I feel like I've heard all the reasons that my children provide for staying up just a little bit longer at night.
I feel like the last twelve years have given ample opportunity for me to hear them all.
All those reasons and all those excuses to stay up for just a few more seconds then minutes then hours then why even bother going to bed at all. Hey, why don't we just have a slumber party, can you make us popcorn and get us drinks while you are up anyways?
So many reasons to stay up longer......like....
"I'm thirsty and need a drink."
"I'm scared."
"I have to pee."
"Mom, let's have a deep and meaningful discussion about life."
"I just had a nightmare and need to be near you and/ or talking about it."
"Can you scratch my back? My arms? Tickle my neck? Massage my back?"
"Wanna hear a part of my book that I'm reading? It's just a page and a half."
"I'm starving. Can I have a snack? It may involve half of the contents of the fridge."
"Can you find the cat? I can't sleep unless I am snuggling the cat."
"I need to sort my hockey cards for the eleven-millionth time."
"I'm feeling inspired to rearrange my room. Is that okay to do even though it's eleven at night?"
"CAN YOU WIPE MY BUM?"
"My little brother keeps burping and I can't sleep."
"I'm too cold."
"I'm too hot."
"What are we doing tomorrow?"
But tonight, my dear friends, tonight my kids pulled out all the stops.
They were inventive like I've never seen inventive before. It was 9:30 pm. I had just changed into my pjs and had that "I-need-all-you-ankle-biters-in-bed-because-it's-mommy-alone-time" look going on. My ankle biters know that look and it usually sends them into a frenzy of excuses to eke out a few more minutes of awake time.
Tonight, they played it cool and calm.
"Mom, want a foot massage?" one of them queried innocently.
Uh.....let me think about that for a millisecond. YES! YES I DO!
"How about some wine? I'll get it for you," said the other boy and, after gluing on a fake moustache, he served me my wine like he was a French waiter.
Merci, I murmured lazily.
Then my two big boys applied some lavender-scented lotion to my feet and began massaging. One to a foot. It was delightful. Wonderful. Relaxing.
I sipped wine and felt all my eye-twitches recede away.
"I can massage your hands, mom, if you want."
Bless you, child, you never have to go to bed again.
A sliver of drool dripped down my chin.
One boy fetched cool cucumber slices and put them on my eyes. The other massaged the knots out of my back.
I am fully, fully cognizant of the fact that the boys have worked up the cleverest of clever plans to allow them to stay up later, but this was a mutually beneficial situation, people!
Now excuse me while I ooze off the couch and bid you all a good night.
Friday, 7 July 2017
Wednesday, 14 June 2017
She Shoots!
When it comes to sports, I am all about going out there to have us some fun.
Strap on that sports gear, fill up the ole water bottle with crisp, clean water and get on the field.
Or step onto the ice.
Or walk onto the court.
Or slip into the water.
Get in the game, cheer on your people and have some good clean fun.
High-five-slappin' fun.
We got the G, we got the O, we got the GO-GO-GO kinda fun.
Wide toothy smiles, fists pumpin', belly screamin' fun.
The kind of fun where we all cheer each other on even if the score is 10-1 for the other team.
"Way to go!"
"Nice try!"
"Better luck next time!"
But, tonight, when my daughter broke free from the pack and headed on up the field on a break-away, something primal broke loose deep within me.
I stared slack-jawed at that girl.
Her brown braids streamed back over her shoulders as she zipped up up up and away.
The other kids were still hacking, kicking, and elbowing each other in a condensed pack of wild, ball-thirsty, karate-chopping, kung-fu kicking crazy.
But my daughter.....be still my soul....she broke free from all those twisted limbs.
The soccer ball was at her feet, she tipped it forward and ran.
Her long, gazelle-like legs flitted, fluttered, and fled.
Her black shorts were hiked up high to give those legs some room and they stretched forth in a twiggy blur of speed.
The other kids finally took notice and began to disentangles themselves from one another.
"Ow."
"That's my foot."
"Get off my shoe-lace.....which is undone...again...."
"Hey, where's the ball?"
"I'm thirsty. When's snack-time?"
Time stood still.
One brown-braided girl flicked the soccer ball ahead and zipped along, her black, cleated feet skimming the grassy ground.
One freckled goalie hunched forward, eyes narrowed, tongue flicking out nervously and he inched forward to face his braided nemesis.
Two coaches leaned forward on tip-toes and craned their feminine necks to see over the tangled team-mates.
Parental conversation tapered off mid-sentence.
And then.....one stick-like leg drew back, muscles bunched and she kicked. One solid thwump rang clear as her foot thwacked that ball. It arced through the air in a black and white blur and the goalie's hands clutched at nothing. He fell to the ground in a crumpled heap as the ball slammed past him into the net.
There was a split milli-second of complete and utter silence and, then, mayhem broke loose.
My daughter spun around, jumped up and down and pumped her arms high in triumph. Our eyes met and I shrieked out a gut-busting, throat-searing scream: "GOOOOOAAAAAAALLL!"
