A Little Busyness Meeting . . . with Myself

So we have been ~~

just a little ~~

snowed in ~~

this week.

Like all week. As it happens, today's the one-year anniversary of breaking my wrist and getting pins and plates inserted into my arm, and the memory of all those narcotics and side effects and not being able to drive and physical therapy and still with the stiffness. I adore snow, but I'm a little afraid of it. It's like petting a cat; I'm never sure if it's gonna be purr-happy or purr-maim.

Either way, I'm not complaining.

But here we are, stuck inside our little place because I'm not going to fall again, and I'm not getting to know any neighbors while frostbite's out there waiting to eat my limbs.  (Sorry about that. One too many zombie commercials.)

In other words, I'm stubborn. I'm staying inside. If you need me, just knock. I'll be here.

Right now, we live in a community with other seminary families. The Preacher is halfway through his M.Div., and we're here with all these smarties working on their higher ed and using theological words I can't understand without an interpreter. I'm not down on myself. But talking to these folks about their field is like listening to whale song. I know they're communicating, and I think it sounds really nice. I just can't make sense of it.

So here we are with all these couples training for the ministry and kids running around outside, and we have this huge community house behind our place. And everybody goes there when it's cold, and they play games and study Scripture like it's summer camp in February, and of course it's a neat idea. *halo glows* It's fun. It's a busy place with lots of activities.

Only I don't really go because groups aren't my thing, and for me already church is plenty of community and getting-to-know-you and figuring out who's who and what's up. I can seriously do one new social thing at a time. I'm busy right now. (#StuffIntrovertsSay)

Last spring after my wrist healed a little and I could drive, I went through this supermom busy phase. Or superbusy mom phase. Both. Aidan was taking piano and playing soccer, and Chloe was taking dance classes, and both the kids were in homeschool co-op, and I was doing all the running. This with homeschool and testing season and the Preacher gone at least 60 hours a week at work, and I have to say I was proud of myself.

But I should've known better. I should've known myself better. One week I had something scheduled every day, and the idea was exciting. But then the week started, and I froze like Olaf. Like the street in front of my house. Like my toes with no socks. (Sorry again.)

But you've been there, right? You're busy and scheduled, and then you get sick or the kids get sick or the car gets a flat tire or you realize your license is expiring, and it's that one little bird that blows up your jet engine, and you sail toward the ground. That happened, and I had to cancel cancel cancel, all because for some reason I had to be busy. 

I still remember the afternoon I canceled Aidan's piano lesson because my blood sugar bottomed out (because my body is smarter than I am).  I expected him to be upset, but he was excited. He ran back to the tree he'd been climbing, and Chloe went back to playing in the rocks, and I sat outside and talked to our neighbor. And I finally took a breath.

I'd been drowning all along, and I hadn't even noticed.

So here we are in this place where people are prepping for ministry, and they're leaders, and the kids are P.K.'s in the making, bless their little hearts. (For the Yankees in the room, "Bless their little hearts" is Southern for, "Lord help those sweet little rascals.") And I've noticed something around here, and you've probably noticed it in your neighborhood, too; it's not just good-hearted theologians who get tangled up in busy.

It's not a judgment. Mostly, it can't be helped. If you're like me, you don't think twice about signing up and scheduling things and filling every season from Lent to Christmas with motion. It's a busy world, and we have a lot to do, and that's that. So then what's the big deal, right? Maybe nothing except. . . well, except this: 

When I find myself busy from dawn 'til dusk (or dawn 'til midnight), I take space to wonder why. What's making me so busy? Is it necessary, and is it adding to my joy? Is it something my children need and want, or is it my dreams they're living out? Is it just filling the slots in my calendar so I don't have down time, so I don't have to ask ~

What would happen if I weren't so busy?

What would happen if I had a minute to sit and think? Would something in my life fall apart? Would my church fall apart? Would my kids fall apart? Would I fall apart?

Lent is a season of sacrifice, a time to slow down and consider our humanity. To prepare for Good Friday and the Resurrection as we prepared for the Nativity. And friends, we were made for work, so busy just happens. But just the same we were made for rest, and we were made for God's pleasure -- and we need room for all those pieces.

I need room for all those pieces,
especially on snow days when I'm cooped up with the people who see me at my worst,
when the busy makes me crazy -- 
and who give me grace anyway.

They calm the storm of busyness, and grace handles what work never could.

Making room,
Becki*

Not So SiLent

Lent is here again, but you already knew that. All the girls at work are resisting the chocolates on their desks. Your husband's fasting meat, but you're not sure what in the name of St. Francis he'll eat without it. And until today you were scratching your head, wondering what you could fast that wouldn't be *too* impossible for 40 days; this is a sacrifice of love, not the 11th commandment.

