Such as These

"What did I do to deserve this?" I asked for the second time in thirty minutes.

The first time I asked it, I was in the shower, one leg smooth and one leg not, when I heard crying, the real kind - the kind that pulls wet mother from the shower in a flurry of towel, bathrobe, and mad dash by windows. I ranted inwardly to myself, Is it too much to ask for ten minutes of shower!? What did I do to deserve this?

Sugs was crying, Papa carrying her with full arms and a toothbrush still in his mouth. She wanted ME - this damp scramble to be presentable at 2:30 in the afternoon. Real Gil passed me the bundle of four-year old, then he hurried to finish getting ready for work.

I clumsily carried Sugs to my rocking chair, and folded us into it. Wails became sobs, then whimpers as she explained how the misplaced toy had deliberately tripped her, thrown her head into the dresser. As she poured out tears and words, I saw the moment in new eyes. It became so much more than an inconvenient interruption to my shower reverie, a mother holding her ever-growing daughter. The indulgence of this was far greater than the indulgence of hot water.

I held her close, feeling a very guilty pleasure for the chance to hold her, (which only happens when she's hurt). The wet towel on my head grew heavy, so I leaned my head to the side and felt it slide to the ground, along with any tenacious traces of resentment at being interrupted mid-shower. Then, I adjusted my bathrobe, snuggled her in, and started rocking.

"What did I do to deserve this?" I asked, this time audibly. "What did I do to deserve you? I was just a normal girl with mistakes and grumpy days, and yet, God gave me you!"

"I don't know, Mama," she answered gravely, as if she herself did not understand this phenomenon.

"I'm so sorry you got hurt, but..." I lowered my voice to a whisper, my lips against her forehead. "I love being right here, right now with you."


She smiled, tears still peppered across her cheeks, and burrowed down deep. I suppose it was the right thing to say. Soon, she was pretending to be asleep, her tapping toes and furrowed eyebrows giving her away. But that was okay with me, because I was pretending too. She was no longer the four-year old daughter who just that morning, rode a bike without training wheels up and down our street. She was still my little baby, the one I didn't rock enough or savor enough.

Real Gil walked back through the room on his way out the door to work, his eyes brightening when he caught sight of mother and ever-growing daughter. I'm pretty sure he was envious, but he hid it well.

I mouthed one word to him: "Heaven."

He grinned wide and kissed me good-bye - not an easy feat in a moving rocking chair.

I settled in again, hearing the background noise of a computer game and a clicking mouse. Tracing her face, her not-so-little body with my eyes, I wondered how many more times I would rock her... the speeding bicyclist who needed me less and less. I wondered how terribly I'd embarrass myself, trying to keep her mine and yet, giving her wings too.

Hearing deep heaving sighs, I realized she was no longer pretending, her sleeping body relaxed.
I laid my head back and relaxed along with her. And I wondered...


What did I do to deserve this gift?

Resting Here,
Karen

P.S. Pictures brought to you by the ever-talented James Glover Photography.

The people brought children to Jesus, hoping he might touch them. The disciples shooed them off. But Jesus was irate and let them know it: "Don't push these children away. Don't ever get between them and me. These children are at the very center of life in the kingdom. Mark this: Unless you accept God's kingdom in the simplicity of a child, you'll never get in." Then, gathering the children up in his arms, he laid his hands of blessing on them.
Mark 10:13-16, the Message translation

Bad Guys, Good Guys

Hot, humid days in Tennessee lend themselves well to shaded playgrounds. The afternoon pattern of school buses, discarded backpacks, and visiting mothers on benches was an established routine. Although none of my kids were school-age yet, we still joined and my little ones clambered about, mimicking older kids and scaring me periodically with high-up antics.

Boys were swinging on things never intended to be swung on, climbing, scampering. One shouted, "You're the bad guy!" The race was on, and I watched closely as always, taking notes on this foreign gender called boys.

Next to me, a neighbor sat, discussing mothering things like how to keep pacifiers out of the dirt, and who to use for termite inspections. Then, she stopped the flow of adult words, and changed to her mother-tone without skipping a beat:

"Boys, my boys, we do not play bad guy, good guy. You can all be good guys if you want, but no bad guys."

I tried to follow her redirected conversation, something about banana bread with chocolate chips, but all I could see were the deflated boys - some hanging, some standing, some mid-sword-strike - lost suddenly in an imaginary world that has no bad guys.

Fast forward to today, when my own son put on his Superman costume for the fifth time this week. Somehow, I snuck in a speed wash-and-dry cycle and got it back into his room before he requested it again. It's old, there's a hole in the crotch, and the red cape is frayed on the edges. But when the S is firmly in place on his chest, he grabs a piece of discarded plastic he calls Sword, and goes off to fight the bad guys. Sometimes, when there are sisters playing too, he becomes the bad guy, or the "nice guy who is bad," he clarifies to me.

And I remember that mama on the bench at the playground. What would she think of my son? What would she think of my mothering?

I don't know. But I know my son, I know this boy. What is the fun in playing "good guy" if there isn't a bad guy?

And I know this world - a world full of epic tales of good and bad, right and wrong... Someday soon, I'll have to introduce shades of gray, where moral goodness is not always so clearly distinguished, where there are many sides to a story. Though I don't ascribe to moral relativism, I have broken up enough tiffs in my mothering days to understand that there is more than one variable to the good versus bad equation.And there is grace, always grace, that reaches out to all of us, both good and evil, blurring the lines even more.

But for now, I am watching delightfully as he slays dragons with plastic, fends off arrows with my pot lid, and swoops down to rescue hapless, helpless victims of evil.

Resting in His Goodness,
Karen

Happy New Year!

It felt like coming home this morning as I logged in here, and scrolled about, coffee cup at my elbow. I hope you are enjoying 2011 already!

Are you a resolution kind of person? Some years, I look down my nose at resolutions, and other years, I firmly plant one and work hard to conquer.

Last year's resolution was to write, to discipline myself to writing as often as possible here in this safe place. This year's resolution is to write, but to do so only when inspired, not on a strict day-by-day basis. So, I'll still be here, writing in the wee hours. But it will not be as often as last year. I sense that the relationships around me require a little bit more attention and time.

But if I can't write, I can still read. Here are a few of my favorite reads these days:

• Is it too late to make snowflakes? I think not! Check out this tutorial.
  
• We are so happy and content in our home. I love living right here. But it's still fun to dream, and if you like to browse houses like you're browsing a clothing rack, check out this website called The Plan Collection. I'll admit there were unaccounted hours spent here when I should have been wrapping presents.
  
• Steve wrote this short and simple post that resonated with me. Who sits in our front row? Who do we honor higher than ourselves? And who do we not?
• A new favorite for me is this girl, Elizabeth Esther. She writes provocatively about honest issues in mothering, faith, and life. Her article on Christmas grief was heart-wrenching, and yet, encouraging all the same.
• I've always wondered why Thomas is so widely criticized for his doubt of Jesus and John the Baptist is not. Here's Hillary's perspective of John the Baptist and the glorious promise of Emmanuel.
• A book I want to read - Euna Ling's survival of a North Korean prison, and more importantly, the refinement of her faith and understanding of God in the midst of brutality. Answering that question, Where is God in this?!, is a difficult (perhaps impossible) one, but I look forward to her story of finding comfort and truth.
  
• This woman deserves a party, not a funeral! Wow!
• If I had a time share, or a vacation home, I'd be donating the use of it here...

Happy New Year to you all. I look forward to writing, and sharing, in the next year.

Resting in God with Us,
Karen