Wounding and Binding Up

There is something therapeutic about tearing something apart with your own bare hands and then putting it back together again to make something, if not better, different.  Lest you think I have been performing demolition work on my cute little cracker box house, I have not.  I am talking about the fine art of the collage. 

I am not what I would consider an artistic person.  I love art, but I always feel out of my depth doing art . . . and very rarely am I happy with the results.  Collages, however, are one of my go-to activities with the kids.  The whole intent is deconstruction, so they can't possibly harm anything! 

I realized tonight, however, that there is also something spiritual about the entire process of collage-making. 

This evening's collage began with a glass of milk.  All the "kid cups" were in the dishwasher, so I pulled out a couple of ceramic mugs for supper.  Not a problem.  The kids are actually very trustworthy with glassware. 

The problem came 30 seconds before I served supper.  I was about to drain the pasta when my son grabbed his mug and literally threw milk all over the dining area.    Oh, yes.  Two sides of the turtle tank (which is supposed to be vacating the premises, by the way), covered with milk.  Floor, flooded with milk.  Cute little orange tent, oh yeah, bathed in milk.  Mommy's chair, drenched in milk. 

(I later found out he thought the cup was empty and was as appalled--almost--as I was . . . but this was much later!)

For forty years, my great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my father have all blandly said, "It's no use crying over spilt milk."  Easy for them to say . . . they've never had to clean it up!  I banished my kids to their bedrooms while I began cleaning up the milk. 

I don't know about the other Moms out there, but there are times for coming in to talk to this Mom and there are times to stay in your room and await a summons.  This was definitely the latter.  My son wanted to make it the former.  So I yelled at him, and he yelled at me, and neither one of us was feeling very good about ourselves or each other. 

It didn't take me very long to either calm down or clean up, truth be told, and so began that exquisite form of self-punishment: Mommy-guilt.  Maybe you other Moms don't suffer from Mommy-guilt, but I get it in spades.  Even when I shouldn't.  But at this particular time, especially with my male ancestors' words ringing in my ears, Mommy-guilt was going full throttle, and I felt like the worst mother in the world. 

So I go in and try to practice some restorative justice with my son.  (This is another link that you should definitely follow, especially if you're a parent.  I am just learning how to implement it, but I can attest that it really is a healing process . . . for all involved.) 

We talked about what each of us did, why we did it, and where we went wrong.  Then I said, "What can I do to help make it right?"  (Those are scary words to say, by the way!)  My son has a thing about making cards for people in all situations (my little gift-giver!), so that was his first response.  We've done this before, so I said, "Are you sure that's what you want, or do you want something different?" 

His eyes lit up and he said, "I know what we can do together.  Let's make a collage." 

Me and my big mouth.  A collage.  It's 6pm, we haven't had supper yet, bedtime is at 7pm, and it's Saturday night bath night so everybody can be squeaky-clean for church.  But that's the thing about this process--it's not about me, it's about him at this point.  "Okay." 

So we eat supper and pull out the old horse calendar pages that my wonderful college buddy sends me every year.  My son wants to use tape rather than glue.  Okay.  I don't want to use scissors, so I suggest we tear them instead.  A puzzled look.  "Like when we make piñatas?"

"Yup."  He's in.

So we tear around our favorite horses and tape them into place.  Or that's what I do.  He tapes three across the middle, attaches one to the very edge of the sheet, and then proceeds to accumulate a collection of his "favorites" that he doesn't want to part with.  (That's my boy!)  My daughter, meanwhile, has one sheet that she has managed to cover in tape; she just likes putting the tape on.

By the time we were done, we had a lovely equine collage taped to the table.  (My son was confused as to why that would not be a good permanent location for his artwork . . . )  My son and daughter were chattering happily, and I--while still under the influences of a stress headache--felt like we would all survive the evening with no indelible emotional scars. 

After kissing them goodnight, I looked at the collage and thought, "He tears, but he also binds up."  Now that is a gross misquotation of Job 5:18, but at that moment, it seemed appropriate.  I had overreacted and caused hurt feelings.  It was in my hands to mitigate that pain or cause it to grow. 

With the help an outdated calendar, a fish-shaped tape dispenser, and our bare hands, we bound up each other's wounds and found healing. 

Cream-Colored Ponies and Crisp Apple Strudel

I find it funny that sometimes the best days end terribly and the worst days end beautifully.  Yesterday was the first.  Today was the second.  I won't go into why today was a hard day--the people involved would not appreciate the fame--but it was a grueling, emotionally-exhausting, heart-breaking day.

My kids fell asleep in the car on the way home, snuggled in their pj's.  When we arrived, I woke them up and herded them to the house, my daughter stumbling into things and my son whimpering.  I zipped them out of coats, slid them out of sneakers, and tucked them into bed in under 2 minutes.

It was when I put my daughter's hand-crocheted afghan (thank-you, BJ!) around her that it happened.  She snuggled on her side, rounded her back, and sighed the contented sigh that only the really tired and really young can make.  I thought, "This is one of my favorite things."  And it is.  I love watching my sleeping babies, snuggled in their specially-made afghans from great-grandma and great friends, knowing they are happy and safe and at peace.

And so I began to think of my other favorite things.

Shaggy dogs, whole bodies wagging in ecstasy as we come through the door.  (Not to say I don't sputter and nudge and exclaim, "For goodness's sake . . .let us in the door!" but I love them just the same.)

Sunshine.  Any sunshine.  Winter sunshine, the blinding glare off the snow making you forget it's below freezing.  Spring sunshine, heating up the house as it streams through my storm door.  Summer sunshine, warming my pool and the ocean so we can actually enjoy swimming in them.  Autumn sunshine breaking through storm clouds, scattering double rainbows around the house.

My children playing together.  Laughing.  Making up stories about Sharptooth and Woody and Sharky and Snappy.  Sharing.  (Yes, it does happen that way.  Sometimes.  Rarely.  For a moment.  And that moment is delicious!)

My sister.  Anytime.  All the time.  Happy, sad, frazzled, jubilant, bored, busy . . . whatever moods we are in, it's good to be together.  I, at any rate, am always better for having been with or talked to her.

My whole family.  They're all crazy.  I'm crazy.  We often drive each other crazy.  And for some unfathomable reason I am crazy about them and wouldn't want to be without any of them.

Weed-free perennial gardens.  This is one thing I like about spring.  You can do a hard weeding once a week and keep the gardens looking pretty sharp.  Come summer, that's a whole different ball game.  I can't keep up with weeds for love or money then.  Of course, I have neither love nor money, so maybe this year I'll have a chance!

Heptacodium miconioides.  I have to thank my ex for that.  (I can call him that, right?  It's time.)  He planted two of these elegant trees--one in the front yard and one in the back--and they have become one of my favorite plants.  They are gorgeous all year long.  White, peely bark in the winter, tiered green foliage in the spring, white flowers in the summer, and red "fruits" in the fall.  Truly the perfect tree. Picture a tree nymph.  That's them. 

Published articles.  Okay, guilty pleasure, but I'm nothing if not honest!

And that leads me to you, my blog readers.  You come from ten different countries (so far!) and a good number of you visit Storm Songs regularly.  I know you are all busy with your own lives, and the fact that you make me a part of them is very humbling.  So thank you!  You are a gift. 

Wish I May, Wish I Might

When I was a little girl, I had a fascination with the first star of evening.  Who am I kidding?  I still do.  Back then, I had one wish: I wish for a horse.  Every night.  For decades.  Eventually, in my late 20s, I got my horse.  Two, in fact.  Old, cream-colored Amish Belgians, past their prime, bony and angular.  They were perfect. 

I miss those days.  I miss the simplicity, the honesty, the beauty, the single-mindedness of that wish. 

My wishes are no longer simple.  Probably not quite as honest.  Definitely not as beautiful.  Marred by vacillation and indecision. 

What do I wish for?  I wish for a heart full of peace, that peace that passes understanding.  The peace that no unexpected event, no sudden failure on my part, can take away. 

I wish for faith for my children, for spirits flying to God at every moment, even now, for the rest of their lives. 

I wish for them joy, and confidence, and adventure, and love--true love, the kind of love that I wanted and didn't find. 

I wish for wisdom . . . and gentleness . . . and forgiveness . . . and selflessness . . . and godliness. 

In truth, I wish for perfection, the kind of perfection I cannot attain, was never meant to attain, will only find misery trying to attain, and yet am inexorably compelled to attempt to attain anyway. 

I wish for success.  Not for wealth; I have troubles enough without that!  But a career that pays my bills (maybe one day without any assistance at all!), that I love, that I am good at . . . made for. 

I wish for happiness.  I am still little girl enough to want that.  I'm not sure I know what that looks like anymore, but I want it anyway.  I have moments, but even they are tinged with something that is not quite sadness, but definitely not happiness.  Is it maturity?  Is it fatalism?  Is it realism?  I don't know, but I'm pretty sure I don't like it. 

