Letting Loose a Blessing

Each afternoon and Saturday mornings, my backyard is alight with more shrieks, screams, and laughter than this farm has ever before seen.  Three generations worth of bottled up happiness has been loosed upon this red clay soil, blessing everyone in its path.

It all started three weeks ago on the morning of August 7.  As my oldest son left on the school bus for his first day of second grade and my twins went for Kindergarten testing, a backhoe sunk its teeth deep in the earth to remove a red mountain. 

Husband and I had only broken the news a few nights before to our three children—in a few short days, they would receive an unexpected early Christmas present from their Oma and Opa—an in-ground pool.

Earlier one summer morning, husband had come home with the secret news.  His eyes danced as I sank down to the mattress, bracing myself for whatever usually not so good surprise he had to tell me.   

Would I be ok with his parents gifting so generously to our family?

I burst into tears.  Just the night before, husband and I had held each other close with hearts heavy.  Counseling our newest “adopted” daughter was requiring both of us to unpack those painful demons and trace the scars of old wounds that hadn’t been mentioned in a decade or more.   

That God was choosing this exact morning to prompt my in-laws’ hearts to share this news was so much an act of redemption of all the struggles we had been through to reach this point in our marriage.  It was as if in that moment, God was showing us the fruits of our commitment to Him and to each other. 

As if He hadn’t already restored so much of what He had stripped away years ago when husband lost his career and when we lost two babies, now God was restoring more of our dreams, those we had boxed up and shoved to the darkest corner of the attic.

Even before we had children, husband and I had built castles in the sky, envisioning our farm to be a safe place in an unsafe world, a haven where our children could bring their friends and where our friends would feel safe bringing their children.  Overnight, that unspoken dream from so long ago was becoming a reality.

Day one ended with the machines digging eight feet into the ground, deep enough to hit water where we didn’t know there was any.  The children were absolutely giddy as they ran up and down the mound of dirt just a few feet away from polymer walls that outlined the future.  

Day two began with men laying concrete around the footings as well as along the bottom of the pool and ended with two hoses pumping 23,000 gallons atop a blue mosaic liner.

By Saturday afternoon, we had a “pool party” where all four proud grandparents gathered ‘round to watch their three grandchildren in a gleeful water ballet.

Three weeks later, my trio of landlubbers has transformed into strong, fearless swimmers who fling themselves with abandon into the deep end, swim its thirty-six foot length, and tread water with ease…all while screaming, shrieking, yelling, and grinning, of course. 

 

Oma and Opa are the happiest I've ever seen them, driving down most afternoons to sit with me, watch the show of grandchildren, and even this morning taking their first swim together in over thirty-five years.

"I love watching those kids swim," Opa said, grinning like a kid, himself.

I listen to the laughter of two little boys trying to perfect simultaneous jumps into the water.  My daughter’s face remains in a permanent grin as she mermaid-dips beneath the surface and swims with eyes wide open for the ladder. 

This is what blessing feels like.  This is what restoration feels like.

Had my husband not lost his career, we would have been able to install the pool ourselves with our own hard-earned money.  Sure, it would have been a great accomplishment, and we would have enjoyed it immensely, but that pool would have been the product of the work of our own hands, not a product of grace and love, of such unmerited, bountiful blessing.

Since the pool now fixed in my backyard is wholly the product of a blessing from my in-laws, I cannot look at it with pride but with humility and awe, much as Job must have in Scripture when God restored more to him than he lost. 

The biggest blessing, though, is just how many more people have been blessed in the process than ever would have been had there been no need for a blessing—Opa and Oma have been blessed in their giving to my children, our two adopted college girls in their witnessing and enjoying such overwhelming love, my parents in their knowing how much has been both lost and restored, and even my brother overseas in his being able to experience all the children’s joy each week through Skype and email.

The thing about a blessing is how wide it spreads, how deep it reaches.  

Even now, I can still hear the music of young and old laughter in my ears.

