A New Place to Gather Together

On my front lawn, a flock of seventy six Canadian geese have already turned South for the winter.  Their loud honks resound through the double-paned glass, announcing webbed feet's return to earth for a breakfast in our hay field.

Closer to my threshold, frost kissed yellow lantana have already withered into brown death while a liberal salt shaker of leaves brightens my gravel driveway anew each morn.

The seasons, they turn ever so quickly.  

Even when I am watching the calendar like an hourglass, when I think my senses are focused, watching, alert...still, I close my eyes to summer and awaken the next dawn to the inescapable presence of autumn surrounding me.  I breathe it into my lungs, feel its dewy coolness reach deep within every exposed pore of my skin.

These are the changes I can prepare for, the ones marked in the Farmer's Almanac.  Then, there are those changes I know will come but just can't really plan for until they are upon me.  Sometimes, these are the ones that are bittersweet.

When we moved into our new home in July of 2010, my parents loaned a small table and four canary yellow 1950s era chairs, the perfect size for two year old twins, a four-year-old big brother, and this mother.

For almost two and a half years, the intimacy of daily life has revolved around that little table more than any other place in our home.

It is there that I taught my Wyatt how to read, to form his letters, to color in the lines.  It is there the children and I gathered each day to give thanks for breakfast and lunch, read the Word of God together.  We danced wild, happy, giggling circles round it, painted enough watercolor masterpieces on its surface to paper the entire room.

We lived, we loved, we gathered there.

But come August, it became obvious that our family had grown beyond what a 29" square table could accommodate.   

Now at six and four years old, the children's art projects, books, schoolwork, cups, plates, utensils--they overlapped, covered, infringed upon--we simply did not fit anymore.

This table that had long brought us together was now causing division, bickering.

And so, I began my search for what I have now learned the industry calls a "gathering table," a name, a God-incidence, that still makes me smile.

This past week, we have gathered anew around a larger rectangle, this one counter height and with more than four chairs so even our six foot tall daddy can join with us. 

Once again, the children and I pull out the paints and pencils, books and paper, working separately and together in the same space.  I have even begun to teach the twins how to read just as I did with their older brother at the smaller table in this space two years ago.

Like every change, this one, too, means letting go.  Yet, it is a choice to live in the past or to embrace the present and celebrate life, joy, and family.

We choose joy.



Images: The morning after we moved into our new home--July 6, 2010--and present day, almost 2 1/2 years later.

Evenings are Not For Ourselves

When husband comes in from a long day at the office, I know the thing he'd like to do most is flip a switch and turn himself off, just focus on something, anything mindless for a half hour or more.

Before children, he could do just that.  Each evening's routine involved him shelving the wingtips and exchanging the decorative hangman's noose, crisp white straight jacket, and knee-high black compression tubes for threadbare jeans, a t-shirt, and white Hanes socks.

I cooked supper while he collapsed in his easy chair before an old episode of MASH or a football game.  With a chilled can of Dr. Pepper in hand, he simply disappeared for a half hour.

Now with twin four year olds and a kindergartner, disappearing is not an option.

The children go outside most evenings ostensibly to play, but I know what they're really doing--watching, waiting for daddy to turn the corner of the driveway and make his way across the hay field to them.

Mommy is expected to be here always.  But Daddy?  He is special, the much-awaited one whose coming is celebrated by squeals of delight.

Long before husband turns the knob to come inside, he has been mobbed.

Even from the kitchen, I can hear those knock-down bear hugs and loud clamoring for attention, for the chance to tell daddy something about the day first. 

These short spaces between our days and our nights no longer belong to husband or to me as individuals but to each other as a family.

And so, the five of us gather most nights of the week around a home cooked (or at least can-opened / defrosted / reheated) meal where we take turns sharing the best and worst  (or "baddest" as the twins call it) things about our day.

We speak aloud our joys and those parts we wish had happened differently, our successes and our failures.  While one good and bad thing is required of all, some days, a whole list tumbles out across the table.

On one particularly hard day, Amelia stopped my more-than-one-thing bad list, saying, "Uh....that's enough."  The good days, though, are filled with little ones struggling to find a worst part to their day.  When that happens, Emerson always says, "The baddest thing today was that I didn't get to go to the fair."

Then, in that short space after dinner but before bath, book, and bed time, my six foot plus man folds down to little people size.  In this three foot tall world, he gives horsie and piggy-back rides, races die cast cars, plays hide and seek, puts on or takes off a pile of dress up costumes, or referees a board game.

