Mealtime

A week or so ago Mister stepped through a portal, leaving the land of Agreeable Compliance to someplace less convenient to reach. Now every mealtime is fraught with crossed arms, pouting and reminders, “Remember, Mom, I told you I don’t like that?” Every meal, that is, except the ones where I serve him ButterJelly toast and warm milk.

Yesterday for dinner I served Rotini with Parmesan, my quick meal substitute for Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese. “Don’t put anything green in it, Mom. I don’t like the little green things you put in it (referring to finely chopped anything: kale, spinach, broccoli)”. “But, Son, you need vegetables to grow healthy and strong.” He crossed his arms and hung his head halfway, making sure I could still see his puppy dog eyes and their vegetable-induced anguish.

I have a strict one-meal-for-everyone policy, exceptions made only for severe illness or tonsil removal. But one day, in a desperate moment of weakness, I cracked. “Mister, if you do not want this for dinner, what is it that you want?” He answered without hesitation. “Butter.”

Like the Israelites wandering in the desert, my children are provided each day with ample provisions that will sustain them and help them grow. And like the Israelites, they start grumbling around dinnertime about the cuisine, remembering the great smorgasbords laid out for them during their years of slavery in Egypt. They tell me about other children whose moms beg them to eat candy for breakfast. Sis sometimes employs a more subtle approach. “Mom, this spaghetti you made us is so delicious, but you have been making it a lot lately.” Yes, I have. That is because everyone eats it and finely diced greens all but disappear in the sauce.

But, if I am being honest, they are not the only ones who think the menu sometimes stinks, or at least lacks variety. When I wake up in the morning, spiritual manna mingles with the dew outside my window, waiting to be collected. And like the dew, it will evaporate as the sun courses towards noon. So I must gather it early. And eat it gratefully, even if it tastes the same as what I had yesterday. Because if I beg, God will indeed bring quail and rare spices and let me eat until I am sick, while what my body needs dissolves within my reach.

“Each morning everyone gathered as much [manna] as he needed, and when the sun grew hot, it melted away.” Exodus 16:21

Music

I read about the following account this week and the truth and beauty of the story has lingered in my soul, drawing like a magnet the unfettered wounds that had been left to roam and haunt. The famed violinist, Itzhak Perlman, was giving a concert. Having contracted polio at the age of four, Mr. Perlman walks slowly with crutches, leg braces and a signature gait. Audiences expect, yet are still moved by, the strength and integrity Mr. Perlman brings to the stage. On this particular evening, he had set down his crutches, as is his ritual, and arranged himself to play. Early in the first piece one of his violin strings snapped. The conductor halted the concert and the audience held their breath, anticipating the effort it would take for this master to walk off stage and replace the string.

Mr. Perlman was said to have sighed, as a mischievous grin began working from the corner of his mouth. Then he replaced the violin under his chin, signaled the conductor, closed his eyes again and proceeded to play with expert abandon, willing the beauty of four strings from three, drawing the audience into a rapture of skill and passion not previously known. The concert ended in thunderous applause. The palms of the audience burned from clapping their appreciation and awe. When the noise finally settled, Mr. Perlman spoke, with the same genuine smile that had crept across his face as he inspected the broken string. “Sometimes you must find out how much music you can make with what you have left.” The crowd roared again as Mr. Perlman slowly set down his violin, rose from his chair and walked from the stage the same way he had entered.

I often hear adoptive parents talk about how God made their children for them, intending from the beginning, that they be the ones to know, love and nurture the little souls for whom they would walk a thousand miles. I understand and respect the heart behind the words. But as I watch my son’s understanding of the world grow, I also see that he is becoming more and more uncomfortable talking about his adoption. We still talk about it; because I know on the other side of this valley is wholeness, free of shame or mystery. But I cannot accept or tell him that God designed his trauma. I can, however, describe for him the reality of where we find ourselves: hand-made instruments under the chin and in the grip of the Great Musician, capable of make something high and grand out of our days together.