~ See the grace of God there? We don't have to give up chocolate to get to heaven. ~

The sad truth is, the list of things I can't give up for 40 days is long. Sugar because this. Coffee because tired.so.tired. Electronics because family's far away. So many non-options. And then there was that crazy second, lost in thought about hermits in Ivanhoe, when I considered being quiet for 40 days. Yes, I laughed at myself like you're laughing now.

My kids would love that.

Finally, it came to me that maybe Lent doesn't have to be a list of what not to do (er, at least for Anglicans). Maybe it can just be a simple, quiet something to do. Something to build, slowly.

Photo cred

So I'm writing. But not as a ploy for readers, and not as an appeasement for guilt. Just as expression, the sacrifice of time for something that's become hard.

The thing is, I'm uninspired. I have no plan, no end game, and honestly no clue. There's no blueprint. I hope writing just does its work -- pouring out things that need to be said, maybe putting an end to the mute button. Maybe I'll tell a hard story. Or maybe I'll be too scared. Maybe I'll just have a day and call it good.

This is, I know, a ridiculously small thing. But it's my small thing: six weeks of writing, more or less, with lots of grace for myself and no publicity. Because in the end it's not about attracting others or impressing myself; it's about taking time away. This is my retreat.

"Nothing, how little so ever it be, if it is suffered for God's sake, can pass without merit in the sight of God." -- Thomas a Kempis

(We'll see if it turns out to be suffering.)

Chapter 2,
Becki ~

Why I Haven't

The thing is, The Preacher tells me I should blog, and I tell him I don't know what to say. And he says, "You'll think of something." And I say, "But I don't."

The thing is, The Preacher doesn't really get to preach much right now, and he's tired, and he's gone so much. And every day Little Man's pants get shorter, as he stretches into a man. He tells me he can't wait to be grown, and I squeeze him tight and fuss. Then I shoo him away as I type, this incredible reader mouthing my words. Princess is still all spunk and spice, but every day she threatens to take over the world - and I think maybe I should call her "Queen" instead.

 

The thing is, when I started writing, I lived far away and just wanted to keep family connected to the kidlets. And then suddenly we moved back home, in shock. The Preacher went from preaching to filing at someone else's church, and loading bags onto airplanes. Now he's supervising and planting, but it doesn't feeling like Preaching, and that's why I don't know what to say.

The thing is, I wonder how to capture the experience of leaving a church. What it feels like to say goodbye when you don't want to, and to hide the things you're thinking - to let words fizzle on your tongue like PopRocks, to bite clean through your lip and taste blood. . .

What it's like to hug friends crying real tears, the people you've come to love - to force yourself to release them. What it's like to say goodbye to those who helped you in direst need, who loved you like their own. What it's like to sacrifice a smile even to those who didn't. And what it's like to get a handshake, but not know how to feed your kids with it.

The thing is, our kids are fed, and we're doing well. (Please don't send checks.) But not everything is healed up inside, and are there words for that?

The thing is, I have a lot to say, and not the first idea how it should be said.

And that's why I haven't.

- b

Coming Alive

Dear Little Man,

I'm so grateful to be your mama. When you were eight weeks along -- before you were born, just beginning your life's journey -- my doctor wanted to make sure you weren't twins. She took the Preacher and me into a room and slathered my still-flat tummy with goo.

For the first time, we watched the galloping beats of your heart, and my own heart squeezed tight. I was a mama, for real a mother. And I knew this for sure: Wild beasts could not have kept me from you.

At that moment, you (all embryo-huge head, heart beating outside your body) were our son. Wonder stole our words; before I even knew I was crying, tears hit the table. I recall the doctor had something to say, but her words are blurred. But I remember your pull on my heartstrings, a new understanding of the beauty and brokenness of motherhood. I would love you and pray for you and try not to worry about you, that day and every day after.

You were born early but healthy, covered in baby down. (The Preacher may or may not have been extra proud that you were born with chest hair.) I believed suddenly in love at first sight.

And now, Little Man, you're six years old. Six, and I wonder where three and two and five and four went. Where are those sleepy newborn days? Gone?

But no, son . . . days are never gone. Now, they're poured out onto the soil of your life, watering the lanky form of my boy.
My boy, who loves to read, and use a hammer.
My boy, who was baptized in November.

My boy who's always been a music-lover, and lately
I hear you singing in the back of the car --
just quietly, to yourself, to Him;
you're singing, Hallelujah.
The boy I longed for is singing to the Giver, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
And my heart squeezes (still today), 'til I fear I'll die of love.

Until I remember, grateful, that
love is the life-giver.

And all this squeezing is my heart's coming alive, over and over again,
while you sing.

And I hope you never stop.

Thanks for Mother's Day,
Mommy*


Shared here: 

Climbing

Photo Credit
Last week, the ShoeFitzes hiked a new-to-us part of the Appalachian Trail. Recently, we've spent evenings hiking an easier section, but that day we took a rockier path. With room for one person at a time, the trail sloped stubbornly upward.