I wish for golden days. 

I wish for wings to mount up like eagles. 

I wish to be old and feel young rather than being not-quite-young and feeling quite old. 

I wish I had been able to finish the cheerful blog I started earlier in the day instead of this rather maudlin one that dropped upon me quite by surprise. 

In my family, we often say, "If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride."  Beggar I am, and once upon a time I had horses to ride.  Many horses.  Regal horses.  So tonight I will go to sleep with a prayer in my heart, and my wishes pinned to the stars of evening . . . and perhaps one day I will be taken unawares . . . and they, too, will have come true. 

Defend This Wall! . . . Unless They Climb it First!

I usually save my blog posting for the last thing because I find it a therapeutic way to end the day.  I'm changing it up tonight.  I sat down to write an article on a fruit growers' meeting I attended last week at The Big Apple Farm when I heard the pattering of little feet.  Since I had tucked my kids in 30 minutes earlier, I was surprised.

"Who's that?" I called, fully expecting my son's voice to respond.

"It's me," came the fairy-voice of my 2-year old daughter.  This is not good.  She still sleeps in a crib.  Today she has decided that those barred obstructions are for climbing over, not for staying within (or without, as the case may be). 

I am not suggesting she has not had some good reasons for jumping her bonds.  This afternoon, as I was sitting down with my insurance agent to review my policy and next steps, I heard a thump.  I go in, and she's trying to get onto the toilet.  Okay.  I get it.  But you can't climb in and out of your crib.  You're going to get hurt.

Do you know what she says to me tonight when I rebuke her?  "Don't worry, Mommy.  I won't fall off riding my bike without my helmet."

WHAT???!!!

Oh yeah.  The railing of the crib is now a bicycle.  Lovely.

It is at moments like these that I find myself vacillating between two divergent opinions.  The first is SAFETY.  CONTROL.  OBEDIENCE.  The second is GROWTH.  EXPLORATION.  INDEPENDENCE.

The truth is that all of these elements are in play.  And there is a balance that must be struck between setting and maintaining those boundaries and stepping back to let growth occur.  The pendulum obviously tips much closer to safety on this issue.  (Can you picture the face of my pediatrician if I brought her in with a head injury saying, "But Dr. Fazio, you must give children room to grow, you know..."  Not happening!)

But what about some less clear-cut questions.  When is your son old enough to pour his own cereal and milk?  He managed the cereal this morning . . . the first time.  The second time I ended up with an extra bowl of cereal he didn't eat and the equivalent of another in teeny pieces on the kitchen floor.  Today I decided to chalk it up to growth.  Tomorrow?  Who knows.

And how about those seemingly random big boy activities that your big boy decides he doesn't want to do anymore?  Like dressing himself.  (Someone please explain to me how the 2-year old picks out her own clothes and puts them on, often before breakfast, and the 4-year old acts like he's never heard of clothing in his entire life????)  Do you fight about it?  Do it for him?  Ignore it?  (Hard to do when it's 45 degrees and you have to go to the store . . . ) 

Most often I fight with him: "Why can't you just get dressed?!?)  Tonight, I did just the opposite.  He's been expressing some anger and fear and anxiety (gee, I wonder why?!), so I figured, "Maybe the kid needs to be a kid tonight."

"What's the matter, Sweetie . . . you feel like being a baby tonight?  That's okay.  We all feel like that sometimes."  (At that moment I was remembering the last time I was sick, just wishing my mom would come and give me flat soda and stale crackers . . . )

"Sometimes it's hard," he said to me.  Poor thing.  

Then I went over the top.  "When you were a baby, I used to dress you like this," I said, snuggling him close to me, and pulling his arm into his sleeve saying, "Mano derecha."  Then the other, "Mano izquierda."  And he started gurgling like a baby.

And after the three of us read the Bible and prayed and sang "Frère Jacques," I tucked him in and he said, "Rub my back like this, Mommy."  And he showed me the direction to rub.  "Slowly."

I was filled with love . . . and the realization that sometimes we all need just a little time to be infants surrounded by nothing but unconditional love.

I also saw that, in the midst of all the times I defend boundaries when I should encourage exploration, I was doing something right.  My little boy was learning to identify what feelings he was having . . . and how to express them . . . and how to ask for something that would meet his needs expecting to find comfort rather than derision or shame.

I think all three of us did a little growing this evening. 

Technology Shmechnology

I have this sort of love/hate relationship with technology.  On the one hand, it fascinates me.  There is something in my personality that enjoys the challenge of conquering a new skill, and nowhere is that more evident that in the realm of technology. 

A perfect example of this was the year I served as Registration Chair for the New England Vegetable and Fruit Conference.  (This conference, by the way is well worth attending and meets every other year, so keep an eye out for the 2017 edition!)  Prior to my (short!) tenure, a dear colleague had spent many years running an incredibly organized conference with very little technology.  Unless you count a good secretary as technology . . .

Not me.  I just knew there was some sweet program out there that would let people register and pay online without me touching one single check.  I'd be able to print badges in multiple colors and sort by state and run analytics forwards, backwards, and upside-down.  Forget registration; we could put the whole thing online from speaker information to room requests to what kind of mint they liked at their lecterns.  Oh yeah . . . I was on a mission. 

So I found the event-hosting company of a lifetime.  And it was great.  I attended the how-to webinars, put my personal guru on speed dial, and generally blundered my way through the design and functionality process.  And I enjoyed every second of it.

There were just a few problems.  For one, the speakers didn't want to put their stuff online.  Emailing it to their session moderator was easier and more familiar.  For another, many of our farmers are a little less tech-savvy even than I . . . they wanted to register by mail or, even better, by phone. 

The biggest problem, however, came when we went to run name badges.  Wouldn't you know, the silly program wouldn't let us print the information we wanted where we wanted on the badges!  Good grief.  All this and we're stuck in badge limbo!  (Unless you've run one of these conferences, by the way, you really have no idea just how important those badges are!) 

Fortunately, I had an Excel genius residing in the office adjoining mine.  She also loves technology . . . and she's way more proficient!  So she spent I don't know how many hours creating an Excel masterpiece: primary source spreadsheets that linked to secondary source spreadsheets that created data for the conditional formatting in the name badge spreadsheet.  It was a miracle!  The original data did come from "my" program--most of it--but her know-how made it happen. 

Again, I loved the process because I learned so much about Excel that I have become the world's most dangerous novice.  When a problem arises, I know there's a way to solve it using Excel--but I don't know how to do it--and I waste an inordinate amount of time trying! 

And this leads me to the "hate" side of my technology life.  I hate the fact that I am always about 5 years behind any innovation.  And I hate the learning curve that takes my oh-so-precious time in return for not so much.  AND I hate the fact that I usually botch something rather heinously on my path to . . . not mastery . . . competency? 

Current example, and impetus for this diatribe, is my new cell phone so recently discussed on this blog.  I love it.  Really.  I get Skype messages and text messages and email messages all within seconds.  I can become a "gold" person at Starbucks . . . as soon as I download the app. 

I can lose 2 years of contacts in one fell swoop. 

Oh yeah.  You read that right.  TWO YEARS!  How do you even DO that???  I have no idea.  But I did.  "How can you date the event so accurately," you ask.  Very easily . . . my tenant, who moved in two years ago . . . disappeared from my contacts.  As did my eye doctor.  (I'll let you know why I was looking him up another day.)  As did two women from church I'm supposed to be trying to get together with. 

Yikes. 

I think I've figured it out, though.  I put my old contacts in the cloud when I got my old phone . . . back before my son was born, I think.  However, I somewhere along the line stopped syncing it manually.  I don't know why, but I just assumed they kind of do that themselves these days.  (Yes, sweetie, the new ones do . . . the old flip phones from the time of Methuselah do NOT!)  I think. 

Bummer. 

Fortunately, however, I was able to use my phone to Google my eye doctor and touch base with my playdate pal via email and track down my dinner date pal on Facebook . . . and call my sister-in-law's house on my cool wireless headset to get her correct cell phone number.  What an amazing network of digital magic! 

I just love technology!

Spring Has Sprung!

I.  LOVE.  Spring.  

I know I've mentioned that before on this forum, but there are some things that bear repeating.  And so it is that I sit down to compose a top ten list of things I love about Spring.

