selfish.

Selfish what? Selfish me. Selfish me as a mother. It's a horrible reality, you know, to be asked to give of yourself completely, only to find yourself refusing with cold, selfish distain.

You see, I have an out. I have no biological children. There isn't a baby that is half of me that answers to no one else. I am often paid to be a "mother." Part of it is my job. I'm the not person who is on 24/7.

Except... I am.

One does not gain parenthood by sometimes being there. I won't maintain affection or stability by only doing what is required of me to garner a paycheck.

I am "mom."

all the time.

except, of course, when I choose not to be.

Ah, the ugly truth. Oh, yes. I can choose not to be. I can force my own space, my own agenda, my own rights. They are ugly indeed. Snotty, cold, bitter, angry, and self-important are written in large banners across that particular space. They have a perfect, distant font, and scrolling designs that quickly purvey this single meaning: mine.

Is it natural? naturally.

Is it righteous? ....

I'd rather not answer that, if you know what I mean.

There's nothing like this in the world that will so quickly expose every self-serving impulse in your heart. I constantly struggle back and forth between what I want to do, and the extremely pressing needs of the E's & D. I have to do lists, recreation, projects, games, movies, cooking projects--- whole bevy of things that do not include them.

Until one of them is staring at me with eyes that just scream "love me." Its so strange that my quickest response to that request is to turn away, ignore, and justify my self-centered existence.

The only problem is, if I ignore their need for love, it will grow bigger and bigger and bigger until it begins to wreak havoc.

Love me.

But what about me?

what about my focus?

what about my lovely, comfortable, selfish procrastination?

E. calls me in to say goodnight to her every night. Sometimes I play her a lullaby on my guitar. Always we pray, I hug her, kiss her, tell her I love her, and that I see her in the morning. Every night I walk out of her room, tired, worn, with tears brimming in my eyes.

I don't know what it is, except that the love I feel for her expands beyond what I can even feel. Every night, as she needs me to say its ok, that she's safe, that she's loved--- it rises up in me threatens to spill over. When I walk out of that room I question myself on how I could ever be selfish like I am. It seems ludicrous.

And then... then sometimes minutes later, someone is asking for something and everything in my heart is resisting.

"And hearing this, the ten became indignant with the two brothers. But Jesus called them to Himself and said, “You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great men exercise authority over them.“It is not this way among you, but whoever wishes to become great among you shall be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you shall be your slave; just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give His life a ransom for many.”

Still learning...

A Final, but thoroughly separate thought

My final thought concerning Turn My Morning Into Dancing, a personal application, that I was left with as I read the final chapter is one concerning death.

Last winter I nearly died, after suffering what should have been a fatal head injury. By the great mercy of God, and by a real and mighty miracle, my life was spared. My head was restored, without medical intervention, from a state that should have required brain surgery to live more than 24 hours more, and even with survival could have been chancy.

I remember so clearly a moment, the night after the accident. I was laying in bed, (stubbornly, and unwisely refusing to go to the hospital because of my lack of health insurance and money) contemplating a very real potential of death.

(Also, remember, this was a brain injury. My brain was swollen to the point of hemorrhaging down my brain stem. Rational thinking skills at this point were essentially gone.)

I knew, in that moment, that without the divine intervention of God, if I went to sleep that night there was a 99% chance that I would not live through the night. I laid there, staring at the ceiling, coming to terms with the reality of death, and the fact that I would likely not see the morning.

To my great shock, in the face of death, I was satisfied.

Nothing about it scared me, save the small thrill of the unknown.

In that moment, I was complete.

I looked toward heaven and very simply laid before the Lord that my life was his choice. I told him in that moment that if I was to live, I understood that it was completely in his hands. And in expression of my own soul, I came to a complete understanding of his faithfulness and goodness. I knew that, if he took me home that night, that I would have no wrong to lay against him. No accusation, nothing. He had dealt with me well. So, in delight, I would embrace whatever path he had for me.

It was a moment of reckoning. Which, naturally, the outcome was that he sustained me and miraculously healed me. But I remember it so clearly, for it was so different from the mentality with which I face everyday life.

There were so many things in that moment, promises, prophetic words, things that had not come to pass yet, and as I stared down the throat of eternity, none of it mattered. I saw it, I saw it's incompleteness, and I saw the even bigger expression of God's faithfulness.

What a different perspective than the so often accusation based dealings I have with God concerning his promises.

I will be thinking about this much in the coming days.

Oh, the death of my flesh.