The Miracle That Is Skype

"Here, mother.  Sit here," my father said, pointing to a wooden chair he had placed a few feet from the extra large television screen.  Grandmother lowered herself onto its wicker seat.  This close, even her ninety-one-year old eyes could see my brother, Johnathan, half a world away in the Middle East.

She drew out the syllables of his name in sing-song familiarity.  "Hi, John-a-than."  Her smile broadened to see his almost life-sized visage in desert fatigues. 

"I don't know how to do this," she chuckled nervously.

"You just talk," my mother said in the background.  "He can see you."

Grandmother has never been one to keep up with modern technology.  She doesn't have an email account, a cell phone, or a GPS; I don't think she even knows how to run a DVD player.  Long after I was married, she still had a beige rotary dial phone by her bed (and probably still would, had the telephone company not made her swap to a more modern device).

But technologically savvy or not, there she sat in the stiff upright chair, proper as ever, Skyping with my brother.  While the rest of our family sat around the room and quietly chatted, Grandmother sat perfectly focused, a loving intimacy in their conversation.  She would ask a question and Johnathan would answer.   Back and forth they talked as if there were no miles separating them, as if he were back home just sitting on the sofa in her living room with a cup of coffee.

Unlike the two weeks prior when we had Skyped him, this time, Johnathan's eyes were bright with happiness, his smile not dampened by exhaustion, illness, or stress from the nearly intolerable heat.  It was obvious how heart-filling it was for him to see her, too.

"How are you liking the ship?" she asked.

My mother spoke up. "He's not on the ship, mother.  He's in a tent."

Grandmother leaned in close and squinted at the screen, trying to look behind Johnathan to get a better view of this white, mega tent he was calling home for a short time.

Daddy turned the volume up louder.  Still, I'm not sure how much she actually heard.  It didn't matter, though.  What was important was for her to see her grandson's face, to at least hear his voice and know he was safe...somewhere she had never been nor would ever go in this lifetime.

At the end of their conversation, Grandmother spoke her love over him.  "I've been praying for you.....It's good to see you, but it's just not the same," she laughed aloud, hands stretching out silly in front of her towards the screen.  "I just want to reach out and grab you."

This isn't the first time our family has felt those same words.  Shortly after the turn of the new millennium, my brother went on his first tour of Iraq.  Back then, he sent home a few handwritten letters and called a handful of times, but the majority of his deployment, my family and I were left with only the silence of wondering how he was doing that day, week, or month. And even when he did call, the conversations were always exceedingly short and mostly one-sided.

When Johnathan deployed this second time aboard the U.S.S. Bataan for destinations unknown in the Middle East, I dreaded the same silence, especially since this time, he had a wife waiting for him back home. 

I forgot how far we have come where technology is concerned--just in a single decade. I forgot the blessing that technology can be.

His wife has been able to text him daily; I can send an email at bedtime and have a response from him by the time I wake up.  But, best of all, my parents and I have been able to Skype with Johnathan throughout the month of August .  Each time, we have drunk the sight of him in as a healing elixir to our hearts.  Even across an ocean, we heard how congested and sick he was that first Sunday, then a little better the next.  When he reached up to play with the kids through the screen, we zeroed in on the thick callouses at the base of each finger, wondering what tales we would hear once he was back home.

Our family is in the final stretch of this nine-month deployment, and I'm starting to get itchy for him to plant two feet on American soil again.  Even so, I am grateful for the technology I take for granted on a daily basis.

The world isn't quite so big anymore.  A grandmother and a grandson having a Sunday afternoon chat--no matter how many oceans are between them, love can always reach that far.

When Generosity is Contagious

Mid summer found my 7 1/2 year old son going through his toys and choosing those he didn't really play with anymore.  Perhaps it was a desire to make room for toys coming this Christmas and his birthday four days later.  Or maybe he finally absorbed those conversations about giving to those who are in need.

Whatever the reason, Wyatt was adamant that the people at the nursing home were sad because they didn't have any toys to play with.  He was going to remedy that problem while off for summer vacation.