1. Everything over 50 degrees feels warm!  (This is especially important to someone who adds wood to the fire if it dips below 70.)
2. You can walk around outside in your bare feet without risk of frostbite.  (No, I never got frostbite, but I have been known to walk in the snow barefoot to bring in a certain blind, deaf dog . . .)
3. You can convince yourself that sitting in a flower bed pulling weeds is exercise.  (Fine motor skills, anyone?)
4. Hauling wheelbarrows of lawn debris to the back pasture really is exercise.  (Especially if you fill the wheelbarrow with firewood for next winter on the return trip and stack it by the house!)
5. Baseball.  (Really, must I say more?)
6. Bubbles.  (I know you can blow bubbles anytime, but it's more fun outside in the spring . . . and neater than having to wash the living room floor after your toddler spills the entire bottle!)
7. Outdoor playdates in the neighbor's fenced-in yard, munching cookies and drinking coffee . . . until a brawl breaks out and one little boy goes home in disgrace . . . !
8. Filmy curtains gently swaying with every whisper of a breeze that finds its way through the wide-open windows.  I don't know.  It just makes me happy.  
9. Driving with the windows down and the sunroof open . . . and no sign of a jacket, scarf, or hat anywhere! 
10. COLOR!  Oh, my goodness, does it feel good to see color!  I feel like Dorothy stepping out of her house into Munchkin Land!  Yellow daffodils!  Purple grape hyacinths!  White little flower things that my future ex planted and I have no idea what they are but like them anyway!  GREEN!!!  Grass and leaves and weeds . . . yes, I'm even grateful for green weeds!  (Refer to #3 above!)  

So, that's my short list of lovely spring stuff.  What's yours?  I'm tempted to offer a reward for the first post on this topic (Duane already got a gold star!).  The problem is I can't afford a reward.  Settle for an "atta boy" on Facebook?!)   

In Praise of Rest

Rest.

Am I ever falling in love with that word.  Just typing it, I can feel my shoulders fall away from my ears and my chest expand and my breathing deepen.  I actually had to rouse myself just now because I was staring off into space thinking about how good it felt.

I started writing about all the things that keep me from resting, but I deleted it because I'm thinking it's counterproductive.  I know why I don't rest.  I'm sure you know why you don't rest.  So tonight I think I'll do something different.  I'm going to take a few minutes to focus us on rest.

What is "rest"?  Taking a page from my pastor's book, I went to Merriam-Webster.  I am abridging.

1. Sleep.  (I wish that one had been last . . . if you take this too far, you won't get to the end of this post!)
2. Freedom from activity; a state of motionless.  How often do you just sit?  Not text.  Not read.  Not watch TV.  Just be.  I can't remember the last time.  Try it.  Now.  (I took two breaths and got nervous!  Sure sign I need to practice this one.)  
3. A place for resting.  Huh.  A designated place?  For resting apart from sleeping?  I don't have one.  My kids have a great tent in our living room . . . I may appropriate it!  
4. Peace of mind or spirit.  Ahhh . . . that is what I'm hankering for.  The ironic thing about this one is that the more you work at it, the less you achieve it.  "Rest in the Lord and wait patiently for Him ..." (Psalm 37:7).  "Wait" . . . sounds like sitting in a state of inactivity, doesn't it?  Allow God to provide what only He can in His own perfect time?  
5. A rhythmic silence in music.  Dr. Wiens, Wheaton College Concert Choir Director Extraordinaire, always stressed that the music was in the rests, not just in the notes.  Blowing through a rest would earn you his furrowed eyebrow, sideways scowl.  If all the notes ran together, there would be no music, there would be only cacophony.  (Although I confess to performing one or two pieces designed to create cacophony . . . !)  The point is, the music of our lives only makes sense in relation to rest.  
6. Something used for support.  

This last one hit me right between the eyes.  Back to Psalm 37:7: "Rest in the Lord."  Try to deceive ourselves as we will, our rest truly only comes from God.  It is only He who is big enough, powerful enough, merciful enough, loving enough, enough enough to rejuvenate our tired bodies and teach us to be still ("Be still and know that I am God," Psalm 46:10).

Psalm 37:7 also says, "Rest in the Lord."  What a huge difference between "in" and "on."  "On" implies two separate items, one atop the other, but both remaining distinct and disconnected.  "In" is altogether different.  "In" is one folding, wrapping, embracing, surrounding another.  The two are still distinct, but now they are also inseparable.

That is where the place for resting comes--in the Lord.  That is where peace of mind and spirit come--in the Lord.  In the Lord, the noise of the world gets silenced--just for a time--and transforms the babble into music.  In the Lord, we have all the support we will ever need for any and all trials and tribulations: something as big as a death or as small as a bad hair day.

In the Lord we can actually stop striving without fear, for we are not valued for our production but for our presence.  And at the end of it all, when we sleep in death, it truly will be a sleep . . . with a breathtaking awakening into true Communion with the Father.

Praying that you all find rest this day. 

The Scent of Spring

Spring has finally arrived in Rhode Island!  You can tell by the warm breezes, the verdant green grass, and the splashes of yellow daffodils and purple phlox.  For me, however, Spring does not truly declare her presence until I can smell it in the air. 

Those of you who live in rural areas know what I mean.  Manure.  Cow manure.  Chicken manure.  Pig manure.  Each spring industrious farmers pull their spreaders out of mothballs and disperse the winter's accumulated supply on their fields.  Some, like my parents, have no home-grown source of the natural fertilizer, so they truck it in from nearby dairy or poultry farms. 

Now most people despise the smell currently permeating our environs.  I am not most people.  I love the smell of manure.  As a child, we raised replacement heifers and had a couple milk cows.  Most of my earliest, and fondest, memories happened in and around the barn, surrounded by the warm scent of cattle . . . and their by-products.  

I can remember my great-grandfather cleaning the barn each morning and night (and sometimes in the afternoon).  There was a method to his work.  First he'd have to use his hoe to find the scuttle (a small board that covered a hole in the gutter behind the cows that opened over the manure pit). 

Next came the tricky part: removing the scuttle.  Gramp always made it look easy: one fluid movement and he had the scuttle up out of the gutter and on the floor in front of his feet.  If you weren't careful, however, the scuttle would slide sideways as you lifted it and slip ignominiously into the manure pile below.  Whoever dropped it had to go get it.  Let's just say manure pits are not known for being either dry or sanitary.

After successfully removing the scuttle, Gramp would deftly sneak the hoe under the heifer's belly, clean off the platform, and replace the scuttle.  If one of the heifers was lying down, Gramp gently tapped her on the back.  "Git up, Boss," he'd say.  She'd lurch forward, and Gramp would repeat the process.

Looking back, successfully cleaning the barn was one of the many rights of passage on the farm, a sign that you were growing up and getting ready to take your place in the adult world.  (Not that I remember viewing it in quite that light at the time . . .!)

It is, I think, the "growing" idea that makes me unable to declare it "Spring" until the farmers start their spreading.  For when I smell that scent, I suddenly feel the yellow sun beating on my bare head and the brown earth crumbling beneath my bare feet.  I have the urge to unpack tank tops, shorts, and sunglasses.  I can suddenly hear the killdeer calling across the fields and taste a spring rain on my lips. 

I know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it is time for the rye to start putting on height, the grass to start greening in the pasture, and the ground to start warming for the seeds.  It is as if the life bursting all around me grabs hold of my very soul and demands that it, too, shed winter's layers and break forth with tender newness. 

Very few people will likely agree with me on this issue, even those who share a farm heritage.  I know of two who do, however.  This morning my kids and I were driving through gorgeous eastern Connecticut to see my sister.  We were passing by a dairy farm when one of them said, "Manure!"  Immediately, and in unison, they both cheered: "The smell of Spring!" 

I've never been prouder. 

A Phone, A Phone; My Kingdom for a Phone!

I bought a Smartphone today.  I didn't want a Smartphone.  I liked my old faithful LG flip phone, especially since I switched to the new Verizon plan, threw away minutes, and got free texting!  Whoo hoo!

This week, however, I found myself caught between the proverbial "rock and a hard place."  My freelancing career has me on the road covering stories a lot, but other freelancing opportunities are trying to develop across several continents and require rapid response.  A little hard to do if you can only access email once or twice a day, can't get Skype messages, and don't have an international calling plan.

Hence my foray into technology.

Now, while I am a bit of a troglodyte, I usually do my homework.  So last week I went to an unnamed Verizon store where I was told I could have an iPhone SE for $40 upfront and $10 additional dollars a month.  (I had upgrades available, etc. etc.)  I perhaps should have purchased then, but I am a cheapskate.  I didn't.

I went today.  I figured this would be a quick trip to BJ's and home again.   Ha!

When I walked in, there was a line at the kiosk.  Mind you, my 4-year-old son and 2-year-old daughter were in tow, sucking on the lollipop bribes I got at the bank on the way.  (I was prepared!)  I waited a few minutes and thought, "I can do this faster somewhere else."

So we left.  I bundled the two kids into the car seats.  Drove 50 feet.  Gave each kid a granola bar.  (I told you I was prepared!)  Dragged the two kids out of the car seats.  Walked into another unnamed Verizon store.

I told the gentleman about my research and what I wanted.  "We can't give you that price.  You must have talked to someone at Corporate.  They get different deals.  You'll have to go there on Bald Hill Road."

