Grace Abounding

The Christmas holiday is quickly approaching and there is a flurry of activity here.  We have family coming.  Our medium sized house is seeming much too small to fit the crowd that will descend, but I suspect it isn't the house that is too small, but rather my perspective on it.  I'm a quiet moments homebody.  I enjoy the fun of the crowd but will always choose a simple evening with My Love over a party.  So I am dreading the impending hostessing. Considering feeding, entertaining and cleaning up after eight adults and six children for an extended period of time makes my head swim.  I've been cooking like a mad woman trying to get as many meals prepared in advance as possible so as to simplify the chaos that I'm expecting.  I tell myself that I'll be more available if I'm not spending all my time in the kitchen.  I'll spend time playing with my kids and laughing with my in-laws.  I'll be free to casually mingle during jingle.  So, I've got much of Christmas dinner prepared already, a couple breakfasts, three or four dinners and a whole slew of small plate appetizers for our Christmas Eve dinner.  There are still a few more side dishes and a breakfast I want to pre-make and freeze. It sounds impressive.  Neat and tidy.  Well organized and efficient.  And yet, is it truly worth the price?  These last two weeks I've been stressed and tense, my grouchy and impatient demeanor washing over my children and husband.  My words expelled more harshly than situations warranted. Even the dog seems to look reproachfully at me from the backyard. I tell myself that I haven't been unreasonable and that those kids know our family rules and are taking advantage of my distracted and busy schedule.  And maybe that's true.  But no one anywhere ever said, "I dream of being a reasonable parent." 

How thankful I am that my gracious and loving Father is forgiving.  How lost I would be without his grace -  His never-ending grace for me in my negative hurry scurry flurry.  He gives more grace so that there is enough for me to pass on to the naughty child who just let the baby write on the piano keys with purple marker.  Enough to cover My Love who left the candle within reach of Little Guy who knocked it over, spilling wax on the hardwood floor.  Enough for my helper girl who seems to move at sleepwalker's pace.  Enough for the Little who just MUST do it herself.  Enough of His grace so that eventually I will see that all this is just part of the messy living that is life and simply begin to breathe so that maybe instead of tolerating it all with a martyr's spirit, I will see it as the precious moments that I cherish and be grateful for the chance.

Unusual Bedfellows

I am an organizer, an administrator, and alphabetizer of anything.  My mind thrives on order and predictability.  I seek out the efficient, the quality, and the right.  However I am also a mother of six, the wife of a musician and Pastor, a household manager, a homeschooling teacher and a believer in and follower of Jesus Christ.  This is me.  I know I was fearfully and wonderfully designed to be these things.  This is where I have been placed for purpose and for good.  It is not necessary that I understand this placement, only that I seek to honor the one who ordained it and to work diligently in it.  And yet these parts of me do not co-exist naturally.  Order is not a bedfellow of chaos.  And everything about six children is chaos. So what am I to do?

Today was a good day.  I accomplished exactly two items on my to do list.  Granted, I did feed babies, manage children, teach school, make and clean up meals and actually get dressed before noon, but those things don't provide the sense of accomplishment at the end of the day for which I am so desperate.  I am a list-maker and I find deep satisfaction in the crossed-off list.  I have been known to write unscheduled items on my list that have already been accomplished simply for the joy of crossing them off.  This life of mine, full of babies, does little to stroke that particular personality quirk.  I nurse my newborn and helplessly watch the minutes tick by and the laundry reproduce like lop-eared bunnies in the basement.  My carefully laid plans for meals fall apart because I haven't found the time to go grocery shopping.  Simple obligations are overlooked in the midst refereeing sibling arguments, looking for the lost sneaker, and endless baths and braiding of hair. Yes, I hear the comments that are circling like vultures just waiting for their chance to dive-bomb this blog.  Reminders to appreciate this time because it's so quickly over, those precious babies are only babies once, and they grow up so fast.   Oh, and my favorite: sleep when the baby sleeps.  Whoever came up with that jewel ought to be drug out in the street and, well, I don't want to promote violence, so how 'bout we drag them out in the street, pour pureed butternut squash on them and then pelt them with biochemical-warfare-quality diapers.

