Who Needs A Change of Scenery?

The dusty patches near the edge of the drive are stamped with overlapping hexagons, proof that I have literally been wearing a path between my house and my in laws' end of the farm.

Each week since late July, I've been slowly increasing my distance, on my way to 13.1 miles for the half marathon in January 2015.

After seriously twisting my ankle and spending the spring recuperating, I began at the beginning--a single mile march five days a week with my three children.  By the time my little trio bounced aboard their first school bus of the year, I had moved up to two miles, three times a week.

That was almost three months ago.  By Monday, I will be up to 10-mile treks, but don't be fooled--I am no athlete--not by a long shot.  I am slow, ever afraid of failing in this task, and hyper-conscious of how other super athletes will look down on me on race day as weak so much so that weeks ago, I enlisted the help of a prayer "accountability" partner.

But in the midst of all these fears, the pain of losing a toenail, and mornings with over 90% humidity, I have come to enjoy these two hour breaks from the noise of life. More importantly, I have come to enjoy this time when it's just me, my praise music, and my God.

Even on the hottest of days, I have discovered that I can meet with God out here in the midst of His creation more easily than inside my well-air conditioned prayer closet. 

Perhaps it's just the sheer length of time without any interruptions that draws me into conversations with Him.  There is no distinctive tinkle of new text messages, no telemarketers, no email, no Internet, no pile of laundry to be folded--in short, no distractions.

Somehow, though, I think I find God more outdoors because of  my surroundings.  Just being in the midst of His creation makes God seem that much more awesome and incomprehensible while at the same time that much closer and approachable.

When I look up, the wind drifts a kaleidoscope of autumn hues through the airy void before me.  They dance and hover to invisible heavenly melodies, occasionally brushing against my shoulders as their Creator draws them to the earth.  With each step, I hear the distinctive crunch of death and am reminded that each breath I take is a gift.

I rapidly plant one foot in front of the other, suddenly noticing mere inches from death a snail who carries his nearly transparent yellow home across the gravel.  His pace is so slow compared to mine that he seems to not even move as I blow past.  Yet, when I come back to the same spot seven minutes later, I am surprised to find no trace of him and am instantly humbled by the thought that my perspective of time cannot be applied to other parts of God's creation.  God's time is fast enough to accomplish His purposes.

Another day, a furred red ant weaves a seemingly chaotic trail before me; yet, I am aware that even in the perceived aimlessness of his God-designed decisions, there is purpose, no matter whether I can see it or not.

Ever present are the brash young red cardinals of spring who have now matured into more careful adults.  One flees from my presence as I round the end of the barn, even when that flight means forsaking a breakfast of grasshopper.  The insect panics at being trapped between me and the bird, leaving behind the gray camouflage of the limestone path and taking flight high into the rising sun.

This mistake born of fear instantly illuminates its presence to the young hawk and blue jay hunting above in the towering pines.  They swoop down together, the small jay quickly breaking off in the pursuit when he sees he is out-winged.  In the time it takes for me to make four steps, the hawk catches the insect midair and flies back to his invisible blind to wait for another, leaving the air empty as it was moments before.

Inside my home, I can become too easily convinced that I am god of my domain.  I control the temperature; create and destroy; change the colors of the season; give life and death within these walls.  Everything does as I command it to do.  In there, it is too easy to not need God because I have it all under control.  Or at least, that it how it seems.

But out here in God's wonderland, I am reminded of how truly small I am, how little I actually control, how dependent I am upon His grace for all things--even for a single breeze to give a moment's mercy from the humid heat  Out here, I am keenly aware of how life and death are separated by a single strand of spider's silk that can snap with the slightest breeze. I see the danger of making rash decisions born out of fear.

A stagnant prayer life suddenly sees flesh form on dry bones by simply moving outdoors, by changing scenery from one place where I feel in complete control to one where I instantly am confronted with the truth that I am anything but.

Reduced Price Globe Trotting

Liza & Amelia mix up a batch of Holland jodenkoeken cookies

 

Let's face it--chances are most of us will never be able to send our children around the globe to see the seven wonders of the world found in history books.  One or two countries?  Maybe...hopefully.  A whole European vacation?  Not unless they become nomadic gypsies in their twenties.

The good news is our precious darlings will never become monument-destroying vacationers like the Grizwold family in the epic National Lampoon sagas.  The problem, however, is that an all-American-all-the-time life tends to make our families myopic to the point where we can't see beyond our front doorstep. 