There were high-fives and big smiles all around.
Kids cheered and parents clapped politely.
My daughter galloped over, we high-fived and, then, I tugged playfully on a braid.
"Way to go! That was AMAZING!!!" I gushed through a gigantic smile that was nearly splitting my face in two. My eyes were round with wonder and pride.
My girl just scored her Very First Goal and she did it with finesse, I tell you!
I just can't even get over this moment.
I may even have wept a little.
You know, the game is fun and the cheering is great. The sport is all about being with the people and having a good time. A clean time. A being together and encouraging one another on time.
But there is still something about scoring a goal.
About gaining a point.
About breaking on out of the pack on a breakaway.
There's still something about taking that shot and hearing those words:
"She shoots. She scoooores!"
What a night!
Strap on that sports gear, fill up the ole water bottle with crisp, clean water and get on the field.
Or step onto the ice.
Or walk onto the court.
Or slip into the water.
Get in the game, cheer on your people and have some good clean fun.
High-five-slappin' fun.
We got the G, we got the O, we got the GO-GO-GO kinda fun.
Wide toothy smiles, fists pumpin', belly screamin' fun.
The kind of fun where we all cheer each other on even if the score is 10-1 for the other team.
"Way to go!"
"Nice try!"
"Better luck next time!"
But, tonight, when my daughter broke free from the pack and headed on up the field on a break-away, something primal broke loose deep within me.
I stared slack-jawed at that girl.
Her brown braids streamed back over her shoulders as she zipped up up up and away.
The other kids were still hacking, kicking, and elbowing each other in a condensed pack of wild, ball-thirsty, karate-chopping, kung-fu kicking crazy.
But my daughter.....be still my soul....she broke free from all those twisted limbs.
The soccer ball was at her feet, she tipped it forward and ran.
Her long, gazelle-like legs flitted, fluttered, and fled.
Her black shorts were hiked up high to give those legs some room and they stretched forth in a twiggy blur of speed.
The other kids finally took notice and began to disentangles themselves from one another.
"Ow."
"That's my foot."
"Get off my shoe-lace.....which is undone...again...."
"Hey, where's the ball?"
"I'm thirsty. When's snack-time?"
Time stood still.
One brown-braided girl flicked the soccer ball ahead and zipped along, her black, cleated feet skimming the grassy ground.
One freckled goalie hunched forward, eyes narrowed, tongue flicking out nervously and he inched forward to face his braided nemesis.
Two coaches leaned forward on tip-toes and craned their feminine necks to see over the tangled team-mates.
Parental conversation tapered off mid-sentence.
And then.....one stick-like leg drew back, muscles bunched and she kicked. One solid thwump rang clear as her foot thwacked that ball. It arced through the air in a black and white blur and the goalie's hands clutched at nothing. He fell to the ground in a crumpled heap as the ball slammed past him into the net.
There was a split milli-second of complete and utter silence and, then, mayhem broke loose.
My daughter spun around, jumped up and down and pumped her arms high in triumph. Our eyes met and I shrieked out a gut-busting, throat-searing scream: "GOOOOOAAAAAAALLL!"
There were high-fives and big smiles all around.
Kids cheered and parents clapped politely.
My daughter galloped over, we high-fived and, then, I tugged playfully on a braid.
"Way to go! That was AMAZING!!!" I gushed through a gigantic smile that was nearly splitting my face in two. My eyes were round with wonder and pride.
My girl just scored her Very First Goal and she did it with finesse, I tell you!
I just can't even get over this moment.
I may even have wept a little.
You know, the game is fun and the cheering is great. The sport is all about being with the people and having a good time. A clean time. A being together and encouraging one another on time.
But there is still something about scoring a goal.
About gaining a point.
About breaking on out of the pack on a breakaway.
There's still something about taking that shot and hearing those words:
"She shoots. She scoooores!"
What a night!
Wednesday, 24 May 2017
For the Love of Learning
It is an absolutely humbling and amazing experience to be educating the next generation. I love it and one of my greatest goals is to pass on a love and a passion for learning. I discovered a gorgeous quote that encompasses the educational experience that I endeavor to pass on: "....true education begins in WONDER and ends in WISDOM" (Kevin Clark and Ravi Scott Jain). There is just SO much discovering to be had and some of the ways in which we explore this world is by:
- Poring over Bible verses together and counting how many times a word is repeated and what God wants us to learn from that.
- Dropping mentos into a giant bottle of Diet Coke, shaking it and standing back to enjoy the sticky, icky explosion that follows. Then doing this 7 more times because sticky explosions are a fantastic part of science!
- Hiking, hiking and hiking some more because nature is growing and blooming and bursting with life lessons.
- Listening to books on CD in the car as we drive to swimming lessons or piano lessons and chuckling together over the broad Yorkshire accent of the actor reading the story: "I just love the moor. It's none bare. It's covered wi' growin' things as smells sweet. It's fair lovely in spring an' summer when th' gorse an' broom an' heather's in flower."