'tis a funny thing to prolong its life

Oh, that I would live for glory only

To forget the world in all it's strife

Joy comes in the morning.

Morning Reading - A book review, of sorts

This morning I finished reading a compilation book of Henri Nouwen's work. He did not write the book, but rather it is numerous writings and sermons of his, based around a single topic, that were gathered together in after his death in 1996.

That book would be, naturally, none other than Turn My Mourning Into Dancing.

I've been flirting with the idea of reading it for years and years. I think it was seven years ago that I first found it while helping my Father move his office. I'll be honest-- I grabbed it because it had beautiful cover art and the word "dancing" in the title. Not very deep of me, I know.

So, for seven years, it's been sitting on me "to read" shelf, mostly untouched. Perhaps picked up every now and then to say, "Oh, I ought to give this back.... but it's so pretty!"

I began reading it this last fall in response to some of the deepest grief I have ever felt. I felt I was drowning, I didn't know where God was, I didn't know what he thought, I didn't know if I had ever heard him--- or maybe my whole life was a cacophony of crazed ideas born out of mental instability. I seriously questioned myself, and my understanding of, essentially, everything. It was a break or make it moment for me. Which, started with me resigning myself to breakage, and months later, finds me made much a different person than before, purely by the unending mercy of God.

During that time, as I searched for some sort of meaning or hope in the midst of so many voices, I picked up that little book. No one around me hand answers for me. Or rather, they each had their own answer that only served to further confuse me. There was advice galore, but my heart remained in anguish because it was not God. I needed a personal encounter from the loving divine, and I could not find him. Or perhaps, did not want to.

In many respects, I was discontent because I was begging for affirmation, the statement of rightness, a miraculous sign confirming my unfailing righteousness, simultaneously as I begged for condemnation, a casting out, rejection by God, and ultimately, damnation.

There was a war in my soul between my selfish needs and my self-hatred.

Confusion reigned incessantly in my mind, for I saw only these two paths, and whenever I began to venture down one or the other I immediately knew that neither were where God was. But, oh the horror of my narrow perception! To think there are only two paths, and know that I would not find him on either. How greatly I feared he'd abandoned me altogether.

That purple cover, was suddenly remembered, and as a last ditch effort (knowing that Henri Nouwen was an amazing man of God with a deep understanding of his heart) and a hope that it was set me straight, I began to read "Turn My Mourning Into Dancing."

It's taken me months. In part due to business, but mostly because I was allowing time foe living the things written in it's pages. I come out of it now, having finished this morning, grateful for one of the vehicles that took my from my broken state and helped remake me much different from before.

Superlatives come to mind in description, but rarely actually express enough meaning. So, in short, Turn My Mourning Into Dancing, is the best book I have ever read in dealing with the issues of grief, the mortal, the immortal, sorrow, loss, love, and death.

As we begin to develop the curriculum for the ministry schools, it will, no doubt, be part of my resources. Specifically, as I am working on (co-teaching) the class on inner healing.

I am often convinced that near no one truly knows how grieve, and that is the source of much (if not most) mental illness. In my work, I have an endless stream of ill people in and out seeking care and aide in one form or another--- the stories are different, the response so often the same = grief never truly grieved.

Noting here, that grieving and crying are very different things. One of the things that I learned about myself this past year was that for all my years of crying, and crying, and crying, and crying, I almost never grieved. My tears were merely an uncontrollable outworking of pain too great to contain. While all the while, I was very much keeping it contained. Even in seeking help or sympathy, it was not for healing that I cried, but for justification in the midst of my pain.

Grief, on the other hand is the vulnerable, transparent, unsafe, un-containment of pain so that it may be healed, let go, and transformed.

How rarely we do.

It was an interesting day

Oh, the title, so loaded with meaning in my own mind.

It was an interesting day.

Yes, by interesting, I do mean long, stressful, wonderful, scary, awkward and every other sort of meaning that would typically come from someone staring down their nose, rolling their eyes, and extolling that pithy sarcasm.

Now, all too soon, I will have to rise and begin work. Under seven hours to be exact. Which means that the words I wish to express are quickly cutting into precious minutes of sleep.

Have I ever mentioned I'm not the most productive person in the world when I don't get enough sleep?

Bunny trail. :)

An interesting day.

I was having a conversation with God on my drive into Minneapolis and I asked him that familiar, wonderful question, "Who do you want to be for me now, that you couldn't be before?"

His answer sustained me through the day.

He said, "I want to be the God who rejoices over you."

As he said it, I felt his smile, so near to me.