Our family's dilemma with a purely American-centric lifestyle was two-fold, one educational and one spiritual.  First, how can you stretch your children's imaginations when they don't have a framework for imagining different--I mean really different, as in something you've never been introduced to before and could never dream upon your own, not different like "The kid sitting next to me in class is weird."  Secondly, how can you pray for those people in anything more than generic terms if you know nothing about them?

With these goals in mind, five months ago,our family began a tour of the globe, all without the expense of five passports.  The only thing it cost this mother is time.

Thirteen countries later, my children's imaginations have exploded. 

Australia, Mexico, Russia, Sweden, Brazil, Germany, Hong Kong, Italy, Madagascar, Canada, India, Holland, and China.

Each week, I raze our local library, always leaving with a heavy bag full of books (and sometimes a video). The librarians behind the help desk know me by name now, a few of them not even asking before they look to see which books I've requested to be sent over from the other branches.

Some are fictional stories from the particular country we're studying or are written by an author who lives there.  Others are stories all children in that country would know from birth. Then, there are those nonfiction tomes we use as picture books, giving us a glimpse into their cities, houses, and places of worship.  My children like best those fiction stories written about an actual event, always asking, "Is that real?" when I finish the last page.

 Books & old VBS dragon decoration from China week

Through many a glossy page, we have learned about the lemurs of Madagascar and the crazed "tulip mania" in 1600s Holland.  We've read about an Indian Cinderella who looked nothing like the Disney version (and who had a talking cobra as a fairy godmother), a trio of brothers who created the first kite company in China, animals who live on each "floor" of the dense Brazilian rainforests, and migrant workers who come to America on visas from Mexico.

With weekly trips to the library, that great big world out there has grown much smaller.

My kitchen has also changed dramatically over the past five months, especially my spice cabinet.  Trips to the grocery store have proven the most difficult part of this project, as I make loops around the store scouring the rows for ingredients not even the stock boys know where are located.

Usually, only Thursday night is international cooking night, although some weeks, we eat two different meals from a particular country.  The children are responsible for cooking the dessert because honestly, what's more fun than cooking with sugar?

Emerson and Wyatt poke almonds into Chinese almond cakes

 

 

Amelia tastes German pretzel

 

 Wyatt rolls out naan bread from India

As you might expect (especially since my children are ages 6 and 8), some weeks are a success and others are a Great. BIG. Flop.  Except for the tandoori chicken, India is the number one flop so far.  Hong Kong is a close second.  Germany, Canada, and Italy, however, ended with not one uneaten crumb in my fridge.  The one rule of international night is that every family member must taste everything, even if it's just one bite.  Amelia has "fixed" several foods with an unhealthy dose of ketchup and turned her nose up at dozens more.  But overall, the whole family's palate has expanded, and we've even found some new loves.

Sausage and applesauce will forevermore be served together in the Dorhauer household thanks to Germany week.  Madagascar's bonbon voanjo (peanut candy), India's naan bread, Sweden's lingonberry jelly, and Holland's erwtensoep (pea & potato soup) will gladly grace our table again. 

The end result of all this fun is that the children (and their mother) have become more conscious of their place in this world and when they pray, they now have an image in their mind of people from around the world. Plus, they know exactly what to pray for.

Their prayer requests often mention a specific thing we learned such as when Emerson said, "Pray for the people of India to not worship the river and to drink the same water they take a bath in" or when one child asked for us to pray for the people of China to not worship the statue of Buddha.

There have been so many small blessings to show me the impact this project has had on their thinking.  The children's imaginary play now includes traveling to other countries.  Amelia has taken to reading labels to see where things are made.  ("It's made in China!" she happily shrieked of one toy.)  Then, there was the day Amelia came running so excitedly off the school bus to tell me there was a new girl, Eileen, in her class FROM CHINA and that the teacher sat the girl by her so Amelia could help teach her to speak English!!! 

But perhaps the most telling statement came when I made an offhand comment about something being weird.  My oldest, Wyatt, was quick to correct me.  "It's not weird, mommy.  Just different."

I ruffled his hair and knew all the hours I'd put into this project thus far were all worth it.

Yes.  Not weird.  Just different.

 

Amelia makes Scripture-stuffed fortune cookies 

(yeah, not technically Chinese but a trend started by a 

Chinese or Japanese immigrant to America)

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.