- Being willing and open to my own continued education. Learning never ends and I love it when the kids are able to teach me about something new, fascinating and wonderful. Reciprocated learning. I teach them; they teach me. We learn together.
So, today I taught about fractions and three-dimensional shapes; and today I learned all about the skill of fart-noise-production. My youngest is especially passionate about this and he patiently explained how to create musical noises with one's armpit. His lesson began with a vigorous demonstration and it was very inspirational, I tell you!
"Flurt flurt flurt flurt," he flurted.
"Now you try, mom!"
His eyes were brilliantly blue and filled with eager expectation. (I teach you; you teach me.)
I imitated his form by cupping my right armpit and pumping that bent arm up and down. Robustly. Then I switched and tried with the left armpit. This is not an easy skill, people. A few wet splurps blipped forth but nothing very substantial.
My son patiently adjusted my hand and reassured me that practice makes perfect.
So I tried again. (Teacher made student. Student made teacher.)
The other kids got in on the lesson.
Apparently they all have their PhD in this skill.
My one son can make fart noises with both armpits, the backs of his knees, his ears and eye-sockets. I am so proud.
Our house carried a curious chorus today. A pulsing rhythm resonating from body parts. It may not be Shakespeare but it sure was fun.
And that's what learning is all about.
- Poring over Bible verses together and counting how many times a word is repeated and what God wants us to learn from that.
- Dropping mentos into a giant bottle of Diet Coke, shaking it and standing back to enjoy the sticky, icky explosion that follows. Then doing this 7 more times because sticky explosions are a fantastic part of science!
- Hiking, hiking and hiking some more because nature is growing and blooming and bursting with life lessons.
- Listening to books on CD in the car as we drive to swimming lessons or piano lessons and chuckling together over the broad Yorkshire accent of the actor reading the story: "I just love the moor. It's none bare. It's covered wi' growin' things as smells sweet. It's fair lovely in spring an' summer when th' gorse an' broom an' heather's in flower."
- Being willing and open to my own continued education. Learning never ends and I love it when the kids are able to teach me about something new, fascinating and wonderful. Reciprocated learning. I teach them; they teach me. We learn together.
So, today I taught about fractions and three-dimensional shapes; and today I learned all about the skill of fart-noise-production. My youngest is especially passionate about this and he patiently explained how to create musical noises with one's armpit. His lesson began with a vigorous demonstration and it was very inspirational, I tell you!
"Flurt flurt flurt flurt," he flurted.
"Now you try, mom!"
His eyes were brilliantly blue and filled with eager expectation. (I teach you; you teach me.)
I imitated his form by cupping my right armpit and pumping that bent arm up and down. Robustly. Then I switched and tried with the left armpit. This is not an easy skill, people. A few wet splurps blipped forth but nothing very substantial.
My son patiently adjusted my hand and reassured me that practice makes perfect.
So I tried again. (Teacher made student. Student made teacher.)
The other kids got in on the lesson.
Apparently they all have their PhD in this skill.
My one son can make fart noises with both armpits, the backs of his knees, his ears and eye-sockets. I am so proud.
Our house carried a curious chorus today. A pulsing rhythm resonating from body parts. It may not be Shakespeare but it sure was fun.
And that's what learning is all about.
Monday, 22 May 2017
Feuding with Forty.
Forty.
This past weekend, I turned forty years old and I have to say that my forty-year-old mind has been having some forty-year-old thoughts. A lot can happen in forty years. Forty 25ths of December. Forty 4ths of July. A lot has happened in my years of life; in the days leading up to my dreaded birthday, I spent a lot of time pondering, thinking and reflecting on being forty.
"I'm not sure I wanna turn forty," I whined on several occasions to my hubby.
"It's just a number...." he offered back kindly.
"Forty....just seems so old," I whined back.
"Well, you'll always be younger than me!" he declared and smiled broadly, wrapping me in a bear hug. He always makes me feel better. I will forever be the younger woman around him and I feel that it is essentially important for me to feel like the younger woman right now.
Because I'm having a little trouble with forty.
In fact, there are forty reasons that I dread being forty! But since you and I don't want to literally age whilst writing or reading this blog-post, allow me to elaborate on the top 10 reasons why I am feuding with forty!
1. Forty seems old. Those of you UNDER forty are whole-heartedly agreeing with me right now and applauding yourself on your youth. Applaud softly, young'uns! Age is a comin' to get you too and Age is a ravenous beast! Those of you OVER forty are scoffing softly to yourself but you know what I'm talking about!
2. Grey hair. Now, I have noticed that grey hair seems to be all the rage and cool and in. I've seen teens with cascading locks coloured smoky grey or softly silver or lusciously lavender-grey. Grey may be the next groovy thing but I just can't jump on that band wagon yet because my hair is doing that going-grey thing all on its own! There was a time when I would angrily yank out any rogue grey hairs that I discovered, but going bald post-chemo has given me a renewed respect for hair. I don't yank out errant hairs anymore but I am planning their ultimate cover-up.