I raised more than one skeptical eyebrow, unconvinced a sweet grandma or grandpa would want a plastic Skylander toy from McDonald's.  He would not be swayed, though, pestering me for days with increasing urgency until he finally took a plastic grocery bag and began the process without me.  Younger brother and sister tattled (of course), so I abandoned the kitchen clean-up and climbed the stairs.

There I sat atop a plush universe of stars and planets, watching this unprompted spring cleaning with amusement...and making sure he didn't chunk something precious to this mother.  He prattled on the entire time, picking up each precious item in turn, scrunching his face in concentration as he examined it, then explaining aloud why it should go or stay.  Each time, he glanced over at me for confirmation.

Sure, the Sock Monkey could go.  It had hung from his bed for many years and he loved it, but yes, he didn't play with it.  Why not.  Into the bags followed a glitter ball, numerous plastic kids meal toys, a bracelet, and several cupcake rings.  I shook my head 'no' when he tried to include the yellow dragonfly with its crinkly wings, the one that sang to him in the crib before nap time.

My son then began to count the days till our church's scheduled monthly turn to conduct a worship service at our local nursing home.  By mid July, Wyatt wasn't the only one who had decided to give of his possessions to the residents.   Siblings Emerson and Amelia went through their prized items as well, Emerson choosing a prized puppy that walked when he flipped a switch on its belly and Amelia offering up a small orange bear with the bow ribbon in its hair. 

Giving, it seemed, was contagious.

I have always demonstrated generosity and explained the "why" to my children, but this was the first time I was able to see them give generously of their own possessions without ever having to be told to do so.

On July 15, all three children excitedly chose who would receive their gift.  I watched from my seat on the piano bench as Emerson shyly gave his puppy to a man.  The woman who had received the sock monkey held it tightly in her arms the entire time our pastor preached.  But the biggest blessing was listening to the excitement in one woman's voice when she realized the new stuffed bear matched her own outfit.  All the while, big brother stood by and proudly watched his little sister receive a hug and a kiss.

As we loaded up the van to go back home, Wyatt skipped across the parking lot, his hand finding mine. 

"Do you know how I feel?" he asked, a huge grin lighting up his eyes.  "I feel all warm in my heart."

I had a van full of joy returning back to the farm that day.

A few days later, I learned just how contagious this joy and generosity truly were when a lady from my church said she was touched by how excited the residents were to receive the stuffed animals and had decided to donate her own beanie baby collection.  Would my children be willing to hand them all out to the men and women there?

Last week, we did just that, all of us going down the long halls with two garbage bags full of stuffed sunshine. "This one is so soft," Amelia cooed, rubbing it against her cheek before offering it with a smile to a lady.

We met the man whose room was filled with cat posters, the woman whose ceiling had dozens of wind chimes hanging overhead, the bright-eyed woman with no legs.  In one room, Wyatt carefully lay a bear by a sleeping man so as not to wake him.  In another, we chatted with two women watching The Price is Right.   One woman's speech was slow and labored by a stroke, but her slurred words still ring in my ears.  "Thank you.  I love it."

I continue to be amazed by the simple power of one to make an impact on the least of these.  One small boy's gift turned into three small children's gifts, which snowballed with another lady's gifts.

On those days when I feel insignificant or when I feel I just don't have enough money to make a big enough impact to counter the massive needs and hurting in this world, I need to take a step back and remember how the simple things can sometimes give the most joy to others.

We must learn from a little child just how important it is for us to keep giving of ourselves.  We never know when our solitary actions may lead to someone else coming alongside us, expanding the impact until it reaches so many more than we could have ever reached on our own.

When Mothers Embrace the Silence

I rocked my baby today.  Pulled him gently onto my lap and cradled his head into the crook of my arm, just like I used to do when I could easily carry him from room to room.

My eight-year-old rarely needs love like this much anymore.  Then again, most days don't find him exhausted from an early morning's wake-up call as we strive to turn back the clock for school's start next week.  That combined with a small body worn from last weekend's bout with strep was enough to tip the scales towards a teary meltdown when he crashed heads with his brother.