So through a delightful party, through the drive home, through worship practice (which was much too short), through leading worship with mistakes aplenty, through prayer, through dissenters, through my speaking, through my moderating, through a church service that altogether went the wrong way and had to be guided back, there he was.

Smiling.

Again, he would say, "I am the God who rejoices over you!"

Finally, as the day closes, and my to-do list remains unfinished, friends not contacted, appointments not made, I find myself writing an e-mail that I truly wish I did not have the occasion to write.

I find myself rehashing a report of early events of the week, (which at the time I was somehow brilliantly sheltered from, devastating though they be) and a weight appears in my heart. The weight of all I carry, responsibilities, duties, expectations, areas that I feel completely smashed between a rock and a hard place with no space to move any direction. I find myself lightly tossing around that unfortunately familiar desire to pack a bag and leave and never look back.

(Oh I rebuke you, Satan! What an evil thought!)

So suddenly I am weighed down, with what must be done, what has not been done, what cannot be done, and what I wish I could do. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I hear a voice. It's still smiling; it's whispering.

"I am the God who rejoices over you..."

ah, yes.

CENTER

There's the truth.

He's rejoicing over me.

He's smiling over me.

And he's waiting for me to go to bed.

Because he knows that when I crawl beneath those covers, I will begin to speak with him.

There, in his sweet, gentle presence, all those cares will wash away, and yes, I will be made new.

Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.

a moment from the day

I love my girls so much.

I have to remind myself of this constantly. It's so easy to allow my selfish nature to rise up, to wish that they didn't need me what seems to be every waking moment. It's so easy to forget that I get this small absolute treasure of a moment to be "Mom".

I love it when they start acting all grown up. In the adorable way, anyway. It's far less pleasant in the rebellious-independent way.

I had one of those moments today. E was watching me get supper ready and listening to me talk on and on about the immeasurably great qualities of a potato (haha, I know). I started to go off on the fact that Sara & I intend to track down some organic seed potatoes so that we can have our very own potato crop.

Suddenly, E stands up, bolt straight, and announces, (as adults often do when they have something deeply important to accomplish), "That reminds me! I must check on Sara's gardening."

Set with a task, she marched off, dinner forgotten, quest in hand.

Suddenly, I heard her, talking to the seedlings, coaxing them up with her sweet child-like voice.

In that moment, I had nothing but joy.

She is precious to me beyond compare.

That little glimpse reminded me of her inestimable worth.

What a precious gift from God.

:)

The Purim Party

(How it all began)

It started here. It was innocent enough. Emily did not have a great deal of money for her costume, but halfway through the gathering process announced that she didn't want to be a princess anymore, but wanted to be a fairy. So we talked about it, and after some deliberation, I offered to make her wings, if she would just buy some tulle.

This started the DIY extravaganza that was our Purim Party this year. I don't have pictures of everything. In fact, for all that we did, I have very few pictures, but I thought I'd share what I did have, and tell you about our projects. Prepare yourself. :)

PART UN --- What really propelled it.

Sara had this idea. (I love how she always blames me for going overboard, but when you trace the ideas back to the root: typically? typically it was her idea first, and I'm just realizing it.)

Her idea was to decorate the plastic cups for the party with glitter and paint. This was generated because we wanted an activity that the girls would help us with. Also, Sara was alluding back to the beginning of Esther where it says that every goblet at King Xerxes table was unique.

Easy enough, right? Dot here, glitter there, Voila!

But no. You see, Sara will very rarely do anything without looking up instructions of some kind, even if they don't exist. So before I know it, she's printing off pictures of persian gold etched cups to duplicate.

I upped the anti while we worked. Sara mentioned that she thought it would be cool to add scriptures to the cups, which I immediately vetoed. (too much work to paint.) Then I had my brilliant idea. What if--- what if we painted each one with a unique picture, and took a piece of paper and wrote out a correlating scripture and a promise from the Lord for the cup holder.

So, oh yes, we individually painted 24 cups with our spare, spare time.

Sara painting

Emily with one of her cups

Danielle painting

The rose, and the rainbow on top, Sara's Alpha & Omega, the wisdom cup, and the waves

Almost all the cups--- missing just three that hadn't been finished yet.

Emily's Sunrise, and the wedding cup

the paintbrush, the blood, the breastplate, and the growth cup

Smiley face--- he had to be done.