3. At forty, I wonder if the most exciting parts of my life are behind me. Those first forty years were action-packed, I tell you! Rife with romance. Bustling with babies. Scintillating with school stuff. What now? Will the next forty years be filled with decline, despair, disintegration, and drudgery?
4. I have not climbed any mountains yet. Unless, we count the Hamilton Mountain. I HAVE climbed Hamilton Mountain many times. I even ran down it once in a race. That hurt. A lot. I also bounced down it wearing Kangaroo Shoes which were purchased in a moment of weak intellect but let's leave the Kangaroo Shoe Story for another day.
5. Loss of skin elasticity. You may not have noticed, but aging means leaving behind that super stretchy skin of Youth. At forty, gaining weight means stretch marks....greyish marks criss-crossing flesh....losing weight means noticeable wrinkles....deep-etched lines carved in skin.
6. Hearing loss. Please don't whisper, murmur, mumble, mutter or speak in hushed tones around me. I will not hear you. If you have an overwhelming need to do either of the above, please provide sub-titles.
7. Calorie counting. In my teens, I never ever ever ever ever did this. I could eat donuts, grease-splattered burgers and chips and no one would be the wiser unless I had donut-sugar sprinkled like snow down my crop-topped mid-section. Now, I calorie count. As in, "What?! That donut has 570 calories?? Burning those calories will take me 30 minutes on the elliptical plus 20 high intensity burpees and I hate high intensity burpees! Wah!" Eating involves large amounts of mathematical calculations now. If Brigette eats one donut whilst doing 20 squats in 3 intervals, will she have burned up enough calories to cancel out the donut? If we add in seven short sprints, can she have a glass of wine?
8. Lack of Bladder control. This is an awkward one and it's been compounded by birthing babies. Apparently tiny toes trampling on bladder made bladder weak. Bad, bladder! (try saying that five times fast.)
9. I have an overwhelming sense of urgency these days. My time seems like it is speeding past and I am not ready for it to run out just yet. There are so many things I want to do; I want to see my babies grow up, I want see more of the world. In my mind, I have so many miles to go before I sleep. So many miles to go before I sleep.
10. Crop tops. Some things in life are better off left in the dark and that includes vampires and my mid-section. But knowing that I SHOULDN'T wear Crop Tops anymore, makes me rather WANT to. Maybe just one crop top with a catchy phrase - an educational catch-phrase, of course. Like
"i before e except after c and in eigh as in neighbour and weigh". That's it! I've decided that I will NOT wear crop tops for the next forty years, but at 80, I'm pulling them out! Who's with me?
Well, Age - that ravenous beast - has caught up with and aged me. Today, I am forty. But I'm not going down without a fight.
I may be wrinkly and stretch-marked, deaf, grey-headed and needing to pee at all times. I may be doing mental math whenever I see food and sizing up mountains to climb in my Grammar-is-Cool crop top but I am still here.
Still here at forty.
This past weekend, I turned forty years old and I have to say that my forty-year-old mind has been having some forty-year-old thoughts. A lot can happen in forty years. Forty 25ths of December. Forty 4ths of July. A lot has happened in my years of life; in the days leading up to my dreaded birthday, I spent a lot of time pondering, thinking and reflecting on being forty.
"I'm not sure I wanna turn forty," I whined on several occasions to my hubby.
"It's just a number...." he offered back kindly.
"Forty....just seems so old," I whined back.
"Well, you'll always be younger than me!" he declared and smiled broadly, wrapping me in a bear hug. He always makes me feel better. I will forever be the younger woman around him and I feel that it is essentially important for me to feel like the younger woman right now.
Because I'm having a little trouble with forty.
In fact, there are forty reasons that I dread being forty! But since you and I don't want to literally age whilst writing or reading this blog-post, allow me to elaborate on the top 10 reasons why I am feuding with forty!
1. Forty seems old. Those of you UNDER forty are whole-heartedly agreeing with me right now and applauding yourself on your youth. Applaud softly, young'uns! Age is a comin' to get you too and Age is a ravenous beast! Those of you OVER forty are scoffing softly to yourself but you know what I'm talking about!
2. Grey hair. Now, I have noticed that grey hair seems to be all the rage and cool and in. I've seen teens with cascading locks coloured smoky grey or softly silver or lusciously lavender-grey. Grey may be the next groovy thing but I just can't jump on that band wagon yet because my hair is doing that going-grey thing all on its own! There was a time when I would angrily yank out any rogue grey hairs that I discovered, but going bald post-chemo has given me a renewed respect for hair. I don't yank out errant hairs anymore but I am planning their ultimate cover-up.
3. At forty, I wonder if the most exciting parts of my life are behind me. Those first forty years were action-packed, I tell you! Rife with romance. Bustling with babies. Scintillating with school stuff. What now? Will the next forty years be filled with decline, despair, disintegration, and drudgery?
4. I have not climbed any mountains yet. Unless, we count the Hamilton Mountain. I HAVE climbed Hamilton Mountain many times. I even ran down it once in a race. That hurt. A lot. I also bounced down it wearing Kangaroo Shoes which were purchased in a moment of weak intellect but let's leave the Kangaroo Shoe Story for another day.
