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

Good Friday

When your need for Jesus' sacrifice on your behalf 
is so evident that you can hardly get your stiff neck 
to turn to the cross...that's Good Friday. 
That's today. 

Oh mercy... 

Sometimes grace is unbearable... 
"Be gone! Leave me to my death!" 
But it remains...
The weight of offered forgiveness 
pressing upon cold heart,
Pressing, pressing, again and again, 
seventy times seven...it perseveres...
Repentance.

Reviving...

Gasp of breath, flood of life. 
Again I breath,
again give thanks. 

How can I bear up, 
stand stiff, under Your grace,
oh God...
when the weight of cross and blood atonement, 
in the face of my stain, bends 
and woos most stubborn heart? 
How can I? 
Why would I?

Oh God...your mercy.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

Good Friday...

But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. ~Roman's 5:8

Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out, that times of refreshing may come from the Lord ~Acts 3:19


"A thousand times I've failed
Still your mercy remains
Should I stumble again
Still I'm caught in your grace
Everlasting, your light will shine when all else fades
Never ending, your glory goes beyond all fame." 

     ~From The Inside Out, Hillsong United

Sorting the Pile

So many days are not tidy.

So many circumstances just won’t be tidied, not any time soon, anyway.

Part of me is ok with unattended piles and those metaphorical dishes left undone, but there is another side that wants order…punctuation, as in, tidy periods that cross things off the list. Essay-like seasons with beginnings, middles and ends. Complete sentences. Unlike that last one, or this one.  They're only fragments made to look tidy by punctuation, not ideal, but real. Isn’t this how I think and how I often speak?

Now I’ve jumped from housework to grammar with no clever transition…

This, too, is life.

The pace is dizzying. No time for grammar or syntax or clever, just a constant pace of ideas, events, and emotions flashing past at paralyzing speed. And because all disciplines tend to intersect, science brings inertia to bear. When I feel that sudden inability to move amidst the rush, a twenty-three car pileup of thought comes crashing from behind.

Today is pileup day.

It happens.

I could have ignored the pile, but somehow saying what is has helped sort it out. I know the pile or the pace does not define me, yet I sometimes trip or get run over. 

A friend of mine spoke truth today…declared what is, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding…” (Proverbs 3:5) and she added much encouragement. This passage in Proverbs, a well-worn road in my heart and mind, continues, “In all your ways acknowledge Him and he will direct your path.” 

Praying what is. This, too, helped me sort the pile.

Truth does that.

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.


*       *       *       *       *       *       *


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

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

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. 

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

For more on Medford see Overdue and Heart-squeeze.