“ . . . for I am the Lord who heals.” Exodus 15:26

Unders

The months between the arrivals of child #2 and child #3 are a blurry, sleepy mess. A quick timeline: in May we found out Mister was joining us; in June my husband took a new job and we found out Peanut would be party-crashing sometime in February; in August I turned in my keys at my full-time job and got on an airplane to Ethiopia.

Once home with our son, my every thought was directed towards nurturing the bonds in our new little family. This left me generally incapacitated in regard to pesky household duties like making sure there was food, soap and socks to go around. Since we weren’t entertaining much (citing attachment as our excuse to be reclusive) I don’t think that anyone would have known that I was barely surviving my new post as stay-at-home mom were it not for the unfortunate incident with the velour, maternity tracksuit.

I would remind myself every morning that the Jones mean nothing to me, repeating the mantra of pony-tail-and-baseball-cap moms everywhere as I brushed my teeth. The chant would continue as I fruitlessly searched for a match in the wicker basket of sock purgatory where hundreds of fine socks waited and prayed to be redeemed. On this particular morning we arrived at preschool early enough to sit and chat with the mothers who wear clean clothes. They were always so kind to me, and until the velour-maternity-tracksuit incident I thought it was because they found me clever and refreshing. I now understand that my existence as new-comer/hopeless case mustered up feelings of charity, like a skinny, wet puppy at the back door in November.

We chatted and watched the children, rising at the greeting of the sunny teachers to sign our children in and kiss them good-bye. While waddling around, being clever and refreshing, I was interrupted by the voice of one of the teachers behind me. I could see her pulling on something, arm-over-arm, as if she were an ancient fisherman pulling in a promising catch. “I think you have something on your back,” she said to me. I turned to see a gigantic pair of white, maternity underwear held in front of my face. They had been attached to the back of my black tracksuit. This is because I had pulled the suit in haste from the dryer where it had likely sat for days getting cozy with the hideous unders. I laughed, pretending it was somebody else who had been smiling, chatting and telling stories for twenty minutes with a parachute on their back.

There was only one thing to do: sew up the legs of my panties, and use them for a grocery bag, maybe adding a strap made out of unmatched socks for interest and flair.

“The fear of the Lord teaches a man wisdom, and humility comes before honor.” Proverbs 15:33

Showing Some Skin

Last Sunday I found myself lunging after the baby, who had wiggled free of the Sumo-acrobatic small-package I employ to dress her every morning. As I reached and wrestled I thought of a parenting book I had read last year where a superior mom had trained her babies, from birth, to hold still while she changed them. She explained how she had strategically taught them patience and obedience through the daily ritual of dressing. If I ever I chance to see that woman, I will leap over hedges and duck tricycles to give her a high-five. I will be able to do this because, while my baby has not learned patience, I have had excellent daily flexibility and speed training.

Mister overheard me as I scolded, “Little baby, you cannot be naked for church.” And he added, “Yes. You can’t be naked at church because nobody wants to see anyone else naked.” Wow. True enough to sting a little, not because our church is exceptionally pious or hypocritical. But it is made up of people, and we are all wary of showing our wrinkles, rolls and scars. And nobody want to be ‘that guy’: you know, the one who steps from the shower at the gym and starts telling you about the fungus he picked up in the war forty years ago that just wont go away. So we clean up, straighten up and head out the door.

And we miss it: the beautiful opportunities to really get to know each other and carry one another over the hills and through the dark valleys. Yes, we want to clothe ourselves with Christ, but before we can put on something new, we have to take off something old, and inevitably that requires showing a little skin. And skin can tell stories. Freckles. Stretch marks. Scars from accidents and scars from surgeries. Rashes. Birthmarks.