My children's faces have glowed especially bright this past week as they've laughed at daddy's inability to play a new game from Emerson's fourth birthday party.

It has been an absolute riot to watch two boys try and set up the hardest layout possible for their father, then their sister climb on daddy's shoulders for a bird's eye view of a valiant attempt to aim and fire three rubber birds at a tower of plastic wood and pigs.

Misses are met with taunts from the boys while direct hits on the plastic green pigs are met with uproarious celebration.

 
I know it would be so much easier for him to just say, "Daddy has had a hard day.  Go play with your brother and sister."  It would be easy to just sit them before a Charlie & Lola or Veggie Tales video or to even simply hand over the Ipad with the electronic version of Angry Birds.

But this?

This is a choice to invest in one another, to invest in family, to invest in joy.

When Not Everyone Will Be Your Friend

Even from half a football field away, I can see my oldest son's face crumpled in anguish, streaked cheeks catching the afternoon sunlight as he stumbles down the school bus steps and hurtles across the gravel towards me.

His every step is slower, heavier than normal, that light, carefree bounce I can't imitate if I try completely absent.  I walk more swiftly to meet him halfway, fighting a motherly urge to just run and catch all fifty pounds up in my arms, lifting him in an embrace for all to see.

Wyatt is still too young to be ashamed of tears, of running into mommy's waiting arms while a whole bus-full of children stare out of cloudy rectangle eyes.  Still, I am aware that day is coming and try to let him take the lead in how much emotion he's willing to share in public.

A couple weeks ago when this same teary scene played out, his small frame literally folded at my feet so that I, too, had to sit in the dirt, draw him onto my lap, and rock him until the worst of the storm had passed.

Today, though, our thick, puffy coats, thin bluejeans, and the fading light say it is too cold to sit on pebbles until the waterfall dams up.

When he reaches me, all he can choke out before falling into my chest is, "I really don't think he wants to be my friend." 

This.  Again.

Hand in hand, I guide him inside Oma's house where the twins are gleefully underfoot in the kitchen, supper preparations filling the air with smells of warm goodness.

Yet, even the unmistakable aroma of brownies fails to entice him as he moves down the hall to the solitude of the unheated bathroom.  I follow, turn on the room's small space heater and sit by the radiating warmth of its glowing zigzags.

Through his sobs, I make out a tale of being falsely accused by his seatmate of taking a paper, of that same boy tattling to the substitute bus driver, and of that poor, poor man fussing at Wyatt to put it back where it belonged.

While this is the present symptom, it's just one of two dozen or more that speak to a deeper hurt--that this little boy doesn't want to be Wyatt's friend.  It's something he can't comprehend, why anyone wouldn't want to be kind and friendly, why anyone wouldn't want to hear his story, look at his Scooby Doo book, or just simply talk with him.

I've tried explaining that it is impossible for everyone to be his friend.  I've shared my own stories of mean children not liking me in grade school. I've suggested ignoring him, praying for him.

He and I have brainstormed reasons why this little boy may say cruel things to Wyatt.  Perhaps he's very tired or sick.  Perhaps he doesn't know how to be friends.  Perhaps he doesn't have a mommy or a daddy.  Perhaps he doesn't have Jesus in his heart to teach him how to love others.

Logic, though, doesn't touch an injured heart. Hurt is hurt.

"It was a perfect day," he sniffles, pauses, tears starting to cease.  "Except for the bus."  And with those words, the second wave begins.

I don't tell him his feelings are wrong.  I don't tell him he is a big boy who must get over it and move on, even though this is the truth of life he will have to learn himself.  I simply sit in the soothing whir of the heater's fan blades and make shushing sounds as I rock my firstborn on the floor.

After awhile, he reaches his arms completely around me and draws me closer.  I whisper that daddy will speak with the bus driver and ask if perhaps he can move to a different assigned seat. 

This rejection--it's hard enough for adults to deal with.  I'm thirty five; both head and heart still feel the sting when I receive a negative comment on this blog or when someone is overtly rude to me because of my Southern accent, my faith, my appearance, my whatever.  But not understanding why everyone can't like you just as you are is devastating for a five year old.

I can't protect him from everything, much as I'd like to.  The comfort of returning to the safe haven that is his home won't block out the pain inflicted by the world outside the farm. It won't keep out those who would rather bully you than befriend you.

This is simply the curse of sin, the pain and division it causes to to all living under the curse.

But understanding that doesn't heal the heart of a hurting little boy.  Only God and a whole lot of love can do that.

In his own time, Wyatt unfolds himself, gives me a weak smile, then asks, "Can I have a brownie now?"