When I held out my arms, he snuggled into me without hesitation, a broken little boy swallowed up inside mommy's big Mr. Bingle blanket with the ice cream cone "hat."  Long legs bent to curl around me, but unlike the last time he needed my lap, they stuck out well beyond the confines of the La-z-boy to kick the books atop the sofa's end table.

Still, I held him as if he fit perfectly (which he did), stroked the softness of his still-little-boy face, noticed the distinct outline of his lips, the blue green flecks in his brown eyes that focused intently on my face while I spoke words of comfort.  

"Just close your eyes and rest for a few minutes," I whispered.  "I'll sing you a song from when you were little."

Long lashes flickered then fell.

"Love. Love. Love, love.  Little Wyatt needs some love.  Needs some lovin' from his mommy.  Love, love. Love."

A slight smile tipped the edges of his mouth at the mention of his name, but he did not stir.  The minutes passed.  I rocked slowly and held him close, humming the soothing tune in an effort to slow down time against the rush of to-do lists and noise of twins almost finished eating lunch in the kitchen. 

In the stillness, I listened to his breathing, grasping this moment for all it was worth, unsure of when it would come again.

He finally opened his eyes again, tearing welling up as he finally gave voice to unspoken concerns of leaving the farm and not having anymore one on one time with his Opa once school started next week.

I understand.

He's already learning a bittersweet lesson from life, how this fallen world leaves us with our hearts divided among many people, many places.  How the fullness of loving someone is also accompanied by absence when separated.

Lately, I have been learning the power of silence, of just sitting and listening to the empty air, of waiting in the pregnant pauses without counting the minutes in patience or seeking to fill it with mere noise.  The creak of an unoiled spring, the repetitive thrum of a ceiling fan, the rush of water in the sink...

if I just allow myself only these sounds in the silence and not seek to fill it with thoughts of my own, that's when my children reveal themselves to me, when their thoughts unfurl like a sun-warmed rose into the emptiness and give me the chance to be the mother I so long to be.



Image: Oldest son wrapped in another blanket during Mexico week at our house this summer.

Hiding in My Shadow

As the sun rises higher above the treetops, I awaken still sleepy children and hustle them through the morning routine of dressing, brushing of teeth and hair, and consuming a quick breakfast of milk and cheerios.  The rush seems ridiculous on what will soon be just another lazy summer day, but no one complains.  The past few weeks have taught even the little ones of this necessity.

In south Louisiana, the ninety plus degree heat coupled with nearly 100% humidity makes for a perfect sauna but a rather difficult environment to play and work in after about 11 am.  The longer it takes to get outside, the higher the sun.  The higher the sun, the more sweaty and irritable everyone will be.

This morning, though, the air is unusually brisk for mid July, a surprise gift left behind after a late night shower that swept quietly through our farm while the world slept.   Still, I know it won't last. 

Before the stifling Louisiana heat can reclaim its summer throne, we four tumble out the door for our morning mile--two journeys up and down the gravel drive.  We walk from sun to shade to sun again.  Our feet move swiftly as the sun presses down hard on our heads, then unconsciously we slow within the shadow of the trees and hay barns.

The morning run/walk may be for exercise, but for my children, it is an exciting excursion.  This week alone, the children have spotted a fuzzy wuzzy caterpillar climbing a dewy blade of grass, a freshly squashed toad with its "heart" displayed outside its body (or so says my eldest), and piles of red and yellow leaves, a promise of the autumn to come.

Today finds all three underfoot, as usual.  Difficult for a mother trying to increase speed and heart rates. 

"We're hiding in your shadow!" says one.  The other two quickly join in the game.

Three tones of happy laughter join the songbirds' morning hymn.  I can't help but smile at this song of childhood which is contagious as the three skip and leap, jockeying for position, all trying valiantly to find my always-moving shadow and rest within its shade. 

Daughter's shadow disappears within mine for a split second before reappearing behind, her long legs stepping high to catch up again.  Both sons try but fail to completely vanish beside me.

"I'd need to be a lot wider to hide either of you anymore," I laugh. "You've gotten too big."

Logic is irrelevant, and they repeatedly keep trying to seek shelter within the thin strip of protective darkness I cast.  Soon, we turn a bend in the road, the sun's angle shifting to where our shadows now walk before rather than beside us.