And when we really look and listen, peering down into another’s soul, we find versions of ourselves. Our own needs and hurts and dreams offered as gifts by the brave among us who open their scroll. Jewels of intimacy. Glimpses of God. Stories that remind us to link arms as we walk.

“Be good friends who love deeply; practice playing second fiddle.” Romans 12:10 (Msg)

Crossing

Standard lunchtime conversation:

Mister: "Why didn't the dinosaur cross the road?"
Sis: "I don't know. Why?"
Mister: "He didn't have a tiny shooter gun! Is that a tricky one? Okay, here is a tricky one. Why didn't the quesadilla cross the road?"
Sis: "You say this every time!"
Mister: "Because he didn't have a big shooter gun! Ha!"

The shooter gun is the consistent component in all of Mister's jokes. He is convinced that crossing the road without it is disastrous. In fact, chickens, dinosaurs, quesadillas, dump trucks and ButterJelly toast all refuse to make the trek unless they are armed for what is on the other side.

I often find myself in the chilly dusk without a jacket; or in a waiting room with time to read and no glasses; or far from home with a poopie baby and a diaper bag stocked with extra clothes, wipes, ointment, sunscreen, crackers, toys, a camera, paperwork for last year's picture day, but no diapers. Lots of extras, but no essentials. Adventures on a rainy afternoon are better with a jacket. Reading without glasses gives me a headache. The cuteness of a baby is profoundly dampered when pants that need to be changed aren't.

And so I pray, Lord help me to dress myself properly with the things you have put in my closet. May I see clearly through the lens of your love. Help me to remember the sword of the spirit and the belt of truth. Make me ready for battle, or at least daily life.

"Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God." Ephesians 6:14-17

First Thought

Allen Ginsberg said, “First thought, best thought.” I have been keeping a mental list of some of my ‘first thoughts’ the last few days and I think I disagree. A sampling: I think we should have McDonald’s for dinner; I am leaving; stop talking, you haven’t said anything interesting since before lunch; this isn’t worth it; it matters what that woman who I have never talked to thinks of me, my sweaty gym clothes and my baby who is licking the handle of the cart at Safeway; the toys and whatnot covering the floor make my home inhospitable; my husband can’t really find me attractive; I have no business having a dream; I can’t go a step further.

On many occasions as a writing teacher, I have espoused Mr. Ginsberg’s view with enthusiasm, arms flapping up and down for emphasis. There is something real and best about writing with abandon. But chewing on toxic thoughts is bad for my health. I recently heard a dentist lecture on the link between oral hygiene and heart health. I thought her research was interesting, but did not see the spiritual parallel. The things that are in my mind and in my mouth affect the flow of life-giving blood through that muscle in my chest.

And so I ask for new and better thoughts to replace the ugly, mean ones. Thoughts that are worth thinking and sharing. Thoughts drug out of my tent and into the bright sunlight that help me see and burns away the ominous clouds of doubt, thick with heavy rain.

“Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is- his good, pleasing and perfect will.” Romans 12:2

Mary Poppins

Mary Poppins is a family favorite. The children and I watch, all wishing that Mom were more cheery and magical, with a mysterious carpetbag and silly songs that ‘make the medicine go down’. One time I found Sis banging on the wall in the hallway and attempting to snap her fingers. “What are you doing?” I asked. Without flinching she told me she was Mary Poppins, using her powers of persuasion and imagination to pick up her mess. One afternoon, as Mary was riding into London on a cumulous chariot, Mister turned to me with wide eyes. “Mary Poppins lives in a whole bunch of clouds. That’s crazy! What does she put her foot on?” The wise little sage was at it again.

I recently read that Matisse, when painting in the natural world, would draw a circle on the ground around the place where he was standing. This way he was able to return to the exact spot to finish the painting. He understood the power and necessity of a fixed point. This fixed point afforded Matisse the opportunity to notice, with exactness, changes in the landscape.