Sunshine peeks through a crack in the clouds.

What to Do When You Lose Sight of Yourself

If the calender depicted this past week as a child's see-saw, there would be a five hundred pound feed sack sitting immovable at the far end.  High up on Monday, I would be hanging on for dear life as my body slipped slowly down the board to that box marked "Saturday."

The phrase "It's all downhill from here" would apply, but not in a good way.  I can almost feel myself going downhill towards insanity, becoming that someone I don't want to be anymore.

With all three of my children's birthdays, Thanksgiving, and Christmas all falling during the last three months of the year, I find myself Spring Cleaning in the fall when rooms full of people start trickling into my house.

Sure, I clean, on a daily basis, as every woman must.  But, getting my house ready for family and friends to come over for an official visit brings out the absolute worst in me.  

I wonder WHO ingrained in us this obsessive burden, this crazy need to make all things appear perfect for company?

In other countries, there may be a hut and a dirt floor, which is brushed out each morning, and that's it.  There is no fretting over the dirt that swirls through the sheet in the doorway, just thanks for a roof overhead and food in the belly.

I know this and have intentionally forced myself over the past year to give those "come as you are" invites of the moment.  I have worked to grow comfortable with opening my not-your-Southern-Living house.  If there is a thick layer of dust quilting the television, folded laundry still waiting to be tucked away, a labyrinth of books at your feet, or water colored paintings wallpapering the kitchen counters, the clutter is almost excusable.

But come October, I feel the pressure.  My vision shifts to finally see the red clay hand prints on every light switch and door jamb, the gray sheen on those high shelves I hardly ever glance at, the small toys not quite invisible under the La-Z-boys. 

This normal mother who cultivates a quasi-chaotic haven for creativity suddenly develops unreasonable expectations.  Insanity sets in with the belief that this house can be whipped into streamlined perfection for just one week.

I snap at children for Lego projects left in the kitchen.  I snap at husband for not doing something to help. I snap at myself for not getting it all done faster, better, earlier.

Can't they see the dust on that chandelier? those fan blades? The tarnished finger streaks around the stainless steel canisters in the kitchen? the toothpaste on the bathroom mirror that no one but mommy can scrub off?

What is wrong with me!?  Where is the woman who learned love and hospitality were more important than perfection?

It's sad how quickly I can lose sight of her. 

Last night, I left the vacuum cleaner, floor polish, and laundry hamper to drive into the city and teach ESL to a small group six.  Five smiling men in ironed button-down shirts worked to learn their third language.

Sudan. Libya. Eritrea. Ethiopia.

A hair dresser.  A mechanic.

All five less than a week into their new life as refugees in America.

At least for a few hours, I escaped back to reality where there is no concern about dust, about what the new boyfriend in the family might think of my home, about whether I'll succeed with my fondant/butter cream/gum paste cakes for the twins.

This reality is one where five kind, intelligent men have no jobs, where before the end of the year, they will be on their own without a shred of government support.  These men's needs were simple--shampoo, laundry soap, and dish washing liquid.

If I were dishonest, I'd end here with something profound about my chiropractor God giving me a major adjustment so that suddenly, my priorities were realigned.

But that's not quite the truth.

Instead, I drove back home with two worlds trying to coexist inside my head--the one where I'm not the psychotic mother and wife obsessed by an unrealistic image of the perfect setting for people to gather together...and the other where I know deep down that stuff doesn't matter.

I don't have it all together.  All I can do is pray for the Helper to give me grace to make complete what is not, to focus on what I already know to be true, and to ask forgiveness along the way when I slip into that other person more concerned with the things of this world than with the hearts and souls of those around me.

Fighting for Our Little Girls

I watch my daughter stand before the full-length mirror, swaying first to the right, then the left.  She smiles, frowns, makes a dozen more faces as I get ready for the morning race to the bus stop.

Amelia's face draws so close to the glass, her breath leaves a foggy mist for just a few seconds before vanishing.  What she can be looking at eludes me.  Her face is smooth, unwrinkled by time and unscarred by the sun or a bad case of the chicken pox like her mother's face.  When I look at her, I see my deep brown eyes set in a frame that can be described as nothing but beautiful.

Still, her eyes narrow as she puts her hand to her right cheek, swipes pudgy fingers backwards towards her hairline, and frowns, displeased by what she sees.

"Mommy.  I have moles.  Why do I have moles?"

Amelia is days away from her fourth birthday.  She's too young for this sudden scrutiny of her body's appearance.