From a distance, the Appalachians don't appear to hold the challenge of other mountain ranges. Over time, they've lost the sharp physique of a fitness model. Angles smoothed, our mountains curve a mother's silhouette, welcoming tough hikers and small children alike. Other ranges gleam stark and jagged; the Blue Ridge stand steady, quietly protecting. 

Yet smooth mountains aren't necessarily easy hikes.

Climbing last week, my hand gripped Little Man's tighter and tighter. (He, like his mama, has the propensity to walk too close to the edge.) We found the hike muddy and rubble-strewn. And if mud had made the upward hike tricky, it made the last part fully intimidating -- steep cliffside, overlooking brush falling maybe 60 degrees down to the road below.

Little Man asked, of course, why I wouldn't let him walk by himself. (Six years old is the new 16.) When we finally made it to level ground, he was poised to begin the hike all over again. His parents, on the other hand, were finished, exhausted.

How strange that on a hike that looked relatively simple, we could run into muddy hills, steep cliffs, and rubble-strewn paths. Less than a mile from the highway, our muscles strained with exertion. I wondered as we climbed whether people down there could see us. . . and whether, from far below, our hike appeared easy.

After all, from a distance, worn hills look so small.

It's strange, this hiking thing, because we all do it. We all hike. Sometimes, from the ground below, I watch friends climb their own trails. They tug families uphill, tiny children atop shoulders, older ones running ahead. From where I stand, their hills can look easy, soft.

From far away, I can't see the strain of their muscles, their sweat-stained shirts. I can't see the fear when someone slips, the push to get back to safety. All I see, from where I stand, is a walk in the sunshine. 

And I wonder whether I need glasses.

I wonder how many times I've envied the hike of friends, not realizing they were walking paths tossed with mud and rubble. Not seeing the rocks that gave way when they should've held firm. Not realizing their backpacks were heavier than mine in the first place. (Some of us, you know, carry more than water on our backs.)

How many times have I been so focused on the trail in front of my own feet, that I've been dead to the journey of others?

It's so easy to forget we're all hiking straight uphill.

Getting these eyes checked,
Becki*

Shared here:Deep Roots

Five Things - Dentist Edition

Today, I feel this huge sense of responsibility to blog about Easter and resurrection and things of significance like that. But instead, we're going to talk about the dentist. (I know, right?)

So you remember, of course, the incident I had with the dentist a few weeks ago, in preparation for my crown.

You'll be glad to know that eventually, I went to get the permanent crown - a gorgeous, whitish porcelain thing. It's probably the most expensive thing I've ever worn, and I adore it. (Plus, I'm glad to be able to chew on the right side again.)

Fresh off a renewed positive experience with dental procedures, I have some advice for those who might be apprehensive about this kind of work. We'll just call it:

Five Things to Remember at the Dentist

1) You're going to feel super vulnerable while he digs around in your mouth. But for the sake of his focus, try to appear peaceful and fearless. Hold still, and refrain from fidgeting.

2) Forget all about Rule #1. 

Consider this: No matter how much you don't fidget, fuss, or wiggle, you're still vulnerable with your head back and your neck exposed. This means no matter how still you are, he's bound to notice your carotid artery, which will be going wild. (Touch your artery while he's turned around to get more Novocaine, and you'll see what I mean.) The point is, no matter how still you are. . . the gig's up.

3) When the dentist tells you a temporary crown is fragile, believe him. Follow the rules: No crunchy or sticky food. How easy is that?

But when you don't listen, and you chip that blasted temporary piece -- don't be scared to confess. After all, you're not the first person who's ever broken the rules. If he's a good dentist, he'll ask if you're in pain and blame the plastic crown instead of lecturing you.

4) During the final crowning, be honest when the dentist asks if something feels sensitive. This isn't the time for courage! In the dentist's chair, sensitivity turns to pain. Be willing to ask for narcotics; there's no shame in being numb (literally) up to your eyeballs.

Nor is there any shame in having one numb eyeball wandering aimlessly, like a balloon in a windstorm. This is a natural response to three shots of Novocaine. (Don't ask me how I know this.)

5) Pay up-front for your services. That way, no matter how expensive the work is, you'll feel like it was free when you walk out with your porcelain treasure.

Don't you feel better now?

Happy to be of Service,

Becki*

Photo credit: Crown

Lesson

 

Early one morning, lying in bed after a midnight awakening by my son, I had a brilliant idea for a blog post.  Actually, I had two brilliant ideas, if you must know. (Nothing inspires writers like the middle of the night.)

Deciding not to write them down -- all sleepy, and How could I possibly forget? -- I fell sound asleep.

A few hours later, I awoke with the vague memory of two great ideas. . . and absolutely no clue what they were.

I'm one of those people who has to learn by experience.

(Maybe you can relate?)

Lesson learned,
Becki* 
 

Photo credit: Light Bulb