All three finally concede the impossibility of what they've been attempting and race ahead.

The moment of needing mommy has passed, and all scatter to make their own way.  Daughter lags behind in pursuit of something in nature that catches her eye.  Oldest son runs far ahead, ever desiring to be first to beat his younger brother who stoops before me to examine a rock.

I can't help but think of Jesus' words as he entered Jerusalem before his death: "'O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those sent to her! How often I wanted to gather your children together, just as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not have it!'" (Lk. 13:34).

The verse hearkens back to the Psalmist who wrote, "How precious is Your lovingkindness, O God! And the children of men take refuge in the shadow of Your wings." (Ps. 36:7).

Even in their shadow play, my children remind me of both my desire and my inability to protect them.  I long to be that mama hen who gathers her brood to hide them in the shadow of my wings, but I am insufficient for the task.  I'm simply not "big enough"  

My God, though, is "big enough."  No matter the sun's angle, my brood can fully rest within His shadow, completely protected. 

With summer's end just a few short weeks away and my twins starting school for the first time, I rest in this thought, knowing His shadow is large enough when all three of my independent little chicks leave my side.

 

Following the Hurricane (Whether I Want to or Not)

I am not a fan of inclement weather.  My children will readily tell you the first thing this mother prays aloud for each time she sees an Elijah-sized thundercloud headed my direction is, "Please, Lord, don't let the electricity go out."

There was a time when storms were exciting--cancelled school, strong winds to play outside in, eating hot dogs and baked beans on a Bunsen burner, and the homey smell of oil lamps burning.  Then came the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and suddenly, the romance of hurricane days was no more.

Mental images still flash through my mind as clear as any glossy photo in my hand--images of around-the-block lines at the gas stations for weeks after the storm, of bread and milk rationing at the grocery store, of the hum of generators instead of the hum of crickets and the fear that I couldn't pull start the machine again if it ran out of gas during the night. And that was all while living north of Interstate 12, away from the worst ravaging in New Orleans and along the Louisiana coast.

A month later, Hurricane Rita followed with more power outages, and a few short years later, another hurricane barreled through.  That time, I rode out the storm with a two year old and infant twins, the winds blowing hard enough to bring the impossibly tall pine in the front yard level with the earth, all while I huddled indoors concerned about my babies sleeping without their window AC unit.

Tonight as I write this, another hurricane blows sheets of rain sideways against the house windows again, only the house is not mine.

Months ago, my parents and I began planning a trip to visit my sister in love, Liza, while my brother, Johnathan, was deployed overseas on the U.S.S. Bataan.  We only thought we were leaving Louisiana for a fourth of July party and good family fun with my children loving all over their Aunt Liza.  Never did we consider God had us coming at this particular time for a very different reason.

Even when we left home and started driving north, we thought surely the storm would head out to sea, but it has persistently hugged the coast, inching westward just enough to bring the storm to her home and to me and my children once again.  

Hurricane Arthur is only a Category Two storm, with 100 mph winds, nothing like Katrina, and it's expected to make landfall just east of Liza's home later this evening, putting us on the "good" side of the storm as it glances off the coast and continues northward to New England and beyond.  Still,the winds whip hard, strange whistling noises spooking the cat who grows big-eyed at my feet and scurries for cover in some dark corner.

I don't understand the Sovereignty of God.  I don't understand how both God's Sovereignty and man's free will coexist simultaneously.  Yet, by faith, I believe they do.   I have to.  To believe in coincidence and random acts with no meaning or purpose is chaos and doesn't line up with too much of what Scripture tells me.

In that faith, I know God sent my family here to be with Liza to "ride out the storm" with her, not because she needs us to really do anything much.  But because I know it gives her and my brother half a world away both a good measure of comfort knowing we're here.

To me, our presence in this hurricane with Liza is like God saying to both Johnathan and Liza, "Do not fear, for I am with you.  I'm still here. I'm still in control.  I'm taking care of you both even though you may not see me and things may not be easy."