Ugh.  I was starting to get annoyed.  Different deals?  What??  And the store I had gone to for the original quote was definitely NOT the Corporate on Bald Hill.  Whatever. 

We left.  I bundled the two kids back into the car seats.  We got on the highway and drove to Route 2.  We cruised down Route 2 looking for "Corporate."  We found a Verizon store.  We pulled in.

Hmmmm.  I didn't want to give them more granola bars yet.  "If you two are really good in the store, we'll go out to eat when we're done."  (Pretty good job, Mama!)  I dragged them out of their car seats, and in we went.

(This was NOT "Corporate," by the way.)

A very nice man with tats and piercings informed me that, "No, that price is impossible.  Oh, and by the way, we don't have what you want in stock.  I can 'lend' you a phone . . . you can try it out, see if you like it, if you don't you can return it."

Now, that was a pretty reasonable offer.  But by now I was being pig-headed.  I knew what I wanted, by gosh, and I was going to have it.  Besides, borrow a phone?  Oh yeah.  I'm the girl who dropped her first LG flip phone in a toilet.  Not a chance.

So I stalked out.  By this time I wasn't sure who was more disgusted with this endeavor, me or my kids.  I would lay money it was I.  I buckled the kids into their car seats again.  "Not the highway again, Mommy!" I heard in the back seat.

"Not the highway," I snapped (with a few muttered curses, I must admit), "It's Bald Hill Road."

We drove a couple more miles, made a little U-turn past the picketers.  I again dragged the kids out of their car seats.  Again I bribed them with the promise of Smokey Bones or Chick-fil-A or some other gastric delight.  This time there was just, "We don't have any iPhones.  It's Apple's fault.  Maybe you can order from them."

I wanted to pitch a temper tantrum and scream, "I DON'T HAVE TIME TO ORDER ONE!!!  I NEED IT TOMORROW!!!"

Instead, I pulled my kids back to the car, strapped them back in their car seats for the eighty-fifth time, put my head down on the steering wheel and sobbed.  Boy, could I empathize with King Richard.  Sometimes your whole existence seems to hinge on something so banal: a horse, a phone.

My son in the back chose that moment to pipe up, "Get it together, Mom."  Gee, thanks.

So I did.  I knew what to do.  I'd go back to the original store with the oh-so-attractive quote.  (Are you wondering why I didn't go there in the first place?  Yeah, so am I.  But you'll see . . . God had a plan!)

On the way, we had to pass BJ's again, so I decided to stop back in and see if the line was down.  I dragged the kids out of the car seats.  By now, the bribes were sounding hollow, so I contained them in a cart.  And then a miracle happened.

I met James Paul. 

James was taking care of another customer but said, "I'm almost done here.  You've probably got some discounts that were giving you that price, we don't have iPhone SE's, but we can get you taken care of for what you want to spend."

Relief.  Joy.  Exhaustion.

It took a while, I won't deceive you, but that was mostly because penny-pinching K couldn't decide whether to get just the Samsung phone (for $8 extra a month!) or the phone and a tablet for $18.  I don't know if it was James's salesmanship, my exhaustion, or the realization that these devices really will make my life easier, but I went hog wild.  Phone.  Tablet.  Cases for both.  Car charger.  Headset. 

While he set everything up, I made good on my lunch promise and got BJ's hotdogs for the kids (and one for me!), and a yummy cinnamony sugary twist thing.  And I decided that Verizon wasn't so bad after all . . . they do have the fastest 4G network, you know!

So I am now as connected as any writer-mom can be.  I still only have one problem . . . can anyone tell me why my phone is only accessing one of my Dropbox folders????

Wait a minute.  Where's that card?  He said I could call . . . and post it on the blog: 401-330-6809.

JAMES!!!!

The Strongest Woman in the World

"What does not kill me, makes me stronger."  Friedrich Nietzsche.


I have to admit it . . . I thought Life was going to do me in today.  This is not an uncommon occurrence, but today was extra-special. 

It actually started last night when my editor asked if she could have the article I had planned on submitting tomorrow submitted today.  Not a bad thing, but unexpected.  The article I could write, but I needed photos.  Okay . . . first thing I'd run down to URI's East Farm, take some orchard photos, run home, and email them by noon.  No problem. 

Yet. 

First thing in the morning I get a text from my former Extension colleague explaining the orchard won't show what I want to show.  Ugh.  Now I'll have to drive 45 minutes north to my parents' farm, take the pictures, and get them in by noon.  I can do that.  

I tell the kids they're having Stonyfield yogurt for breakfast.  Both of them decide to throw the yogurt across the table.  Both of them get put in time out.  Both of them get out of time out and decide to eat their yogurt.  Good decision. 

Meanwhile, I am trying to repair my son's glasses.  You have to understand that my four-year-old is NOT easy on his glasses.  He has been known to throw them, roll on them, bend them, and generally try to destroy them.  Sunday my soon-to-be-ex-husband used Epoxy to reattach one of the arms that had finally yielded to months of abuse. 

Yesterday while "play fighting" with our neighbor, he got punched in the glasses, breaking the frame and dropping one of the lenses.  The future ex bought more Epoxy, but didn't have time to fix them this morning.  Never having used Epoxy, I figure now is the time to learn.  (Don't ask why.  If I knew why I do all the crazy things I do, I wouldn't be in counseling!) 

I open the Epoxy, mix it together with a Popsicle stick, oh-so-carefully paint the edges (it would be nice if he could see through the lenses when I'm done!), and hold them tightly together.  Five minutes, the box says, before it sets enough to let go. 

Two minutes in I hear my two-year-old: "I pooped!"  So she did.  Right in her potty seat like a big girl.  And now like a big girl she's trying to dump it into the toilet.  Great. 

Belatedly I say, "Don't touch it!"  Somehow she manages to dump it in without making a complete mess.  Thankfully.  So I'm holding the not-yet-set glasses in one hand, wiping her up with the other, and my cell rings.  (I could not make this up--I'm not good enough!) 

It's my colleague from URI.  Bless her heart, she has photos.  Great photos.  She'll Dropbox them to me.  Wonderful!  No trip to Johnston required. 

Soon thereafter I get a call from the preschool my son will be attending in the fall.  I have to bring paperwork in--locator card, immunization chart, recent physical--by the 29th.  BUT the school is closed this week for vacation, and I only have one or two free days between now and then.  I'll get it today.

I call the pediatrician.  I wrestle my kids into shoes and out the door.  I strap them in the car.  I breathe a sigh of relief and turn up the radio.  We go to the pediatrician and pick up the form. 

We stop at the Town Hall for the locator card.  "Did you bring his birth certificate?" 

I want to say, "Are you kidding me?  I had to come HERE to pick up his birth certificate in the first place . . . can't you just look it up in your records?!?"  Instead I say, "Nobody said I needed that." 

"They usually don't."  With a sweet smile.  Yeah.  Happy Mommy?  Not on your life! 

Back in the car. 

We run to the bank.  (Yay, Washington Trust drive-through!)  We get lollipops.  I explain three times that they can't have the lollipop right now because we are going to see Dr. Nicole (our amazing chiropractor) to adjust all of our backs after a recent fall off the swing set, a crash into the glider, and four months of divorce chaos. 

Dr. Nicole de-subluxates us. 

It is around 4 o'clock--after lunch and attempted naps and playing outside.  I am stacking firewood by the house, partially to get it out of my pasture and partially so I won't have to do it next winter when there's a foot of snow on the ground.  As I move back and forth from the pile to my wheelbarrow, Nietzsche's quote comes to mind.

All I can say is I sure hope he's right.  Because if he is, I am well on my way to becoming the strongest woman in the world! 

Sundown Comes to Us All

I love Gordon Lightfoot.  So when I heard he was coming to play The Vets, I called my sister and booked tickets.  Now, I realize that seeing a 78-year-old performer . . . and a vocalist at that . . . can be a dicey proposition.  Time is not usually gentle on the cords.  I lucked out last year when I saw Neil Diamond at The Dunk, though, so I was willing to take a chance.

(Let me just say Neil Diamond was AMAZING--he played an hour and a half straight, no break, very little talking, still jumping around the stage and jamming and FABULOUS!  I actually want his NEW album, Melody Road, he was so good!  75 has nothing on him!)

Life has hit Mr. Lightfoot a little harder.  I wish it weren't so, but there isn't much good I can say about the concert musically except for the guitar picking: both Mr. Lightfoot and the lead guitarist played very well.  The main problem is that Mr. Lightfoot is a supreme balladist . . . his rich lyrics and flowing melodies are what make him so great.  Unfortunately, in the concert his lyrics were undecipherable and his voice very aged . . . and the background music too repetitive to sustain interest.

But he's Gordon Lightfoot.