5. Loss of skin elasticity. You may not have noticed, but aging means leaving behind that super stretchy skin of Youth. At forty, gaining weight means stretch marks....greyish marks criss-crossing flesh....losing weight means noticeable wrinkles....deep-etched lines carved in skin.
6. Hearing loss. Please don't whisper, murmur, mumble, mutter or speak in hushed tones around me. I will not hear you. If you have an overwhelming need to do either of the above, please provide sub-titles.
7. Calorie counting. In my teens, I never ever ever ever ever did this. I could eat donuts, grease-splattered burgers and chips and no one would be the wiser unless I had donut-sugar sprinkled like snow down my crop-topped mid-section. Now, I calorie count. As in, "What?! That donut has 570 calories?? Burning those calories will take me 30 minutes on the elliptical plus 20 high intensity burpees and I hate high intensity burpees! Wah!" Eating involves large amounts of mathematical calculations now. If Brigette eats one donut whilst doing 20 squats in 3 intervals, will she have burned up enough calories to cancel out the donut? If we add in seven short sprints, can she have a glass of wine?
8. Lack of Bladder control. This is an awkward one and it's been compounded by birthing babies. Apparently tiny toes trampling on bladder made bladder weak. Bad, bladder! (try saying that five times fast.)
9. I have an overwhelming sense of urgency these days. My time seems like it is speeding past and I am not ready for it to run out just yet. There are so many things I want to do; I want to see my babies grow up, I want see more of the world. In my mind, I have so many miles to go before I sleep. So many miles to go before I sleep.
10. Crop tops. Some things in life are better off left in the dark and that includes vampires and my mid-section. But knowing that I SHOULDN'T wear Crop Tops anymore, makes me rather WANT to. Maybe just one crop top with a catchy phrase - an educational catch-phrase, of course. Like
"i before e except after c and in eigh as in neighbour and weigh". That's it! I've decided that I will NOT wear crop tops for the next forty years, but at 80, I'm pulling them out! Who's with me?
Well, Age - that ravenous beast - has caught up with and aged me. Today, I am forty. But I'm not going down without a fight.
I may be wrinkly and stretch-marked, deaf, grey-headed and needing to pee at all times. I may be doing mental math whenever I see food and sizing up mountains to climb in my Grammar-is-Cool crop top but I am still here.
Still here at forty.
Thursday, 30 March 2017
Return to Innocence
Beneath the twisted limbs of a tree heavily laden with pears, an old man sits. His gnarled hand reaches out and he plucks a plump fruit, contemplates it and then slowly slumps to the ground. We are left to correctly assume that he has died and the camera pans back to take in his laid-out body under the pear tree. But then fallen pears float back up to the tree to reattach themselves and a white unicorn trots backwards across the scene. Thus begins the video that accompanies the song "Return to Innocence" released by the band, Enigma, back in 1994. The rest of the video is a story-line that moves backwards through the life of the man in the opening scene. He grows younger and younger; we observe him laughing with friends, kissing his bride on their wedding day and sitting tearfully while getting his hair cut when he is a child. At the end of the video, he is a squalling infant who has just been baptized.
A return to innocence.
Have you ever had a time when you wished for just that: a return to innocence? A return to a simpler, easier time? Perhaps a return to the ways and days of your youth? Perhaps a return to a time before troubles, trials, disease or destruction snuck into and muddled up your life?
I know that I have.
Let me explain. Last May, I finished up treatments for stage 3 breast cancer. They followed a typical treatment regiment with chemotherapy followed by a single mastectomy and then radiation. Then, my oncologist recommended that a hysterectomy happen sooner rather than later and, last September, I underwent another surgery. Since then I have healed up beautifully. I am able to work out and hike again. I am back and busy with the children's ministries at our church and our homeschool is up and running at top speed. I feel a whole lot more like me again....the woman, the wife, the mom, the daughter and the friend. But what I don't feel is a return to innocence.
I can't go back there no matter how hard I try or want to return. Being told I had cancer changed things and changed me.
Way back at the beginning of this journey with cancer, a friend gifted me a notebook with an inscription inside. She quoted Paul Billheimer and wrote "Don't waste your sorrows"; she quoted Tim Keller and wrote "Don't squander your suffering." When I first read these words, I wasn't sure what to think. I mean, I had just found out I had cancer and felt like life, as I knew it, was unravelling all around me. I didn't know what the future would hold. I didn't know if I would be around to be in that future. I felt fragile and intensely aware of the limits of life. For a whole week, I could not scold my children or get annoyed at my husband because I was worried that our time together was coming to an end. And I wanted to cherish every moment.
But then those words "Don't waste.....don't squander your suffering" kept niggling away at me because I DID want to get rid of these new-found sorrows. I wanted to take them, throw them in a box, duct-tape and chain up that box and mail it to Vanuatu. With no return address included.
I spent a lot of time crying.
I drank a lot of wine so that I could fall into dreamless sleeps that were cancer-free.
Paul and I spent a lot of time holding each other and worrying.
