, our sanity. On foreign fields and in our own homes. Some of us in uniform and some not.

Little ones like her are why we persevere...why we get up everyday, give thanks, and continue to struggle, sacrifice, and press on...no matter what. Each generation laying it's life down for the next.

We are men and women of the battle, but we need not battle alone...

"So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." ~Isaiah 41:10 

And a few more thoughts on this day...

I'm very conscious this Veteran's Day of the fact that as I sit in my safe, quiet living room with my husband rummaging closely by in the kitchen, many are far from their loved ones with safety being a moment by moment blessing. Many families are soldiering on without Dad, or without Mom. And so many in this country have and are giving their best...their youth, precious time with families, their health, mental wellbeing, and their very lives to engage in defending our freedoms and to come to the aid of others around the world. 

For those in the military who have and are sacrificing much of your freedoms for ours here and abroad, I say thank you. For those wives and mothers, husbands and fathers, and for all the children who by enduring separation bear a huge part in this sacrifice, I am humbled and grateful. May the Lord hold you close, be your protector and provider. And may none of us allow ourselves to be so comfortable and self-consumed as to forget those lives and freedoms laid down on our behalf. 

May we honestly consider how we might encourage and come alongside these families and veterans in our own communities, today and everyday.  

If we live shoulder to shoulder, no one battles alone.

If only...

If only I were a daily journaler I might capture thoughts before they crawled into some dusty corner of my brain. I tend toward the reflective in all things, but those reflections don't just bounce to the page on their own.

It's likely the same reason that I'm not a photo taker. I find myself busy living life - truly being caught up in the moment - and so very content to just be that I don't always record things in picture or print. I live them, feel them, think, and process. And, inevitably, I will joyfully sit with others, soak in conversation and watch children's antics...instead of snapping pictures.

I have never been and never will be "say cheese" mom or the scrapbook mom. God bless all of you who are, but I just wasn't cut from that pack of paper. 

Writing is a different type of chronicling. It's own embellishment and interpretation of a snapshot...a thought, experience, or journey. It takes uninterrupted time...which usually means begging and borrowing from what should be spent on other, often needful, endeavors. Sigh...

Thus the dream persists of a cozy attic studio where I hole up with my laptop while my delightfully good-natured live-in housekeeper wrestles everything of house and shopping and cooking into perfect order...and, most importantly, keeps the coffee hot....

(phone rings)

And now, even as I'm formulating thoughts and editing what I've written so far, I receive a phone call from my granddaughter who wants to tell me that she folded up her big rug during nap time, that daddy is flying on an airplane today, that sandwiches are yummy, and would I "please" talk to her on the computer?

(insert: happily resigned shake of the head and an inward chuckle...)

And so she appears, via Skype, snuggling with bear bear, bobbing her cute pigtails, and after a hearty, "Hiii Gramma!" tells me that mommy is making her a sandwich and that she'll be taking a nap later. When I tell her that I like her pigtails, she says, "Tan too." (thank you) And after a long sip on her water she declares, "Deeewishus!" And we talk about how her plate is green and her bib is yellow and her socks are gray...Then Mr. Crying in the Background appears, tears gone, and smiling at his sister. Despite his mom's persistence, he is definitely more interested in sucking his thumb and watching sister than eating his mushy rice cereal...

And on it goes for quite a while longer...until we finally say goodbye...because I really do need to shower now and get to my dad's to cut his hair....

Now I think I know why writing remains only a wish some days. (smile)

But, again, I am living and being. Being with my "kids" who now live many miles away. This happens a lot actually...these texts or calls, "Wanna skype?"

Do I usually stop what I'm doing to snatch a few minutes with these precious little ones, or with my daughters who still like to hang out with mom? Yes, you bet I do! Do I take those phone calls and texts from them...and from my son and his wife...and treasure the chance to share life? As often as I can!

Truth is, I'd always rather be than do
...especially when I can be with them.

And so all my thoughts today about how "life is a kaleidoscope lately...and how it's hard to focus on any one color, shape, thought, feeling...impression"...blah, blah, blah... and how "my brain feels tired"...yada, yada, yada...will wait for another day.

I never want to come to the end of my life with the people in my life as part of the "if onlys." 
And now I'm running late to get to my dad's house. Gotta go!

Life is a story too, even if it remains unwritten,

and I want to live every page. 