She doesn't live in a household where this mother spends hours on her appearance.  Make-up is for trips to town, date night, or looking my best for God.  Nail polish is for parties.

She's never seen me try on two or three outfits and fuss that I have nothing to wear.  While we regularly use the word "beautiful" when describing a particular outfit or extra time spent on fixing hair, appearance is not something we dwell upon mainly because I am hyper conscious of how much pressure is put on young girls to look a certain way.

I don't want her to end up like me, a woman in her mid-thirties who still can't believe her husband finds her beautiful. He can say it a thousand times, and still, I expect him to change his answer, tell me he never really meant it.

In this house, the only time I use the word "ugly" is when a child screws up his or her face into a deep frown to express disapproval over something mommy has done.  That sort of attitude is always ugly.

Somehow, though, here we are, mother and daughter having a conversation about her beauty.

I stoop to look closely at her face to see the defect she has discovered.  My fingers trace a line of Hershey brown freckled dots run from the bridge of her nose across to her ear.  Hollywood would call them "beauty marks."

She smiles and giggles at my touch.  "That tickles, mommy."

I cup her face and raise it to lift mine, tell her this is how God chose to make her unique, so there would be no one exactly like her in the whole world.  I explain that she is just like her mommy and her Grand mama, inheriting this predisposition somewhere tucked away in her double helix.

She examines my arms to confirm this fact, pointing out the tiny pinpoints not even my closest friends have probably ever noticed.

Then, I spin her around to face the mirror again.

"Look," I say counting each tiny dot.  "They make a constellation.  Remember those star pictures in the sky at night? The ones we studied last week in Sunday School when we learned about how God gave Abraham as many descendants as the stars in the sky?  God painted one of those constellations right on your face."

Her face breaks open in a wide grin.  "YEAAAAHHH!  A constellation!"

And that's it.  She runs out of the bathroom, loudly proclaiming to her brothers this exciting news.

For now, it is the right answer. But it is also a reminder that helping her understand and honestly believe that God made her beautiful inside and out is a war that has already begun.

It is a battle we mothers and fathers must fight daily for our little girls, not one where we merely sit back and wait for the questions to come but one where we are on the offense, exposing the lies before they have a chance to take root.

Unearthing More Stereotypes

A small "oh" of surprise escaped my lips as I came to an abrupt stop  in the neighborhood where we were prayer walking.

Before me in the semi-open doorway stood a rough looking young man about my age.  His three day stubble; wrinkled, sleeveless undershirt; and unkempt presence at home after 9 am instantly sounded the warning bells in my head.  Add to that extremely well muscled upper arms decorated with intricate black line tattoos arms and an unlit cigarette--he looked like one of the bad guys from one of the shoot-em-ups on television, so much so that I could actually feel the surge of adrenaline making my heart pump harder.

While I meet people all the time prayer walking, my son had run up the walk before me and had been perched for at least ten seconds on a plastic lawn chair he had found in the "shade" of this man's two-foot-wide porch.  Emerson was completely oblivious to the fact that the man was standing there or that his mama had just been frightened.

After nervously laughing at my snafu, I smiled and pushed towards him the tract and invitation to our church's Fall Festival.  I quickly spit out my explanation, that we were praying for his neighborhood today and would love for him and his children or his family's children to come to our festival on Halloween night.

Honestly? I fumbled over the words.  I used the Word of God as a defensive weapon, a piece of paper to physically separate me from him, not connect me to him.

Still, he acted like he didn't notice my reaction to his appearance, shook his head affirmatively at the mention of children, then said, "Thank you.  God bless you."

I have been prayer walking almost every Thursday morning for a little over a year now.  This is the very first time anyone has said "God bless you."

This man, the one with the huge muscles, big tattoos, and cigarette--the one who made me fearful because of stereotypes I still hold onto in my heart--he is the one who spoke God's blessing down on me when so many others whom I have unconsciously stereotyped positively have ignored me or simply given the courteous Southern thank you before racing away.

As I drove away, I felt ashamed that with all God has done to help rid my heart of discrimination of others who are of a different culture or a different social class as I am, I still continue to find other vestiges of discrimination hiding in the shadows.

With this event fresh on my mind, I picked up my oldest son, Wyatt, from a half day at school and drove the four of us into the city for a special lunch with their daddy.   After the chicken and french fries were all but gone, Wyatt pointed out the window and said, "That lady looks just like you, mommy."

I turned, scanned the entire parking lot, but still saw only one person.  Could he be speaking of the tall, slender black woman with dark curly hair.  A bit surprised, I turned to him and replied, "Yes, she has very curly, dark hair like mommy, doesn't she?  I think she does look a lot like me."

