In Perspective

Kids love to hear stories about the day they were born. 

I don't know if you've ever talked to your tiny folks about that day, but it's like magic for them - to know 
the first thing you thought the first time you saw them, 
what their baby hair looked like, 
who came to visit, 
and what the doctors and nurses said.
All the smallest details are magnified
because children need to hear their stories. 

(After all, what does the middle of a book mean when you've skipped the beginning?)

I try to give my kiddos a new detail often, although sometimes I tell the same story a hundred times. Like music, it calms them, fixing their eyes on mine as we walk the same road. It's the simplest song I sing, and one of the most important.

Ultimately, the words help my tiny folks see themselves in the bigger story, of grandparents and aunts and cousins and friends. Details shape the narrative they'll tell their own children and grandchildren. And this is the context they'll give that story, all the shared understanding that makes it our own:

We wanted you.
We wished for you, and waited.
When you came, 
we welcomed you. . .
and so did the rest of your family --
the ones who traveled hours to see you,
the ones who waited home, itching to meet you.
We all welcomed you;
we still do,
because we waited, and you came. . .
because we wanted you.

Those are the messages that permeate our narrative. And all of that -
the teaching and the detail and the time -
all of it both tells our story,
and writes it.

Painting word pictures,
Becki*

Shared here:

Crowning Glory

Source

A few weeks ago, for the first time in my adult life, I needed work done on a tooth. (Work. Sounds like such a harmless little word, doesn't it?)

The night before Thanksgiving, I had chipped a piece off one of my molars. No big deal, really. But it sure was sharp. And it sure was sensitive. And it sure was traumatic to Mrs. Tough Teeth.

So off to the emergency dentist we went to have a Band-Aid applied. The dentist warned me that the Band-Aid was only temporary. She said, "You've got 30 days, tops," and I nodded solemnly. No prob! 30 days is plenty of time to get back to the dentist for a real, live crown.

83 days later, I broke my Band-Aid.

(Don't judge. I was busy!)

Cue the second emergency dentist. He was understanding, and totally didn't raise an eyebrow when I told him the truth about my slacking tooth. Inserting a gravelly paste into my mouth, he told me to come back in the morning to start the crown process.

The next morning, when he stuck a Q-tip in my mouth and told me to bite down, I had no clue what was happening. But I obeyed; I was trying to make up for the sin of 83 days. Quickly, my mouth went numb, and I felt peaceful. This would be an easy fix.

*Cue the hypodermic needle.*

The last time I had work done on my teeth, I was a child. I'd never had Novocaine; laughing gas had always worked fine. So you can imagine my fright at seeing a needle the size of my arm heading toward my face. Thankfully, the Q-tip had done its work, and the spear went in with a dull pressure; I hardly noticed it!

But the medicine? Uh, not so much. It hit the inside of my gums with a warmth that washed into my cheek. My eyebrow went numb, and I panicked. I knew I needed to calm down before I jumped out of the chair and ran. 

So what does the good Preacher's wife do when she's afraid? She meditates on Scripture, of course! Only this Preacher's wife isn't so great at remembering things under pressure:

Think, think, think. Ok, so it's been a while since I've memorized anything. Hmm... "The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pas-"

Wait! Isn't Psalm 23 the chapter they read at funerals? Not good. 

Ok, so now what? John 3:16? Romans 3:23? Psalm 139? Oh, that's a good one!

Confession: I remembered exactly one verse of that chapter.

Thankfully, by this time the dentist was basically finished, and his (half-blind) assistant told me I looked too young to have a six-year-old. I don't know whether it was the medicine or the compliment, but suddenly my blood pressure leveled, and my heart started its normal pace again. He finished the job without a hitch, and I was scheduled for another day to get my real, live crown.

And in the end, I left the dentist knowing two things for sure:

1) I need to get back on top of the whole memorizing-Scripture thing; and

2) Maybe 83 days wasn't quite long enough.

Working toward the final crown,

Becki* 

Born to Be

Photo Credit

Today, the Preacher worked all day, which meant Princess and Little Man were in my solo care. All. Day. Long.

(Did I say, "Long"? 
Because I meant to say, "Loooonnnggg.")