On Being June Cleaver

It all started one Friday morning while I was fighting off a case of “Oh my word! I’m going to cry again!” Ugh! Seriously.

Two days before I’d stood outside the Little Rock airport having one of those tight-squeeze-that-lasts-forever hugs with my daughter Jillian. Why can’t all Air Force families whose wives happen to be my daughter just automatically get stationed to Fairchild AFB…for life? Why must adorable grandchildren live so many states away? My thoughts were as bleary as my eyes as I continually remembered those sweet little faces…the smiles…and the morning cuddles that I’d left behind. I can’t even linger there too long now…

Anyway…

After having spent a wonderful Thursday on an all day date with my husband, I was suddenly facing Friday...alone. In the quiet. In my stretchy pants. Only a pot of coffee to keep me company.

So I started tackling my most hated travel chore: unpacking. Stacks of clothes lay strewn about in the spare room and I was determined to get things in order. While sorting through the piles, starting laundry, having another cup of coffee - with some dark chocolate this time - and frittering on Facebook... 

...I hatched a silly plan.

Silly plans and silly days of frittering on Facebook do well at keeping the “I miss them so much, I think I’m just gonna sit here and cry” paralysis at bay. 

I remembered the red and cream skirt from the earlier unpacking, thought of a fun new outfit that would include the sweet black wedges I’d bought, and the new-millennial June Cleaver was born. 

What better way to spend the day than with June Cleaver? Perpetually put together. Perpetually cheerful. Perpetually in pearls. What could be better than done up hair, new shoes, and a sweet red skirt to chase away the blues? Who says that dress up and make believe are only for little girls?

And you know what? The rest of the day was a whirlwind of prancing around on those platforms, happy as a clam to be doing housework. Bantering June-style on Facebook. Coining the new WWJD – "What would June do?" 

...And meeting the laughing, approving eyes of my husband when he returned from work.

After having texted him the photo of the new June that afternoon he said I’d need to help him pick out a tie and sports coat for mowing the lawn on Saturday. Good man, that Ward. 

Ward and June are now not far from our consciousness. We bring them out when we need a little silly. And on Tuesday night Ward took June out for frozen yogurt. #wardandjunearedating

To be continued...

An Unexpected Blessing

As I walked through the Little Rock airport I wondered if saying goodbye would ever be easy. The prolonged hug outside the car. Trying to smile as I gave Cadence one last wave… Fighting back tears, I found myself grateful for the distraction of all the “take off your shoes…put your laptop in the bin” security procedures. Next up: a tall Pike Place with room for cream, a few posts on Facebook, and a call for Zone 2 to begin boarding. 

I entered the small commuter plane and quickly slipped past the young man in Seat 2B to settle into 2A. As he sat back down he asked where I was headed. “Spokane, Washington.” How about you? “I’m going to Minnesota to meet my girlfriend’s parent for the first time.” “How exciting!”

It’s not often that a young person strikes up a conversation with, well…someone my age, and I was immediately struck by his easy manner and the genuine light in his clear green eyes. As we prepared for take off then headed toward Memphis he continued to share, “I was a meth addict at 16…my dad’s an alcoholic…I’ve had four step-dads.” I soon learned that his addiction led to rehab at Teen Challenge and a life-changing encounter with Jesus. Double freedom. After rehab he’d signed up for DTS (Discipleship Training School) with YWAM (Youth With A Mission). It was there that he met Sarah. Though from a more stable family, she’d also fought demons of her own. He went on to share how God had brought them together…more details than I’ll share here, but it made me smile as it all poured forth from this very grateful, red-haired young man who is still amazed at God’s goodness.

After each sharing bits of our stories with one another, we finally exchanged names. He is Drew and he’ll “be 19 in three weeks.” He works with youth at his local church and loves to go back to Teen Challenge to volunteer and give back to those who gave so much to him. In September he’ll be back working with YWAM, assisting with the new DTS students. He and Sarah know that they have much to learn and much yet to be healed in their lives, but they have good mentors and a great Savior. We parted with a promise to pray for one another.

Landing in Memphis I thanked God for - a safe landing, of course - and for this work of Providence. “Youth with a mission.” In light of eternity, I’m still very young. That thirty-minute conversation was a comforting reminder that though my time in Little Rock was done, the Lord still has so many other appointments for me, so many opportunities to listen, to encourage and to pray for others.

Thank you Jesus and thank you, Drew. Godspeed.

Goodbyes...