Finally, we took our tears, our sleeplessness, and our worry to God. We cried out from the depths of our troubles and laid them before our God.
"We are worried and we are scared, God," we prayed, "We don't know what is going to happen or how sick I am going to get. We don't know what this is going to mean for our family. We cannot do this on our own. Please please help us."
We cried out in our trouble and felt God lift us out of our distress.
The cancer was there.
The chemo, surgery and radiation was there.
But the distress was gone......or mostly gone. Alleviated, certainly!
And we could feel the load lifted, the trouble transferred, the struggles sustained.
It wasn't something that happened in the blink of an eye but, rather, something that happened as we spent more time with God.
Reading about Him: We were freaked out about what stage cancer I had but worrying only made us fidgety and irritable. We felt hopeless and helpless, so we opened up our Bibles and read, "It is the LORD who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed" (Deut. 31: 8). Okay....that's cool, right? We certainly felt less alone in all this!
Reflecting on God's promises: There's a lot of waiting around in sickness. Waiting for blood-work, waiting for appointments, waiting for doctors to clarify tests.....waiting waiting waiting. Time and space for worry to creep in. Time and space for reflection.... "fear not, for I am with you;" we read in Isaiah, "be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand" (Isaiah 41: 10). We could use some strength and help, we ruminated.
Praying to Him: Being constant in prayer became a thing. I was praying every day over everything. I even found myself beginning my prayers with a "Hey, God...it's me...AGAIN...." ; prayer began to feel like such a natural conversation with God. I even found myself sneaking off to my room through-out the day to converse with God alone. Prayer helped me feel sorted me out.
I wonder if you've had moments like this:
If troubles have dropped you to your knees and all that's left is crying out; ragged ripped raw crying out. Gut-wrenching grief crying out.
Maybe the point is that we have to come to the end of ourselves so that we finally turn and see God.
There. Always right there. Waiting.
Waiting for our cries so that He can lift up, lift out, love, and lead.
Maybe the whole point is not a return to innocence and the way things used to be but, rather, a leaning into the sufferings - as painful as they have been - and learning.
A return to innocence.
Have you ever had a time when you wished for just that: a return to innocence? A return to a simpler, easier time? Perhaps a return to the ways and days of your youth? Perhaps a return to a time before troubles, trials, disease or destruction snuck into and muddled up your life?
I know that I have.
Let me explain. Last May, I finished up treatments for stage 3 breast cancer. They followed a typical treatment regiment with chemotherapy followed by a single mastectomy and then radiation. Then, my oncologist recommended that a hysterectomy happen sooner rather than later and, last September, I underwent another surgery. Since then I have healed up beautifully. I am able to work out and hike again. I am back and busy with the children's ministries at our church and our homeschool is up and running at top speed. I feel a whole lot more like me again....the woman, the wife, the mom, the daughter and the friend. But what I don't feel is a return to innocence.
I can't go back there no matter how hard I try or want to return. Being told I had cancer changed things and changed me.
Way back at the beginning of this journey with cancer, a friend gifted me a notebook with an inscription inside. She quoted Paul Billheimer and wrote "Don't waste your sorrows"; she quoted Tim Keller and wrote "Don't squander your suffering." When I first read these words, I wasn't sure what to think. I mean, I had just found out I had cancer and felt like life, as I knew it, was unravelling all around me. I didn't know what the future would hold. I didn't know if I would be around to be in that future. I felt fragile and intensely aware of the limits of life. For a whole week, I could not scold my children or get annoyed at my husband because I was worried that our time together was coming to an end. And I wanted to cherish every moment.
But then those words "Don't waste.....don't squander your suffering" kept niggling away at me because I DID want to get rid of these new-found sorrows. I wanted to take them, throw them in a box, duct-tape and chain up that box and mail it to Vanuatu. With no return address included.
I spent a lot of time crying.
I drank a lot of wine so that I could fall into dreamless sleeps that were cancer-free.
Paul and I spent a lot of time holding each other and worrying.
Finally, we took our tears, our sleeplessness, and our worry to God. We cried out from the depths of our troubles and laid them before our God.
"We are worried and we are scared, God," we prayed, "We don't know what is going to happen or how sick I am going to get. We don't know what this is going to mean for our family. We cannot do this on our own. Please please help us."
We cried out in our trouble and felt God lift us out of our distress.
The cancer was there.
The chemo, surgery and radiation was there.
But the distress was gone......or mostly gone. Alleviated, certainly!
And we could feel the load lifted, the trouble transferred, the struggles sustained.
It wasn't something that happened in the blink of an eye but, rather, something that happened as we spent more time with God.
Reading about Him: We were freaked out about what stage cancer I had but worrying only made us fidgety and irritable. We felt hopeless and helpless, so we opened up our Bibles and read, "It is the LORD who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. Do not fear or be dismayed" (Deut. 31: 8). Okay....that's cool, right? We certainly felt less alone in all this!