Yes, I dearly love my children and appreciate and acknowledge the gift of their lives.  I would never give them up or trade them in.  I value them and all the wonderful things they bring into my life and I am thankful for the blessing a child is.  But sometimes, in the midst of all the blessing, I'd like to actually remember what "my life" was before - to remember who I am.  Mommy-hood means forgetting the "my" and the "me" in everything and I willingly signed on for this uphill journey to temporary identity loss.  But in traveling this Mt. Everest trail, I have come to understand that the trek becomes what I make it.  No, there isn't some formula to making it easier.  There is no book or parenting guru with the answer to a well-ordered home.  But there are foundational answers and I have been ignoring them.

It's time to get back to base camp and re-visit a couple of those foundations. Here are a few.

In my weakness, He is strong.
Trust and obey.
I will never leave you nor forsake you.
All the days of my life were ordained before one of them came to be.
Whatever you do, do it heartily as for the Lord and not men.

And the one that is hitting me today:

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.  For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us and eternal glory that far outweighs them all.  So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

That dastardly fellow, Mr. Imagination

I imagined quiet evenings typing away.  All those random thoughts that I half-think during the day but never have time to finish would find a home and turn into inspiring words to remember the quickly fleeting season of dirty bottoms, sticky fingers, and sparkly eyes.  I would find my heart settled and my inner turmoil and stress from the day washed away.  I even imagined a blog follower or two who would recognize the obvious value of such literary meanderings. Imagination is quite a dastardly fellow.  He's so friendly and easy that the deceptions he weaves through omission are barely noticed.  He glosses over reality while he patents a new and improved version of his infamous rose-colored glasses.

So here I sit, typing on my meager third post, months after beginning this blog.  It is quiet tonight.  Well, as quiet as can be expected when living on a busy street.  The sounds of cars that pass, the drone of the highway to the north, and the hum of the refrigerator seem to add to the calm.  And I am typing after all, even if it is more of a babbling than a flowing of purposeful pondering. My thoughts escape me as the day winds down.  Where are all those stray thoughts now that they have time to blossom into words that are meant to inspire and fill?  Did they get lost in the lists and tasks today?  We were moving and doing since six this morning. Dishes being washed, floors swept once, twice, and then again.  Appointments kept, babysitters paid, spills wiped, children chased, meals made.  Sure, there are still a multitude of to-do's that have not gotten done, some of them former residents of past days' lists.  The sheer number is reminiscent of Exodus' Children of Israel.  But alas, they will remain undone until tomorrow breaks and I will pretend, with the help of Mr. Imagination, that I still have some modicum of control in this housewife life.  And that this calm and quiet are not only temporary visitors.

 One day I'll sit on the porch of my farmhouse and look out past the flower garden, the veggie patch, and the chicken coop to the treed fields beyond.  I'll swing slowly on the porch swing and sip some of My Love's home brewed sweet tea.  I'll casually type an inspiring verse or two on my award-winning blog and life will be blessed.  That is, if Mr. Imagination ever gets those rose colored glasses adjusted just right....