Today I am pondering goodbyes. I am beginning to see that much of life is about saying goodbye...and learning to do it well.

Goodbye can mean "I’ll see you soon" or “I’ll see you in heaven,” and everything in between. In the past several years this has become more poignant as I’ve been parted from dear friends that I have loved and ministered with. Some have been called to minister elsewhere nearby, some have been sent on grand adventures of faith hundreds of miles away. Others have lived out their days here on earth and have been called to their eternal home. And most recently, I have had to say goodbye…one by one…to my children and their spouses as they have followed their given paths away from home.

My preparation for these goodbyes began many years ago with “seasons” of friendship. Can you look back on your life and notice that there were people that you were closely connected with - perhaps in school, or while your children were small, on a job, or in ministry - but as time and life’s events took your journeys elsewhere, the proximity of that friendship was gone? I’m not talking about having a falling out, but perhaps more of a calling out. At first I would try to hang on so tightly and force a relationship to stay, but I began to see that some relationships were there to nurture a season of life, to truly just propel me on to the next leg of my journey. There are also some that, despite distance, will be life-long and, truth be told, I don’t think we get to pick which ones are which.

Every one of us has a journey. If I love you I will walk the stretch of the road with you that is mine to walk and when the crossroad comes, I will bid you farewell…praying that you do “fare well” wherever you are called. Your life is not mine to hold tightly, but it may have been mine to encourage for a time. And at the end of the day, I just want to be faithful to that for I am so eternally grateful for those who’ve walked those stretches of road with me. It may have been a matter of years or just a few conversations, but each life that’s touched mine has made an impact. Even those that have caused hurt and pain have been used for God’s greater purpose.

Years before my children ever had the glimmer of a calling, be it marriage or other life adventures, I began praying that I would be able to let go of them gracefully and graciously. (Grace being the operative word.) Especially being a mom-at-home, my life and “career" has been so closely identified with their lives. But my goal as a parent was always to propel them toward adulthood. Even when they were younger, to challenge them to look beyond immediate gratification and not just learn practical skills for adulthood, but begin to have a vision of themselves as, in their case, a man and as women. It was so good to choose to celebrate their milestones, to allow for rites of passage that were meaningful and intentional, but in the back of my mind was the knowledge that one day all of this must culminate in “goodbye.”

And how intensely do we love our children? I have often thought of mine as “burned into my heart"...like a brand. My heart is forever changed by having given birth and by having done life with them. The joys of victory and the agonies of defeat…and all the ordinary days in between. I love them in ways that words fail to fully capture and that is fitting, because they were never meant to be captured. True love is huge and holds it’s hands outstretched, it is never tight-fisted. My kids were created by God for their own journeys and if I love them, I will shout, “fly…fly!” even if the next minute I must bury my head in my hands and cry. I must bear the sorrow of goodbye so I can watch them stand, and struggle, and grow, and embrace all that life has for them.

And, so too with my friends. Sometimes I have seen God take a friend out of my life so that I will learn to stand without them, and stand more fully in Him. Or so that I will have eyes to see a new relationship that He’s ordained for me. Even as an extravert I can get pretty content with my little circle of close friends and fail to see someone new who is just waiting for a fresh companion. And most often, He is calling my loved ones to a new adventure and I can either focus on my sadness at having to say goodbye, or love them well through the sadness by continuing to encourage…standing at the curb-side waving with all my might and wishing them a safe and amazing journey.

As I grow older, I have begun to see the beauty and purpose behind the ebb and flow of life...and lives. It’s sole purpose is life, and life to the full. A seed must fall to the ground and die in order to bear much fruit. This is the order of life. And so often this means that my ordering of life must die, and I must learn to say goodbye in a way that joyfully says “fly!” When someone leaves there is always a hole left behind, but isn’t that where new plants are nestled? In fresh holes? The trick is not missing new blooms because we’re still staring down the road at a set of taillights. Do we acknowledge our sorrow? Of course. But we can bear it a little better each time as we come to see that life is not about hanging on to things or people.

So today as I began the day skyping with my daughter and her kids in Arkansas, then did the same with a beloved friend in California, and also learned of a dear couple who have been called on to their next adventure, I have stopped to ponder all this, to let the sadness wash over me with each goodbye, and at the thought of that "farewell" to come...and I know it's all going to be ok. Goodbye is ok, even when we love much and it hurts.

We can love deeply and learn to say goodbye, because sometimes they are the same thing.