If one thing in life is sure, it's this: The hours and minutes and seconds of days don't shift for anyone. And what can one mom do about it anyway - the days when time stretches and sticks right in the middle? I mean, I've heard about Carpe Diem, and the power of a treasured day. And I've practiced gratitude, too, focusing minutes into moments by the thousands. But sometimes the present blocks the big picture, maybe just a little. 

When I was a tiny girl, my dad walked me to the bus stop every day with this: "Stop watching your feet, Becki; pick your head up, and look around." Walking now with Little Man, I keep the same cadence: "Pay attention to where you're going, son. Take your eyes off your shoes." 

Sometimes, it's the long view we need.

When Princess was born, we had her dedicated by a man of God, whose life was spent in sacrifice. When he blessed her, he charged us (just the Preacher and me), snapping the slow spell of an infant with this:

"Remember, God didn't give you children to keep; this baby wasn't born to be a girl. She was born to be a woman."

A woman, like me. (Like me?) And my son, born to be a man, like his father.

Today, I had hours with the future staring me square in the face. The future, dripping milk onto couches. The future, learning to read at my table. . . and searching my eyes for approval.

It's holy gift, and frightening influence.

In the end, the long view isn't about wanting the kidlets to grow up too soon, or overlooking their innate value. They're a treasure now, and always will be. Still, here we're raising a boy and a girl, not to be who we want or to stay children forever --
but to be who they were born to be. 

And that makes all the difference, really. 

Breaking out the binoculars,
Becki*

Together

Photo Credit

I never really know what to say, pretty much ever. It's a gift I have:

Awkwardness. 

Later, I think of things I could've said, imagine your clever response. But standing right there in the moment, my lips fail me. Every time. 

Lately I've needed to drop by here and do some housekeeping; I wanted to, desperately, because even if words failed me, writing never did. And yet this time. . .      it did. 

(They say faith moves mountains - but who moves mountains to paper?)

Writing here - writing worth the energy it takes to type - comes from somewhere deep. And lately that place has been echoing empty. In the midst of the resignation and the packing and the move and all the tongue-tied bitter(sweet?)ness of returning home, I couldn't think of one single thing to say, or write, or even think. 

Maybe in the unpacking, when I finally get to the bottom of that last worn box, I'll stumble into that place again. 

Until then, I'll just marvel at what remains firm in the moving waters of life:

For our merciful Sovereign - Who knew all this long before we did; for my Preacher, sure and steady in the storm's dead center; and for my kidlets, who remind me that home is wherever we're together.

And at the end of the day, if all we are is together - 

it's grace,
and we give thanks.

Letting it sink in,

Becki*

Learnin'

Several weeks ago marked the beginning of Little Man's kindergarten year. After much thought and many discussions ending with, "I don't know," the Preacher and I decided to homeschool him for the time being. 

Little Man thought it was a smashing good idea until he remembered something he'd seen on tv and groaned, "Aww, man. I don't like school!" 

My mommy brain raced into lecture mode: "He doesn't like school?! He's never even been to school!"

Thinking twice about the whole lecture thing, I replied enigmatically, "We'll see." (Clever, right?)

And then I started decorating. 

He oohed and aahed, while Royal Princess cried. (She hates it when Her Older Highness moves furniture.)

Still, I worked my fingers to the bone. Or maybe I worked until it was halfway finished and then went home to visit family for a week. But the end result was the same: It got done, and Little Man loved it.

In case you're slow to the draw tonight, I'll just say it out loud: The school room is in our dining room. 

And while I was at it, I thought I'd throw in a loveseat, so now the Preacher generously calls this his "reading room." (Really it's just a couch and a lamp, but I love that guy for his gratitude. *swoon*)

Anyway. 

That's pretty much it. Books, desks, pencils, marker boards, signs . . . and not one single picture of the entire room all together. Because I'm awesome, and really getting back into the groove of blogging. 

(If I were the type to say, "Ahem," this would totally be the place to do it. But we all know I don't do that.)

Before I fall into bed, dead to the world after weeks of hard work teaching phonics, reading, cursive, and the concept of zero, I thought I'd share the best part of homeschool: The Little Man himself.