Reflecting on God's promises: There's a lot of waiting around in sickness. Waiting for blood-work, waiting for appointments, waiting for doctors to clarify tests.....waiting waiting waiting. Time and space for worry to creep in. Time and space for reflection.... "fear not, for I am with you;" we read in Isaiah, "be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand" (Isaiah 41: 10). We could use some strength and help, we ruminated.
Praying to Him: Being constant in prayer became a thing. I was praying every day over everything. I even found myself beginning my prayers with a "Hey, God...it's me...AGAIN...." ; prayer began to feel like such a natural conversation with God. I even found myself sneaking off to my room through-out the day to converse with God alone. Prayer helped me feel sorted me out.
I wonder if you've had moments like this:
If troubles have dropped you to your knees and all that's left is crying out; ragged ripped raw crying out. Gut-wrenching grief crying out.
Maybe the point is that we have to come to the end of ourselves so that we finally turn and see God.
There. Always right there. Waiting.
Waiting for our cries so that He can lift up, lift out, love, and lead.
Maybe the whole point is not a return to innocence and the way things used to be but, rather, a leaning into the sufferings - as painful as they have been - and learning.
Thursday, 2 March 2017
Holey Jeans, Batman!
I just got home from jeans shopping.
My two oldest boys convinced me to go.
Their convincing arguments included, "All my jeans have holes and are falling apart" and "Your jeans are getting old and full of holes too" and "You said we would go and that was weeks ago."
I considered various retaliations like "Jeans with holes are cool now" and "A few holes won't kill ya" and "Why don't we go another day?"
One son arched an eyebrow.
I attempted humour, "Holey jeans, Batman!"
No go.
Distraction: "Hey, is that a new hockey card I see before me?"
Nope.
If even hockey cards were not distracting these boys, it was time.
Time to give in.
To relent.
To see the holes that were standing before me and recognize them for what they were.
Holes.
Space where clothing was meant to be.
It was time to hit the store.
Not literally, of course; I don't condone that sort of violence.
Figurative hitting. More commonly referred to as shopping.
We pulled into the Talize parking lot. I love this place, I tell ya. It's a one-stop-shopping place just jam-packed with jazz-a-ma-razz and all at a discount price! Can you say "SWEET!?"
Think "Value Village".
Then stop thinking about Value Village and think about Talize instead.
Good job!
We enter the store. We grab shopping carts. We scope out the store and strategize our shopping experience. We part ways and begin.
Within 7.2 seconds, Liam has three pairs of jeans, two hockey t-shirts and a Garfield comic book loaded up in his cart. Donovan has added two pairs of jeans, one weird-looking pair of sweatpants and a cap.
I have lifted my foot to take a first step.
This is already an excruciating excursion and I am not sure it has even begun!
After a painful painstaking hour, I have loaded fifteen pairs of jeans into my cart. I am feeling good about this shopping thing and I head to the change-room.
Liam and Donovan have already tried on everything and are restlessly pacing the store.
I glance at them nervously and pray that they don't begin racing the carts, ramming each other with said carts or wrestling in the aisles. These are common-place shopping experiences in my family.
I'm sure your shopping trips are much more placid, organized, and calm.
Good for you!
I am happy for you.
Also a tinge jealous and feeling that maybe you could come over and coach me on all things shopping-efficiently-with-children.
Back to the change room. I peel off the seventeen layers of clothing intended to ward off the winter weather that crept back in after several days of sly spring. Then I begin the arduous task of trying on clothes.
Do you feel my pain here, people?
Okay, let me rephrase that.
Do you feel my pain here, ladies?
You know what I'm talking about.
Change-room challenges.
Wardrobe wars.
The moment where one attempts to stuff one's body - repositioned from birthing human beings, rearranged with age and the gravitational pull that increases exponentially with age, reorganized with surgeries - into the constricting confines of clothing.
Here goes:
First pair of jeans: skin-tight through thighs and calves. Oddly loose around waist. Too short.
Second pair of jeans: Cannot pull up past knees.
Third pair of jeans: Low-riders. Oh goody. Nothing like clothing that accentuates the bubbly parts that I was trying to tuck in.
Fourth pair of jeans: Too big and slouchy.
Fifth pair: Flare jeans. A little too bell-bottomy for my liking.
Sixth pair: I.can.just.button.these.jeans. but.can.not.breathe.
Sigh. I peel off the jeans that fit like a layer of blue skin.
I'm hot and sweaty.
I'm annoyed.
Flushed and flustered.
Glaring at myself in the mirror and making all sorts of false promises to my reflection.
Taking down the seventh pair of jeans and telling myself to lower my standards.
"If these fit," I growl to myself, "you're getting them."
They don't fit.
I crumple them and throw them into a dusty corner of the change room. Take that you, jeans, you!
I grit my teeth. I feel an eye tic coming on.
I reach for another pair.
Eighth pair: Too long.
Ninth pair: Too acid-washed.
Tenth pair: Too jegging.
This goes on for pairs eleven through fifteen. Nope. Nope and nope.
I conclude that my body is obviously too unique for all these common-place pants.
I slide back into my comfortable, holey jeans and walk right on outta that change-room.