Blessings by the shovelful

We've been working on adding a fourth bedroom since this past summer.  Our growing family demands it. With my eyes on the prize-laden horizon, I looked forward to one more step completed today.  It was egress window day.  My Love rented a small excavator, arranged through a friend for an experienced contractor to operate the machinery, scheduled the required locators to come to mark underground utility lines and we were off.  What fun.  We bundled up in our jackets and went to watch the excitement.  The kids loved it and were chattery and fidgety as they watched "Mr. Jesse" and his machine munch away at the hard winter soil.  It was amazing to see bucket fulls of dirt and rocks and grass sliced out of our yard as simply as cutting butter.  I imagined the time it would've taken to dig out the rocky soil by hand and I silently thanked God for the healthy tax return that provided the funds for this impressive machine.  After a while, the big kids tired and wandered off to find other treasures in the unusually sunny and warm winter day.  It's amazing how exciting our plain backyard can be when it has been unused for months.  I sat out and continued watching the digging process with the Littles until around 10:30.  Then it was time to return to normal life and it's duties.  We went back inside and the excitement of Mr. Jesse's digger was forgotten.  Then came the knock at the door, "I've hit a sprinkler line, can you turn off the house water, please?"  Turning off the water had no effect.  It was the main line from the street that had been hit.  The 60-inch deep hole at our house's foundation was slowly filling with water.  My Love was not home - not due to return for another half hour and it was Saturday of President's Day weekend.  I called the Water Department and left a message on their emergency line while the contractor severed the punctured line so he could angle it out of the hole and away from the house.  We gathered tarps to contain as much of the deluge as possible.  The Water Department returned my call and said it would be another 20 minutes before they could be there to turn off the water from the main line.  Our egress window well was due to be a swimming pool.  I texted My Love and he quickly came home to survey the damage helplessly and pace around the yard looking for solutions for the flood.  This was NOT part of our plan. We imagined the worst and mentally added up the fines and cost for repair.  Our carefully allocated tax return funds seemed to drift away in the tide that was the west side of our house. 

The County Water Department truck showed up and turned off the water.  Then the news:  the county is only responsible for the water lines from the street to the meter.  The property owners are responsible for all lines from the meter to the house.  This is why there was no spray painted line in our grass indicating the danger of a buried water line.  The contractor, My Love, and the County man peered into the abyss, postulated and conjectured, proposed and speculated.  Brows furrowed and My Love's shoulders seemed to be a bit more hunched than usual.  This was going to be expensive.  Holiday weekend plumber, excavation of an old line, installation of a new line.  Then it started to rain.  Seriously.  The sunny warm disappeared and the gloomy clouds covered the sky. The County man left and My Love continued to stare down into the hole.  I went inside to call a friend about a plumber, mentally adding up the cost of weekend pay and a hotel. It was then that the Divine shovelfuls began to shower down. 

"Come, bring your family and stay in our basement.  The kids are gone this weekend and we have extra beds.  We just bought steaks and have way too much for just us.  We'd love to have you spend a couple nights.  It would be great fun." 

"Here's a name of a plumber friend of ours...you can drop our name.  He'll give you a good deal."

"I went back to the shop and found these supplies.  They're just laying around...pipes, fittings....you can have them.  The repair is actually rather simple.  All you need to do is...."

"Sure, you can use our home.  We're gone till April and there's more than enough room for your whole family."

"I could probably do the work for you....is $100 fair?"

"The rental company didn't charge us for the extra time...they went ahead and gave us the excavator at the half day rate"

"The work is done...turn your water back on."

"The rain stopped and the sun came out again.  What a beautiful evening."

And so we are humbled again by our hearts of fear.  We know He is faithful but our trust is so weak and our faith so small.  We plan and scheme to force our expected outcomes, forgetting in the moment that it is often in the flood that He will choose to bless and encourage. 

Why.

I used to write.  Poems, essays, journaling.  Sometimes I'd get a bee in my bonnet and vent for no one to see, secretly wishing the world would take a peek.  But then life happened.  I got married, moved to the Inland Northwest, had kids.  Had more kids and more kids.  Between caring for my home, schooling my daughter and the necessities of being a pastor's wife somewhere I forgot about writing and sometimes even thinking.  It's easy to run on default.  But now I have a new perspective.  I look at who I am and what I represent and I think about what that says to my children.  Am I who I want them to see?  Do I really want them to think of their mother as a pajama-wearing, out of style, overworked, intellectually lazy woman?  What kind of inspiration is that?  In twenty years when my girls become wives and mothers I want to be a memory that gives them hope and inspires them to seek out whom they have been created to be.

So where does one begin the process of reawakening?  What within me am I attempting to rouse? Can a blog make a difference?  I find it difficult to believe that anyone would be interested in my musings, but I suppose that isn't really the point of all this.  It is the practice, the discipline of thought.  Taking random pieces of thought and reassembling it in a way that speaks and causes one to consider herself or her God or her world.  This seems to me a good beginning. We'll see.  If this is truly a beginning point of change, then I have gained much. If not, what have I lost?