Over the past couple of days, I've been thinking about that concert a lot.  I felt bad for a musician on the back nine . . . and I started thinking about myself in 30 or 40 years.  I, too, am a vocalist, and I already hear a decline in range and power.  Trumpet is okay . . . but what happens when simply breathing gets harder?


Ahh . . . but I'm a writer!  Age can't harm that!  Really?  How often do I stop in conversation at loss for the word "cabinet"?  As I age it may very well become harder to find the right word, or any word, harder to keep my train of thought as I type.

Depressing.

So what keeps the "Sundown" of life from being a miserable, useless, waiting-to-move-on?

Ultimately the answer to that is the answer to every interesting question in life: Jesus.  Jesus' love for us does not fade with age.  It is not dependent upon how well we perform or how many standing ovations we get.  And our love for Him is much the same.  I have heard stories of people who forget their families but somehow remember Scripture or the words to their favorite hymns.

What if, however, you are one of those who does forget all those things?  What if you are the sweet-tempered grandmother who slowly turns into a grouchy, foul-mouthed stranger?  Has your love for God failed?  Has His love failed?

NO!

Return to the earlier premise: God's love for us is not dependent upon our performance.  It is in those lives that decay the most that God's love is most vividly displayed, for He looks at the heart, hears that true confession of faith, and embraces His child with unabashed adoration.  It is truly God who does the work, not us.

That knowledge should give each of us comfort as we confront our own inevitable mortality . . . and the eternal glory that awaits us if we have trusted in Christ's perfect work. 

Thank you, Gordon Lightfoot, for the reminder.  

The Gift of "Space"

Pregnancy is a funny thing.  Every woman--every couple--experiences it differently.  I remember well the waiting prior to conceiving my son, the delight when I discovered I was pregnant, and the immediate thought, "My life will never be the same."

It is that very thought, I think, that can make pregnancy, especially an unplanned one, so terrifying.  For your life never will be the same.  Whatever choice you make . . . raise the baby yourself, give him up for adoption, or abort her . . . your life has forever changed.

My pregnancies were the greatest times of my life.  I reveled in every little thing and read What to Expect When You're Expecting cover to cover more times than I can count.  It was my Baby-Bible. 

Even though I had been longing for a baby, I was still scared.  Would my husband be excited?  Would the baby be healthy?  Would I be a good mother?  Would the wine tasting I went to before finding out I was pregnant cause Fetal Alcohol Syndrome?

(Can you believe it?  I never drink.  Some colleagues and I take some out-of-towners to a real RI vineyard, do a wine tasting, and 2 weeks later I find out I'm pregnant!  He suffered no ill effects, by the way . . . very smart, very healthy . . . but I was very concerned, especially for the first trimester!)

For lots of women--and their partners--those natural fears are exacerbated by the unexpectedness and the inconvenience of an unplanned pregnancy.  In that state of panic, they often act.  And sometimes they regret a decision that cannot be undone.

This is where CareNet-RI comes in.  Rachel Nguyen, the Executive Director of CareNet (also recently renamed Harmony Women's Care Center), spoke at our church on Sunday.  She observes that while women come into CareNet because they're scared, they often leave confident.  They get honest, accurate information about pregnancy, all the available options, and all the services available.  They get free pregnancy and STD testing . . . and free ultrasounds.  They get the option to come back in a week and do it all again.

And that week, Rachel says, provides space for the Holy Spirit to work.  In that time, they have a plan--they're going back to CareNet in a week.  The pressure to do, to act, to think is off.  They can breathe.  And in that space, many women find that they are less afraid, more courageous, more confident . . . and less willing to give up the life they are carrying. 

I admit that I teared up as Rachel spoke about that sacred "space."  It is not only women--or men--facing a crisis pregnancy who need space.  It is I.  It is you.  It is anyone who finds themselves facing a seemingly overwhelming problem and feeling the unrelenting, panic-driven urge to act, to do something . . . ANYTHING.

Sometimes the best thing we can do is . . . absolutely nothing.  To rest in the Lord.  To wait patiently for Him.  To be still and know that He is God.  To sit and give ourselves--and God--a little bit of space.

So right now, I am praying for all of you.  I am praying that today, you find some space.  A walk in the woods.  A drive in the country.  Some time alone with your instrument or a paintbrush or a journal.  A nap.  Prayer.  Coffee with a friend.  Whatever it is that gives you a respite, I pray it for you now.

Maybe for someone, it will be a visit to CareNet.

Work, Mom, Work!

My mom was a stay-at-home mom.  She worked on the farm, drove us to softball and little league, volunteered on the PTO, and led my Girl Scout Troop.  (You should have seen our house come cookie time!  Our dining room looked the construction site for a cardboard city!  My favorites?  Caramel deLites!)

My mother's example has been my parenting touchstone for four decades.  It is only now, two kids and one looming divorce in, that I have begun rethinking that model.

When I was pregnant with my son, I remember the women I work with saying, "I worked part-time when my kids were small, and it was the best thing I could have done."

I also remember thinking, "Not me.  Moms should stay home with their kids."  There was deep in my being this unspoken conviction that godly moms stayed home with their kids.  All the time.  Forever. 

Have I ever changed my tune on that one!

Let me first say that I still think the ideal is for Mom (or Dad) to be the primary caretaker.  It isn't always possible, and children certainly thrive in other settings, but children need to connect deeply with their parents, and that happens most organically when their parents are there providing food, sleep, love, kisses, discipline, and play day after day.

What I no longer believe is that it is necessary, or perhaps even best, for one parent to stay at home ALL the time.  Without a break.  Ad infinitum. 

Lest the homeschooling parents out there pillory me, I freely admit that this shift in thinking could reflect more of a deficit in my character than anything else.  I was planning on homeschooling my children, and this year my four-year-old has found every way of convincing me that he has no intention of being homeschooled.  The child is smart and social and desperately trying to figure out the difference between independence and anarchy . . . and I'm coming to the conclusion that I must find ways for him to be independent (2-day a week pre-school?) or fall beneath a coup d'état! 

Hence my new theory that some sort of part-time job for mom is not a bad thing. 

There are reasons for my new embracement of part-time work for full-time moms (and dads!).  They are:

1. Breathing space.  Everybody really does need a little time away.  It makes the time together that much more special . . . and appreciated (by everyone). 
2. Development of "self."  This is true for Mommy and Munchkin.  It is critical that moms nurture themselves, cultivating the interests they've always had and discovering new ones they didn't know they had.  Kids need help finding out who they are apart from Mom, too, and it's really hard to do that if Mom is always there.  (Even if Mom is conscious of giving them room to grow and develop in unique ways . . . or maybe again this is my weakness speaking!) 
3. Financial security.  Boy, is this one hard for me to write about!  I never wanted financial concerns to be a deciding factor in how I raised my kids, but the cold, hard truth is that they are.  When I quit working, I figured I was okay financially.  Even if something did happen to my husband, he had a good life insurance policy.  Yeah.  That doesn't cover divorce.  Suddenly I find myself scrambling to make a career out of a couple writing gigs, unable to get a mortgage because I have no income to speak of for the past two years, and asking, "How in the world did I get myself into this mess?!?"  

Having said all this, I would like to note that not having financial security has actually been one of the greatest blessings in my life.  It is in my "poverty" that God is showering me with His riches.  As a writer, I can work for anyone in the world and still stay (mostly) at home with my kids.  He has blessed me with friends who are also willing to be work partners and to give me opportunities I would have been hard-pressed to get on my own this quickly.  I have a loving family (including in-laws!) who cannot help financially but are incalculably precious when it comes to babysitting (for when I have to work away from home) and supporting me emotionally.

As each undeserved, unexpected blessing drops in my lap, I am more breathless with love and awe of my God and His love for us.  And more excited to see what new and amazing thing He has in store for me.  In the meantime, God is indeed supplying all my needs . . . and then some! 
 
There is a part of me that is loathe to deprive someone else of the same miraculous provision I am experiencing.  There is another part of me that figures life has plenty of curve balls to throw; maybe we should go after the middle-of-the-plate fast balls when we see them.

I guess what I'm saying is that being a mom in any situation might be a little easier when there's an outside, adult activity scheduled into every week.  Even homeschooling moms can do it, if they have someone who can assist just one or two days a week.

Substitute teaching, temping, freelancing, consulting, negotiating part-time hours for a formerly full-time job, even volunteering are ways to keep your fingers in a career with ramp-up potential than when you have dropped completely off the radar.  You never really know when that part-time job or hobby may have to pay your mortgage or buy your groceries. 

I know some of you home school.  Some of you work full-time.  Some of you work part-time.  Each situation has benefits and drawbacks.  I'd love to hear what's worked for you (pardon the pun!).  I have a feeling the other moms and dads out there are interested, too. 