These are the moments when I feel God the most near, when I see the impossible line up to the possible, when I see how God uses me to bless another even when I wasn't aware I was doing anything that could be used for His glory.

When Strangers Become Family

It was August 2009 when I finally gathered enough courage to begin taking my trio of terror to the library.  The twins were a few months shy of one year old, which meant the trip involved the limousine stroller, complete with its bulldozer-type handling.

I distinctly remember keeping the babies firmly strapped in their seats--completely against their will, of course.  I also remember being hyper conscious of every sound they made and madly buying their silence with a golden bribe known to mothers everywhere--Cheerios.

Lots of them. Doled out one at a time and shoved--along with an entire fist--into little bird mouths. 

Big brother Wyatt fell instantly in love with this book haven, and just like that, we started a weekly routine of visiting the children's section.  Every Tuesday morning, I would stroll through the electronic front doors of our local branch to check out 15 books--no more simply because no more would squeeze in the cloth bag with the quaint sunbonnet dolls printed on it. And no less because if more could fit, then my then two-year-old would make them fit.

At some point during those first few months, one of the librarians at the front desk told me I had just missed Storytime, which just so happened to be held every Tuesday morning.  The next week, we made it on time. 

The library became our sanctuary.  It was the first place I felt my children were expected to be children....were accepted as children, were celebrated as children.  Tables, chairs, and crayons beckoned them to come in and stay awhile, no matter their occasional lack of inside voices. There before an entire wall of glass, we put together countless puzzles and read even more books together.

It wasn't long before we were on a first name basis with most of the librarians, and while members of our precious librarian family have come and gone over the years, there has been one constant since our first visit--Mrs. Annie.

To say my children love Mrs. Annie is to minimize how integral a part of our family she has become. 

She has read to my children almost every week at Storytime for the past five years.  She's sung ridiculously silly songs, created amazingly cool kid crafts that have lived on my fridge, and has been patient when my trio wanted to "help" restack the carpet squares before we were finished using them.

When Wyatt started Kindergarten two years ago, his greatest regret was not leaving his mother at home but rather missing Storytime.  Since then, during summer break and holidays, he has always been excited to rejoin his siblings and Mrs. Annie for this hour of fun, no matter that he's now taller than most of the other children and is surrounded by many noisy babies and toddlers.

Time with our favorite librarian didn't end with Storytime, though.  The first "Mrs. Annie" event was pumpkin decorating when Wyatt wasn't quite three.   Since then, virtually every month has found us calendaring some excitement with Mrs. Annie.    In years past, she's guided my children through Egypt and helped them become Master Librarians from The Magic Tree House series.  The past twelve months alone have seen my children playing Valentine BINGO with Mrs. Annie as well as attending Dinosaur, Dr. Seuss, Turtle Power, and Elephant & Piggie parties with Mrs. Annie.

For three summers, our friend has been the one to gently encourage my children to fully participate in the Summer Reading Program (even when this mother wasn't sure she was up to the challenge) so that now, it's not a question of if we'll read the fifty books to earn all our raffle tickets for a bike but when we'll read them.

Two weeks ago, we learned Mrs. Annie was leaving for a new job.  My heart felt the loss so much that I didn't tell the children for several days, and when I did, they met the news with an equally long pause of perfect silence.  It's not often I can leave my children speechless. 

Every day, my trio asks if today is her last day.  The second question is "Will we ever see Mrs. Annie again?"  I assure them that we will, even if just on Facebook (where I'm sure they'll stalk her photos for awhile).

In the Fall, the twins start Kindergarten, leaving Storytime behind, so in a way, it seems a fitting end to this season of life, to know that as our family is passing on to new things, the face of the library will change as well.

We will continue to make new friends and adopted "family" at our local library, all while knowing that the changing seasons of this life are made special by the people who inhabit them.  I thank God above that for this five year season, He blessed us with a Mrs. Annie whom we could love and who would love us back.

One day when my little ones are turning grey, themselves, I know we will sit around with the photo albums and share fond memories of the librarian who was the first to cultivate in them a love of books.

We love you, Mrs. Annie.