Abraham Lincoln said to “Be sure to put your feet in the right place, then stand firm.” Like Matisse, President Lincoln understood the importance of finding solid ground to stand on and return to in turbulent times. And I think of the spiritual life, rooted in the physical one, and ask for a place to stand. A place I can return to each day in the discipline of prayer and bible study. A fixed vantage point where I can get my bearing and observe, with accuracy, the changes in the world around me. So that I am not confused. Or overwhelmed. So that I can paint something beautiful with a strong and steady hand.

“He is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither. Whatever he does prospers.” Psalm 1:3

He Loves Me

Sis was thrilling me with the details of The Little Mermaid, one of her all-time favorite movies. “Mom, do you remember when Ariel has a flower and she is taking one petal off at a time?” I nodded and she continued. “Ariel says, ‘He loves me, he loves me not’ and she is trying to figure out if her dad loves her or not, so that is why she was doing that.” I agreed. Of course Ariel in swooning repose picking daisies is thinking of her daddy.
Sis has a great dad, so I do not think she spends much time questioning his love or leaving her estimations of him up to the design of flora and fauna. More likely she is thinking about how he likes to read to her, and take her to ride their razor scooters, or snuggle her on a Saturday morning. There is ample evidence that when he says ‘I love you’ he means it.
And I think of my Heavenly Father. And the times I have questioned his love or at least his good judgment, plucking a daisy, looking for answers. In times of questioning and rebellion I use my ego and ample elbow grease to shake my fist at God. But when I am alone in a well-lit room, looking up-close in a mirror there can be no question. God is good. All the time. And what I receive from him is his unearned grace, lavished as to leave no room for doubt.

“You know me inside and out, you hold me together, you never fail to stand me tall in your presence so I can look you in the eye. Blessed in God, Israel’s God, always, always, always. Yes. Yes. Yes.” Psalm 42:12-13 (Msg)

The Giving Tree

Sis loves to give gifts. Just this week she has offered her favorite necklace to me 'for keeps' as soon as she is done using it. She offered to bring her swim teacher copies of photos from her weekend trip to the big city. She gives stuffed animals she is done loving to the baby and even tried to give away her brother to a family friend. With Father's Day coming the big kids both chose 'gifts' for Dad from their toy box. Mister wrapped up one of his favorite cars. Sis decided on her gift weeks ago when I mentioned Father's Day was coming, "Oh! I know what I am going to give Dad. I am going to give him that green book about the tree because I have two of those." And I giggled. She has given away our extra copy of The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein at least a dozen times. It is a popular choice primarily because it is a duplicate, which is entertainingly ironic. The tree literally gives everything she has for the love of the boy. In the final scene, the aged boy and tree stump sit together satisfied but clearly diminished by the stuff of life. They find peace in simple companionship, no physical resources left after the selfless love of a myopic child had carried them away.

A perfect gift for Dad on Father's Day, even if it is an extra.

Be Still

Before my eyes opened Tuesday I was praying. The last stretch of days had been full to overflowing with the ramifications of tired children, harried parents, and clean and dirty laundry underfoot. My days, as of late, have felt like a constant stream of bad manners by Mom inspiring bad manners by the children which required hypocritical disciplining by a guilt-soaked Mom. So on and so on. After putting the baby down for a nap I desperately sat down, intending to heed instructions to "Be still and know that I am God." I immediately fell asleep.

I decided that it counts. Did not Abraham fall asleep after setting out the animals as God instructed? Was it not God alone who walked between the ceremonial scene of covenant-making? Abraham obeyed. But he was tired and it was just as well. The image of God walking alone where two men usually walk in pledge is worth visualizing. God's convenient with Abraham was a promise only God could make and keep. For Abraham to strike his hand in pledge would have been both good intention and folly. So he slept a sweet sleep and was still before his Maker. Which is really all he could do. And like Abraham I woke to a beautiful day and a house, still in disarray, but full of blessing.

"Be still and know that I am God." Psalm 46:10