10 Cosas Que Necesita Saber Cómo Hacer

On the 45-minute drive home from babysitting my nieces and nephews today, I passed two poor souls changing flat tires on the side of 95 South during rush hour.  Ouch.  My two little ones were sacked out in their car seats, exhausted after too much fun with the cousins, so my mind was free to wander. 

I thought, "Everyone should definitely know how to change a flat tire," followed shortly by, "A top 10 list of things everyone should know how to do would make a great blog post."  I sure hope I was right, because here goes (in no particular order . . . this is just how they came to me in the moment).

1.  Change a flat tire.  Although on this one there is one problem.  I know how to change a flat tire.  I even know where the jack and donut are stored in my car.  My struggle is with getting the darned lug nuts loose . . . must they put them on so tight????

2.  Start a wet wood fire.  I learned this important skill on High Road, I think they call it "Wheaton Passage" now, the summer before my freshman year at Wheaton.  You never know when you may be lost in the wilderness, cold and hungry and damp, and wishing for a fire.  It is also useful for your Harman wood stove when the tarp blows off your woodpile in the middle of a torrential rainstorm. . .

3.  "Grow your own groceries."  I think everyone should be able to feed themselves . . . even if they're growing veggies in pots on the windowsill.  (I had planned to insert Luke Bryan's "Country Man" in here, since I'm stealing his line, but the video just does not work for me . . . so I'll just link to the lyrics!) 

4.  Shoot a gun.  See justification for #3.  Just make sure you practice using ear and eye protection! 

5.  Bake bread.  Related to #s 3 and 4, but also because there is a magic in bread, especially when it's kneaded by your own bare hands (well-washed, of course!). 

6.  Play an instrument.  Any instrument.  (In addition to your voice.)  Making music is therapeutic.  It also stimulates your brain in unique ways.  And when you get to make music with other people . . . there's nothing like it! 

7.  Speak a foreign language.  We live in such a global world.  Yesterday I was Skyping with a friend in Africa . . . and I got better reception than when I call my neighbor to set up a play date!  Being able to communicate in something other than English is not only broadening, it's becoming necessary.  My family's 2nd and 3rd languages are Spanish and ASL.  We are not fluent in either of them, but we can communicate on everyday topics . . . as long as the native speaker is patient and slow! 

8.  Make something with your hands.  I believe strongly in handwork: knitting, crocheting, woodworking, braiding rugs, sewing.  Whatever it is, handwork keeps you rooted in the basic arts and skills of survival and craftsmanship . . . it lets you create a product that is REAL (as opposed to a blog that really exists only as a series of 0s and 1s!). 

9.  Swim.  You never know when the boat you're on will hit an iceberg, when the bridge you're driving on will collapse, or when someone will call awarding you a free vacation in Bermuda.  Whichever it is, you will wish you knew how to swim! 

10.  Morse Code.  I know, this is a weird one.  I've just started learning Morse with the kids . . . I have the symbol chart taped to my kitchen cupboard!  Maybe I have seen too many movies in which the main character is trapped somewhere--in a collapsed building, on a deserted island, in a locked room--and is saved only because he tapped (or flashed) a message in Morse.  Of course, the happy ending depends upon a second person who understands Morse intercepting the message in time.  So really, this one is a win-win: you can either be saved or become a hero saving someone else!

So those are mine.  If yours are different, I'd like to hear them.  As a note, I did remove the annoying "prove you're not a robot" thing for comments, so you should be able to just post.  Pick out all the foods?  Really?  AND all the pictures of mountains???  That is too much even for me!

Shrunken Head, Expansive Heart

Almost a year and a half ago, my husband and I started seeing a fabulous husband and wife counseling team: Dr. James and Christine Schwarz.  I know what you're thinking: how fabulous can they be?  You're getting divorced.

True.  They were not able to help us save our marriage.  They are, however, doing a bang-up job of helping me. (No small feat, I might add!)  Because of them I am finally beginning to understand:

• I am not responsible for all the evil in the world . . . not even all the evil in my immediate circle!
• I am not responsible for making the whole world happy . . . not even those in my immediate circle!
• I am responsible for my own happiness and fulfillment . . . my husband, friends, parents, children, strangers on the street are not.  
• My best really is good enough . . . even if I fail.  God Himself does not ask me for more than that; why should I ask it of myself?  
• God's divine mark on me is a spirit of joy, excitement, and effervescence.  Starving or disdaining that part of me is, at best, unhealthy and, at worst, sacrilegious. 
• Every feeling is given to us for a reason, and we should embrace them, identify them, and use them to either enjoy our present condition or change it.  
• I am not a victim--of my parents, my spouse, my children, the President of the United States.  
• Life is a dance.  I can't necessarily change partners, but I can always change the dance.  
• God's grace and mercy towards my children is greater than my ability to mess them up.  
• Stepping out in faith and watching God be God in my life is the most intoxicating thing I've ever known.  

Why had I not figured these things out myself after four decades on God's green earth?  I ask myself that regularly.


The only answer I can come up with is that the human mind has an incredible capacity to ignore truths that it finds too uncomfortable--or too confusing--to confront.  HOWEVER: I have also discovered that the human mind has an eerie ability to heal itself.  For a surprising number of psychological pains, the mind knows both the underlying cause and the cure.  We just need to give it a chance to do its work. 

Of course, if that work can involve sandboxes, ogre-princess figurines, friendship, and prayer, so much the better!

Writers Anonymous

They say the third time's a charm. and I'm hoping they're right, because this is the third time I've started this blog, and that's just a little ridiculous!  The reason for the repeated aborted attempts is pretty simple: exhaustion.

Those who know me well know that I am quite fond of my sleep.  I am not a sleep connoisseur like my college roommate--no eye masks here!--but I am close.  Through six years of higher education, I never pulled one bona fide all-nighter for academic reasons.  The one all-nighter I did pull was the Sunday night that started the Wheaton Revival of 1995.

(As an aside, follow the link for that one--that event was one of the most amazing things I have ever experienced and changed the entire course of not only my college years but also my life.)

That night aside, I went to bed every night at 8:00pm.  It didn't matter who was in our room, how much noise they were making, or how many lights were on.  Nothing stood in the way of bedtime.

Now, however, I am living some kind of alternate reality, and the result is fatigue the likes of which I have rarely known.  Once my kids snuggle into their beds at 7pm, Mommy sits at the computer and starts working.

Emails.  Articles.  Facebook posts.  LinkedIn updates.  Blogs.  (Have you noticed when most of my blog posts get published?  I used to see 11:00 only once a day . . . when the sun was shining!)  Then I drag myself into bed, lie down, and . . . turn the light on again to write in my prayer journal because there are thoughts zigzagging through my brain that demand to be put on paper.

Since my two little angels wake promptly at 6am most days, I am beginning to feel the effects of too few hours of shut-eye.  And yet, I'm finding it a bit of a rush, as well.  It seems as if I am suddenly living in a world refulgent with narrative . . . and I am tasked with recording it.

If I can keep my eyes open. 

Do they have a support group for writing addicts? 

Of Jesus, Gems, and Double Chocolate Cookies

Today I went to visit one of my "gems."  Through the years I have been blessed with an undeserved abundance of amazing friends: these are my gems.  They are the truly priceless treasures that have made and continue to make my life so rich and delightful.

When it comes to precious stones, Rhoda is a pearl.

Rhoda and I are connected in a variety of different ways, and today we reminisced about most of them.  She is, to begin with, a cousin . . . distant, but blood nonetheless.  (Half of North Scituate is a cousin in one way or another . . . that's why I married a guy from Cumberland!) 

Her cousinhood is never the first thing I think of, though.  In my mind, she is one of my spiritual grandmothers.  We attended the same church throughout my childhood, and she has left an indelible print on me.

For one thing, she is truly the kindest woman I have ever known.  I have never heard her raise her voice or say a harsh . . . not even a remotely critical . . . word about anyone.  She has an amazing ability to see the good in everyone, no matter how little good there is to find.

Combined with this is her love for everyone, and I personally have always felt surrounded by it.  When trying to describe her to people I have often said, "As a child, I always felt she could walk in on my brother, my sister, and me setting fire to the sanctuary and somehow find a reason why it wasn't our fault."  (Disclaimer: None of my family would ever consider setting fire to the sanctuary!  We all loved our church!)

Now with most people, it would be hard to stomach so much sweetness.  I don't know about you, but I don't usually trust people who are perpetually happy . . . kind . . . gentle . . . good.  Chalk it up to my own wickedness, but I tend to think they're hiding something.  Rhoda is different.  After knowing her nearly forty years, I can vouch for her authenticity.

If she were to read this--which she won't unless someone prints it and sends it to her because she doesn't have internet--she would put up her hand as if to deflect the compliment and say, "That is the work of Jesus!"  And again, she would be completely sincere.

For Rhoda loves Jesus.