Yes, he's wearing his Batman (pajama) shirt. And no shoes. Happy school!

This is the pose he earned after smiling through millions of happy-face pictures.*

Some other day, I'll blog about my brilliant solution to teaching rambunctious, two-year-old Royal Princess while Little Man does his kindergarten duties. For now, I'll leave you with this: 

(Did you see it? Hint: She's not usually green.)

Loving this, 

Becki* 

*I am required by all that is holy to note that in no way does this barefooted, superhero-shirted, marker-wearing homeschool day represent other families who choose to educate their children at home. Thank you for your understanding.

So It Begins

Obviously if I were a good citizen, I'd be watching the debates tonight. 

So now that cat's outta the bag.

I have a hard time with debates; it might be because I never know the answers to any of the questions, or it might be that it's too much thinking for a weeknight. Most likely it's because I'm always convinced by whoever's talking at the moment. (Which gets really confusing when it's down to two candidates.) 

Either way, election season is cruising along, while I'm befuddled by the pairing of "billion" and "dollars." Since I never really hold more than five dollars at a time, those words rattle like loose change in my head. 

This is why I don't watch debates. 

I wonder, though, whether your family is like mine when it comes to politics. I wonder if, around the Thanksgiving table, you've got Democrats and Republicans and Libertarians and Independents chewing on turkey all at the same time. It's like a little miracle of peace brought about by pumpkin pie. 

And then you finish eating turkey and dressing, and head back to everyday life. Sitting safe at your computer, the Facebook debates begin. Before it's all over, you tie yourself into knots, sacrificing peace for the sake of politicians. 

But I wonder what would happen if we skipped all that mess this year. What if we remembered that while the President will change every so often, our loved ones will be stuck with us for life?

After all, they're not numbskulls. (Everybody knows numbskullery runs in families.)  

Let the Fun Begin, 

Becki*

Wrecked

You've had weeks that were just a blur, haven't you? Weeks so filled up with whatnot and whosit that you didn't know which way was up, and Saturday arrived before Wednesday?

This is one of those weeks. Today is Friday, and I needed iCal to remind me. I forgot about Friday, people. I think it's because I'm in a

Hospital.

With my Baby Princess Girl, the sweetest, bravest little thing you ever laid eyes on.

The Royal Princess whose blue eyes are squinted out under a puffy rash the size of her thumbs,
Whose arms are full of bruises. And spots -- 
And an IV.

An IV in my baby? Yes.
Yes.
Even while everything inside me screamed, "NO! NONONONO!" I held her arms tight so the nurses could quickly, mercifully give her a lifeline to hydration.

I did it. And it was awful and terrible and by far my least favorite thing ever.

But today as I sat by her bed in the stark loneliness of a hospital dawn, something strange happened. Suddenly, all the world shrank down to just Princess and me - just the still form of a too-small frame in a too-big bed. . . and her mother, desperate for connection with her.

In that moment, Zimbabwe disappeared, and so did France. Colorado no longer existed, any more than the moon in the sky or the ant on the ground. Everything vanished except
Her, and
Me, and all the heart-string connection that makes up
Us.

And it made me think that every moment is like that really, just you and something - or you and someone.

But we miss it. We miss those together moments, those connection moments, because we're so busy worrying about the what's-next moments.

I'm so busy working and mommy-ing and wife-ing and whatnot-ing, that I haven't been living in those moments -- stopping right smack in the split second of connection, enjoying this step-by-step journey with the ones I love best. And it's a shame really, because isn't life just moments?

How did I miss this 'til today? What is it about a hospital bed that brought it all into focus? Connection, and moments, and living - really living - alongside each other. Being with one another, full attention fixed hard on that one moment of connection.

Why do I want that so badly, when part of my very soul has slept most of the day, unable to reciprocate?

I'm wrecked by this tonight; it's all I can think about, all I can think to say.
For now, I'm off to sit and stare, and do all I can to connect with this tiny Princess Girl.
And I dare you to do the same tonight. You can connect, right now.
Or at least, I dare you to try. 

Wrecked,
Becki*