He smiled, pleased that I agreed, then said very matter-of-factly, "Yeah, except she has brown skin."

Yes.  That she did.  But she was "just like me" in every other way.

I honestly believe the Father ordained both my encounters, one to show me stereotypes I still need to work on recognizing, confronting, and overcoming...and the other to show me how far I have come in my own heart so much so that I have impacted my children to see curly hair before skin color, to see sameness before difference.

I am a work in progress. But I am thankful that my Father doesn't give up on me, that He keeps challenging me to confront a form of discrimination so I can truly love as He loves.



Image: This print, titled “America in My Book,” depicts a map of the good ol’ US of A based on silly stereotypes that any American is familiar with. 

One Hour at Death's Door

The lunchroom with its labyrinth of tables always seems to have the same number of people scattered around.  It always looks like less, but each time, I do a head count of twenty to twenty-five.  Never more.

Most sit alone, many sleep, their hunched over forms quiet at a round table large enough to hold a company of eight.  Yet, even those who sit two by two are alone, physically side by side though never speaking to one another.   It's as if this is not the place to make friends since most all are just passing through.

I have been going to the nursing home for several years now, one hour on the third Tuesday of every month.  One thing I have noticed is how the faces are rarely the same. While the turnover rate in such a facility has something to do with the random attendance, the truth is that most of them didn't come for a church service.

Some are waiting for coffee.  Some are waiting for their rooms to be cleaned so they can go back down the hall.  Others haven't moved since morning exercise, scheduled right before our half hour church service.

The woman who once grabbed my son Wyatt's stuffed Tigger and took off with it down the hall isn't there. Instead, a burly man sits at the far back table in front of the coffee pot.  He can't be older than my own father, a fact confirmed by the black military cap pulled down low on his brow, the word "Vietnam" embroidered in gold across the front.  Centered among the colored bars and stripes that all hold some unknown meaning is a pewter pin of a long barreled rifle.

I try to strike up a conversation, tell him that my father flew planes over there, but he isn't interested.  Although it sounds awkward, I feel compelled to speak the words, "Thank you for your service to our country."

He mumbles a thanks, and I move on.

Up front are a couple of the "regulars," those I would miss if they weren't there. 

One sports a new silver brace on her pinky finger--broken.  Last year, her arm was broken when she fell in the shower.  Today, she wears the same white silken muumuu dress as last time, the pretty one with the cardinal red paisley pattern. I give her a hug and smile, make some comment about her not being able to crochet until it heals.

She asks the twins for a hug, and they smile shyly as always before wrapping their arms around her girth.  It's like having another grandma.  She loves my small children, covets the hugs and energy found in such compact forms. 

Then, one of the wheelchair-bound men waves me over.  He tells me the same story every time I visit, as it's a story I could ever forget, the one about him having three holes in his heart when he was born.  He knows my face by now and holds his arm out, uncontrolled, until I grasp it for a firm handshake.

He is one who always wears a soiled dishcloth bib, whose peppery mustache and chin are almost always coated with remnants of his last meal of his ever-present frozen Coke

As the pastor brings the message, I watch this man spoon the oatmeal to his mouth.  He holds the spoon carefully above the bowl, patiently waiting for the brown-cinnamon goo to ooze off both sides.  Only then does he carefully lift it to his mouth.  He tries valiantly.  But with wobbly hands, he is no marksman.

Two seats by the piano are empty, those ladies likely down the hall at the Catholic service where another small group gathers to pray the rosary each morning at ten.  Of all the people I've encountered, they're the only two I've never seen separately.  One in a steel gray bun high on her head, the other with silver waves cropped above her shoulders--each visit, they claim they didn't know we were coming, and ask when we're coming back. Always the same question.  Always the same answer.

I wonder about the man who always came dressed in well-worn black slacks and a button-down long sleeve white shirt a couple sizes too small for his now-expanded waistline.  He always requested the same hymn.  I played it once.

While my children don't remember, I think of Maw Maw being in this service last November, just once as she passed through the home on her way out of this life. Even then, she didn't really remember me, although she played it off quite well.

Sometimes, I wonder if my actions make any difference.  My piano playing isn't anything worth noting unless you want to count the number of wrong notes.  My pastor is the one who does the important part by sharing the Word of God. All I do is give a few hugs, shake a few hands, offer a few words of encouragement and concern, and send my children around the room to "show Jesus' love." 

It's thirty days until my next visit....that's a long time in a place like this.