Rhoda, whose grandson is my age, still leads 5 Bible studies a week, often using a study she and I compiled with others from our church decades ago.  Rhoda doesn't just believe in telling others about Jesus, she believes in growing others into Jesus.  She is the true definition of a disciple-maker.

And Rhoda prays.  In fact, while I was sitting at her table sipping peppermint tea and munching on the best double chocolate cookies I have ever tasted, she received a call from the prayer chain, took the message, and then called the next person on the chain.

Now, I know Rhoda is not perfect.  I have not personally seen any of her flaws, but because she is human I know she must have them.  She, like us all, faces problems that challenge her trust that God can provide.  Yet trust she does.  Like the man who asked Jesus for help, she (and I!) sometimes cry, "I believe!  Help me in my unbelief!"

I think I am compelled to write about her today because I would like to be more like her.  I would like to be more generous in my assessments of people . . . of myself, even.  I would like to be more unselfish, unstintingly giving of my time and resources, even when there is no hope of reciprocation.  I would like to spend more time in what really matters . . . sharing Jesus with a world that so desperately needs him (and doing a better job of living like someone who has been saved by His grace).

I don't think I will ever attain that, but spending time with her sure gives me motivation to try.  If nothing else, maybe I can get her to share her cookie recipe with me . . . !

The Work-Life See-Saw

There are a lot of things I like about being self-employed . . . and even more about working from home.  I make my own hours, wear whatever I want, choose my own priorities, and never have to pack a lunch.  On the other hand, I find it hard to strike a good work-life balance. 

When I worked a "regular" job, I always knew when I was working and when I wasn't.  Working from home is a bit different.  There is no physical space that distinguishes between "work" and "life," particularly because my living room is my home office, my couch my desk chair, and my entertainment system my work computer.  Very easy for lines to get blurred in such a setting. 

Add to that two children, and the result is work-life chaos.  My kids are young enough that it is very difficult to work while they're awake.  I have tried little chores with them around . . . sending an email, for example.  They're climbing into my lap, pressing keys on the keyboard (accidentally turning off the computer), and simultaneously yelling at me to "Stop doing that, Mommy!!!" 

I can feel my blood pressure rising just thinking about it. 

Even worse is when you have to make a business call.  Have you ever been on the phone with two children underfoot?  Most professionals are not accustomed to doing so, and while they always assure me my children are delightful, I am pretty confident they do not appreciate my daughter screaming in their ear because her brother hit her with a drumstick. 

In addition to the noise level (which makes a telemarketing center sound like a library on Sunday afternoon), the presence of children results in a disconcerting discontinuity of discourse.  

My sister and I have perfected the art of what I call "punctuated conversations."  We can successfully discuss the meaning of life, biblical feminism, the price of chicken at the supermarket, and the relative effectiveness of different shampoos while periodically interrupting ourselves (and each other) with "Stop chasing the cat!," "Don't sit on your sister's head!," and "We do not throw hard blocks in this house!" 

As much as life interrupts work in a "home office" environment, I also find the opposite to be true.  I am embarrassed to admit how many meals I have spent at the table with my adorable story-tellers prattling on about their imaginary trips without hearing a word.  My mind was stuck on a book idea or a cover letter I needed to write, or an article I just couldn't seem to sink my teeth into. 

It is a dreadful moment when you realize you have been viewing the most important people in your life as interruptions, as something that is keeping you from doing something "really important." 

So I am trying to draw some work-life boundaries.  When I am with my kids, I am trying to be conscious of them.  Their thoughts, their feelings, their desires are important to me.  They need to know it. 

This time is fleeting.  This year my son starts pre-school.  Next year he'll be in kindergarten.  Soon he'll be off to college.  I don't want to look back on these days only to find out I never lived them in the first place. 

I'm trying to keep work for nap time and after bedtime.  That's not natural for an early-to-bed girl like me, but right now it's working.  (You may notice I generally post around 11pm . . . )

I know many of you work from home, too.  I'd like to hear some of the ways you keep your work, work and your life, life.  (I also want to make sure the comment section works . . . !) 

Flawless Imperfection

I was raised in a New England farm family with a strong "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" mentality.  We were taught that our success or failure was our responsibility, and we did not expect things to be handed to us.  "The world does not owe you anything," we were taught.

There is value and truth to those sentiments.  The world does not owe us a thing.  God, in fact, does not owe us a thing.  It is, indeed, our responsibility to work hard for whatever it is we want. 

I am afraid, however, that I have internalized this a bit too much and have become what has been called a "John Wayne Christian."  My head and my mouth acknowledge that I am dependent upon God's mercy and grace for everything in my life, but my heart stubbornly feels the need to do it all myself.

I can think of a couple times in my life when God has gently tried correcting my heresy.  The first was one summer at Honey Rock Camp, Wheaton's Northwoods Campus.  I had a horseback riding accident (silly Billy Bob!) and suffered some bruised ribs just before we were to head out on a camping trip.  I was not supposed to carry a pack or paddle a canoe.  That meant that everyone else had to divvy up my stuff between their packs . . . literally carrying my burden.  It was humiliating, and I felt like dead weight.  But my friends didn't view it that way.  They saw it as a way to minister to me.  A little crack opened in my self-sufficient facade.

A bigger time was when I left college for a teaching job half a continent away from my family.  My meager teaching salary didn't cover my expenses, so I worked additional part-time jobs to pay the bills.  But a few times, even that wasn't enough.  So I would pray, "Lord, You brought me here.  I'm doing all I can.  You pay my bills."  And He did.  One day it was a check from my great-aunt.  Another it was a check from my college roommate's parents!  (God bless the Dees!)  And I wrote thank-you notes, telling them they had been Jesus' hands and feet to me.  I thought my dependence on God, my trust in God, was complete.

Ahhh, hubris!!!

In actuality, I am only beginning to learn, to live, this truth.  I find it relatively easy to trust God with my finances.  Even when I get a little scared, my history with his provision keeps me steady.  In fact, just today I got a call from my aunt asking if I wanted a job coordinating her church's VBS.  It pays real money!  And I love VBS.  Only God! 

Where I find it difficult to trust is with me.  I fear I am not godly enough.  I fear I'm not a good enough mom--not patient enough or calm enough or loving enough or consistent enough or . . . anything enough.  And I am afraid that my kids will be in counseling by age 12, explaining how their mom was a complete failure.

But I am beginning to see that, too, as hubris.  It is the height of pride to think that my mistakes, my flaws, my sins are so big that God is not bigger still.  I am talking about the God who spoke the universe into being, who conquered death to forgive my sins, who is coming again in victory.  And I think He's thwarted by little old me?

My God has promised to show mercy to the thousandth generation of those who fear Him, and fear Him I do.  I can trust Him.  I can trust Him with my income.  I can trust Him with my health care.  I can trust Him with my precious children.  And I can trust Him with myself, that He will not abandon the good work He has begun until it is completed . . . even if it takes my entire lifetime.

So tonight, in full awareness of all the ways that I fall short, I can go to sleep in peace, knowing that in Christ, I am flawless before the Father . . . and that He will indeed work all things together for good.  For my son.  For my daughter.  For me. 

Take Them to the Park

I have worked some hard jobs.  I've mucked horse stalls, been a weekend closer at McDonald's (after teaching English all week), and spent five summers standing on my head picking strawberries, zucchini, and green beans.

None of them compares with being a mom.

It doesn't seem like that much on the outside.  You cook a few meals, run your Dyson once in a while, throw in a couple loads of laundry, read a few books, color a few pictures, and splash in the bathtub.  What's so hard about that?

Now don't get me wrong: I LOVE being a mom.  I love being my kids' Mom. 

But there are days when the very perpetuity of it is draining, exhausting, numbing. Today was such a day . . . almost.

My son is in that delightful independent stage in which the only response when Mom asks him to do something is to do . . . nothing.  I call his name.  No answer.  No footsteps.  No break in the conversation he is having with "Sharptooth" (thanks to The Land Before Time!).  Nada.

So after the umpteenth time saying, "Please get your clothes on," I follow with, "If you don't get your clothes on, we're not going to Story Hour."  (He loves Story Hour at our library!)  No response.  "Ok, no Story Hour."

Now there's a reaction . . . a fit.  He gets put in time out.  I'm sitting there thinking, "What am I doing wrong?" as the tears push against my eyeballs. 

Then, divine inspiration.  The park.  We live on three acres.  I never take the kids to the park.   I think, "They don't really deserve to go to the park.  They have not done one thing I've asked today."

Then a voice says, "No, they don't deserve it.  But they need it.  And so do you."

So we go to the park.  The kids tear around the jungle gym like they're on holiday.  My little boy tackles the high bars with me nervously spotting every second.  My daughter attacks the slides like a girl possessed.

And I make the decision to spend the time being present with them.  I put the mortgage and the bills and the writing assignments and the blog and the social media in a closet and close the door.