Sara's Garden Cup

My Lion

(Hebrew text: Judah)

The cups, believe it or not, were a smashing success, and many people's favorite part of the party. Sara and I sat down the other night and talked through who picked what cup, and the promise it contained. It was thoroughly amazing how absolutely perfect each promise was as it found its bearer. It was downright... well, y'know, God.

We loved it so much. Sara wants to start a business called "Party Prophecy Cups" and do this for a living. :) It is ALWAYS such a joy to pour out such specific blessing on people like this. We had exactly the right amount of cups, and everyone took home a promise and scripture that was uniquely suited to them! Even the children! It was so wonderful.

I don't really have pictures of the rest of the projects--- missed catching the handmade gold lantern, the hand painted "HONOR" banner that is still hanging over our patio door (I could take a picture, but I'm feeling lazy,) the gold curtains and cloths we hung everywhere, the fabric draping, and just general decorating awesomeness.

But I do have some--- so I'll point out in the background as we go.

Pre-Party. Sara at her Hamantaschan making station. Please note Burgundy ceiling draping. Oh, and the mosquito netting, which I spray painted gold in an Ombre pattern for the event.

COOKIES!

One of my many food projects. These were homemade tex-mex mini egg rolls. (I rolled 30 of these, AND 30 cream cheese wontons in 25 minutes. It was my new record.) The table of food was amazing. The aforementioned two, Sara's Hamantaschan, homemade humus, baked apples stuffed with apricots and dates, german chocolate cake, mushroom risotto, spring vegetables, tablouleh salad, etc. etc. etc.! (amazing food, I tell you what.)

My little Em, in all her glorious cuteness, showing me "what kitties say"

mmmEEEEOOOAOAOAOWWWW!!!! :)

Elizabeth came to visit us!!!

And so did some fairies!

Toni & her grandaughter Alix

Alix & Eslund

Danielle--- my newest girl! Who we are very much making part of the family.

My big Emily.

(you can kind of see her wings--- I stuffed them with flower petals, too.)

Aunty Lu, in her giant puffy princess dress.

(also, note music stand, wrapped in ribbon from head to foot, boasting my gorgeous copy of the illuminated Saint John's Bible Wisdom Books.)

Stephanie, the brains of the operation.

(costume--- Bathesheba as Queen of Israel)

Caroline, my new sister-in-law

(costume: lady of the french court)

Big Emily again

AND dun dun dun dun...

Sara. Sporting her duct-tape Samurai armor.

(costume--- Caleb the Warrior.)

Unfortunately, I think I missed getting a picture of her full costume.

It was amazing.

She had middle eastern harem pants and boots.

She won the best costume prize for the evening, and it was well deserved.

(I did not sanction this, but it is probably my favorite photo from the evening.)

Toga man came for a visit.

Providing much laughter.

(my brother, Brandon)

Elizabeth & I

being silly. :)

(I was Song of Solomon 4, by the way)

Elizabeth (and Melissa!)

Glenn.

And that's all.

It was a smashing success.

It took days to prepare.

Hours to clean up.

Some of it is still up.

The gold mosquito netting, and gold painted flowers are still in the living room.

And as previously mentioned, the handpainted honor banner is still hanging.

But you'll have to come visit to see it.

;)

A fresh start, same story.

So, here is an empty page.

I could quickly write you a pretty bit of prose concerning the possibilities, the "void", the artistic qualities of a blank palette, or any of the other things we used to postulate about in our younger days. We, the merry band of artists, in all our drama-laden, pessimistic-optimistic, somewhat impractical reality.

The only problem with that would be that our little group is albeit grownup now. Marriages have happened. Children born. Thousands of miles moved. More children born. Careers changed. New life. Death. We, the merry band, are quite different people than we were before.

Except, perhaps, that two of us (one being me) remain unmarried, entirely single, and childless. (I'd say that we were the rebels, but that wouldn't be true. Really, we were the listeners.)

Time. Oh, how it changes things.

Pain has been suffered. Joy felt. Life lived.

Even still, just the other day I found myself yearning for that empty page. The one we used to term "social interaction." The one that I used to express my meaningless thoughts, and pretend that people were listening.

A guarded place, a secret blog, somewhere to write and be unseen by the business world and everyone else around me.

What did I want to write about? Just things. I wanted to talk about heart longings, about dreams, hardships, and heartaches.

You see, I'm still waiting for spring.

...

For me this is a fresh start, but remains the same story.

I am a different person than the girl who first wrote that phrase "waiting for spring" six years ago. I've changed completely. I have new perspectives, new pain, new growth, (hopefully) new wisdom.

This is the same story.

Waiting For Spring.