I watch my kids.  I play with my kids.  I enjoy my kids.  We sing "Higher, higher, much, much higher!" as I push them on the swings.  I swing on the swings!  We run around the infield of the baseball field. We admire the two ospreys nesting on one of the light poles. 

On the way home, we pass LicketySplits.  I think, "We should get ice cream . . . .no we shouldn't . . ."  I turn the car around.  It's lunchtime, we've only had a granola bar at the park, and I buy us each a cup of cookie dough ice cream with sugar cones on top for the kids.  (Mine was chocolate peanut butter cookie dough, by the way . . . AMAZING!!!)

When we get back home, I wipe the drips from their ice cream lunches off their car seats and my daughter says in her sweetest voice, "Thank you for the ice cream, Mommy."

And it happens.  For a brief, shining moment my son, my daughter, myself, this day, all our days are bathed in Grace.  And it is good. 

The Bank Brouhaha

It was supposed to be a quick trip to the bank.  My new banking guru at Washington Trust had called to tell me:
1.  The hold is off my new accounts (YAY!)
2.  The accounts for my kids were all established (Double YAY!)
3.  I could come in any time to sign signature cards and fund the accounts.  Oh.

(Let me take a second to pause in this story and reiterate that my banker called me.  Personally.  On my cell phone.  Twice, actually.  The first was to get my kids' SS#'s because I had forgotten them when I went to open the account the first time.  "Don't come down again," she said, "I'll call you tomorrow morning and you can tell me then.  What time would work for you?"  I am REALLY liking my bank right now!)

But back to the task at hand.  This time I would have to physically take my two charming children into the bank and sign papers.  Have you ever banked with a four-year old and a two-year old?  I'm sure there are more exquisite forms of torture, but I personally have yet to encounter them.  

Today the fun begins before we even leave the house.  My sweet daughter, who generally likes to dress herself and show off what a big girl she is, for some reason decides she cannot stand her shoes and coat and will not be caught dead in them.

Splendid.

I manage to force her into her gear only to have her rip off her coat again.  She and I have already tussled a few times prior to this, so I do what every good Mom would do.  I check the thermostat, see it's in the upper 50's and say, "Fine.  Go without a coat."  (It's 8 minutes up the road . . . what can go wrong?)

By the time we get to the bank, it's starting to drizzle.  Great.  Now I'm taking a 2-yr. old into the rain without a coat.  Mother of the Year material right here.

Then we sit down with the banker.  As I'm signing papers, my son flips her desk calendar to a different date.  I scold him and tell him to apologize.  He won't.  He's embarrassed.  He's not the only one.  I put him in time out by my chair until he decides to apologize. 

By this time, my daughter wants to wander around the bank.  I hold her hand to keep her still.  She proceeds to throw herself on the floor and SCREAM non-stop for 5 minutes.  Oh yeah.  Right there in the middle of the bank.

Yippee.

The banker, who has probably quit her job and run as fast as she could to my old bank for a new job, keeps saying, "Just a couple minutes more," with a steady smile.
Finally, the papers are signed, my son has apologized, and my daughter stands up beaming a beautific grin.  The patrons who are just coming in comment on how delightful my children are.

And I stumble away feeling like Wesley after the Machine has sucked one year from his life. 

Show Me the Money!

There are lots of difficult things about getting divorced.  Keeping life "normal" and healthy for the little ones is, of course, the most important.  Next to that I'm finding the financial details to be a headache-generator. 

The court--or my lawyer, in this case--sits down 15 minutes before your court appointment, asks some questions, does some back-of-the-envelope math and voilà!  You have a child support amount.  (Three hundred dollars less than the amount quoted you three months ago, but what's $300?!)

At least there's a formula with child support.  Granted, it's based on what the receiving party assumes they can make, and not what they actually make, but that's okay.

As an aside--if you are ever in the position to receive child support, do yourself a favor and go with the guaranteed income you have at that very moment in time.  As a close friend said, "If you find you're getting too much, you can always write them a refund check!"

I wish I had taken this wise advice.  Since I didn't, I'm growing accustomed to feeling knots in my stomach, chest, and brain.  Thank goodness I can buy massive amounts of antacid and ibuprofen at BJ's--at least while I can afford the membership!

Then there's alimony.  There you really just draw a number out of thin air.  "How much do you think you'll need in alimony?" my lawyer asked.

What????  How in the world do I know?  I've never raised two children, paid a mortgage, managed a rental property, and kept up 4 buildings on my own!  Isn't that what I hired you for?  To the tune of $300 an hour?!  (No wonder the little child support discrepancy didn't bother her . . . it's only one billable hour!)

I'll tell you what I really don't like about that scenario, besides the fact that it happened to me.  Some women have a husband who cheated . . . abused them . . . abused the kids . . . all kinds of horrible situations I can only thank God I have not experienced.  I didn't.  My husband and I get along pretty darn well--even now.  He wants what's best for the kids.  He just can't stay married to me.  It's really as amicable a divorce as I could ask for.

So don't ask me to figure out what's a fair alimony.  I don't even like taking alimony.  And I'm a Christian--we're supposed to love, forgive, be self-sacrificing, and love God more than money.  How do I manage that while telling my soon-to-be-ex how much of his paycheck I want every month?  Maybe some of you ladies (or gents!) have figured that one out.  If so, the comment section below is for you!

I'll save refinancing the mortgage and finding health insurance for another day!!

I'd like to say I've gained perfect clarity on this issue, but I really haven't.  What I can tell you is what I wish I could do better or differently:

1. Get as much information as you can as soon as you can.  Ask for advice from people who've been through it, especially if they've been divorced for a year or so.  They will often have the best perspective.  DON'T trust just one professional!!  Talk to at least two on every issue.  Really.  
2. Don't assume your lawyer is preparing you thoroughly.  I think they sometimes forget how little we know (especially the first time around), how stressful and emotional it is for us, and how easy it is to not even know the questions to ask.  Question, question, question.  (You are paying them, after all--don't let them bully you!)
3. Make a budget on your own before talking to your lawyer.  Ask for a child support and alimony calculation in advance of your hearing, doing your best to make sure all the numbers add up to what you need to survive. Things can move fast after the hearing; you don't want to find yourself scrambling.  DO NOT add in the money you think you can earn; go with what is in hand. 
4. It is NOT selfish to take money from your ex, especially if there are children involved.  Rather, it is your responsibility to make sure they are provided for.  If you're asking too much, the court will let you know.  

Have other tips?  Share them!  

A Friend in the Darkness

Last night I attended the Rhode Island Raised Livestock Association's Annual Meeting.  When I left around 9pm, the world was covered in ice, snow, and sleet from our January-in-April snowstorm.  I de-iced my car, settled into my seat, and put on my wipers.  Or tried to.  One worked; the other tried valiantly and remained stuck under its partner.

Naturally it was the driver's side that didn't work.

At this point, I was experiencing two degrees of panic.  The first was the very pressing issue of how to get home without wipers.  The second was how I was going to pay for repairs to my car when my divorce is progressing, we are just starting to separate finances, and I don't yet have a steady income.

I decided to deal with the most immediate issue and stop at a gas station, hoping for someone who could help.  (I did mention it's 9pm during a snowstorm, right?)  I pulled in and saw this long, lanky, farmer-looking gentleman standing at the pumps beside a pickup truck with a snowplow.  (And no, I can't tell you what a farmer looks like . . . a farm kid just knows one when she sees one!)

I boldly walked up and asked, "Excuse me, do you know anything about windshield wipers?"

"A little."

I stuck out my hand and introduced myself.  (His name was Mike . . . and I was right . . . he was a sheep farmer!)

He tried popping off the wiper to inspect it, but Cebu the Subaru (VeggieTales fans will know how she got her name!) refused to cooperate.  I thanked my would-be hero and decided to drive home without using the wipers . . . and praying heartily!

Thankfully, the ride home was precipitation-free, barring one encounter with a tractor trailer.  I was singing "This Little Light of Mine," I was so happy.

This morning, first thing, I called my trusty mechanic at Pierce Imports, saying I had a minor emergency with my wipers.  "Come on down," he said.

I did.  Envisioning a large bill.  Penury.  Hunger.  Financial ruin.  Praying for a miracle.

Ten minutes we sat in the waiting room.  My children didn't have time to grow bored with the box of Smurfs, kaleidoscopes, and leggy spider toys stashed under the coffee table before he said, "All set."

All set.  I bet.

"It was a loose nut.  Happens when it's icy like this."

The charge?  Not a cent.  He even told me how to fix it myself the next time it happened.

I thanked him profusely.  There's a reason I love my mechanic!

As I got the kids in the car, I thanked God profusely.  I thanked him that, in this time of my life, he is re-teaching me to cast all my burdens on Him.  He really does care for us.