I buy boots instead.
My two oldest boys convinced me to go.
Their convincing arguments included, "All my jeans have holes and are falling apart" and "Your jeans are getting old and full of holes too" and "You said we would go and that was weeks ago."
I considered various retaliations like "Jeans with holes are cool now" and "A few holes won't kill ya" and "Why don't we go another day?"
One son arched an eyebrow.
I attempted humour, "Holey jeans, Batman!"
No go.
Distraction: "Hey, is that a new hockey card I see before me?"
Nope.
If even hockey cards were not distracting these boys, it was time.
Time to give in.
To relent.
To see the holes that were standing before me and recognize them for what they were.
Holes.
Space where clothing was meant to be.
It was time to hit the store.
Not literally, of course; I don't condone that sort of violence.
Figurative hitting. More commonly referred to as shopping.
We pulled into the Talize parking lot. I love this place, I tell ya. It's a one-stop-shopping place just jam-packed with jazz-a-ma-razz and all at a discount price! Can you say "SWEET!?"
Think "Value Village".
Then stop thinking about Value Village and think about Talize instead.
Good job!
We enter the store. We grab shopping carts. We scope out the store and strategize our shopping experience. We part ways and begin.
Within 7.2 seconds, Liam has three pairs of jeans, two hockey t-shirts and a Garfield comic book loaded up in his cart. Donovan has added two pairs of jeans, one weird-looking pair of sweatpants and a cap.
I have lifted my foot to take a first step.
This is already an excruciating excursion and I am not sure it has even begun!
After a painful painstaking hour, I have loaded fifteen pairs of jeans into my cart. I am feeling good about this shopping thing and I head to the change-room.
Liam and Donovan have already tried on everything and are restlessly pacing the store.
I glance at them nervously and pray that they don't begin racing the carts, ramming each other with said carts or wrestling in the aisles. These are common-place shopping experiences in my family.
I'm sure your shopping trips are much more placid, organized, and calm.
Good for you!
I am happy for you.
Also a tinge jealous and feeling that maybe you could come over and coach me on all things shopping-efficiently-with-children.
Back to the change room. I peel off the seventeen layers of clothing intended to ward off the winter weather that crept back in after several days of sly spring. Then I begin the arduous task of trying on clothes.
Do you feel my pain here, people?
Okay, let me rephrase that.
Do you feel my pain here, ladies?
You know what I'm talking about.
Change-room challenges.
Wardrobe wars.
The moment where one attempts to stuff one's body - repositioned from birthing human beings, rearranged with age and the gravitational pull that increases exponentially with age, reorganized with surgeries - into the constricting confines of clothing.
Here goes:
First pair of jeans: skin-tight through thighs and calves. Oddly loose around waist. Too short.
Second pair of jeans: Cannot pull up past knees.
Third pair of jeans: Low-riders. Oh goody. Nothing like clothing that accentuates the bubbly parts that I was trying to tuck in.
Fourth pair of jeans: Too big and slouchy.
Fifth pair: Flare jeans. A little too bell-bottomy for my liking.
Sixth pair: I.can.just.button.these.jeans. but.can.not.breathe.
Sigh. I peel off the jeans that fit like a layer of blue skin.
I'm hot and sweaty.
I'm annoyed.
Flushed and flustered.
Glaring at myself in the mirror and making all sorts of false promises to my reflection.
Taking down the seventh pair of jeans and telling myself to lower my standards.
"If these fit," I growl to myself, "you're getting them."
They don't fit.
I crumple them and throw them into a dusty corner of the change room. Take that you, jeans, you!
I grit my teeth. I feel an eye tic coming on.
I reach for another pair.
Eighth pair: Too long.
Ninth pair: Too acid-washed.
Tenth pair: Too jegging.
This goes on for pairs eleven through fifteen. Nope. Nope and nope.
I conclude that my body is obviously too unique for all these common-place pants.
I slide back into my comfortable, holey jeans and walk right on outta that change-room.
I buy boots instead.
Monday, 13 February 2017
When Fudge Met Oreo
Theirs was a love that was doomed from the start.
A mistaken identity, a heart raw with loss, naivete.........these were the fragmented factors that laid the fragile foundation of their relationship. But, once their infatuation was kindled, it burned wildly and furiously out of control. Harmonious blends of squeaks, wheeks, rumbles and staccatoed chutting made up the melody of their life's love song.
For nearly thirty days, their love was hidden from the eyes of this world - eyes that would have extinguished the flames of desire once they realized them for what they were. For nearly thirty days, they could exchange brown-eyed glances filled with longing and contented purring. Cherished days immortalized in memory.
It was in that first moment that Fudge laid eyes on Oreo, that his world shifted. His life had been so bleak, bereft and barren after losing a dear companion; Maple Mutt-Skin the Second had been a friend who was closer than a brother and Fudge's heart ached with his absence. So, when Fudge met Oreo, his tender heart swelled with joy. Suddenly life felt full once again; full of hope and sparkle, effervescence, ecstasy and elation.
Oreo was the kind of creature one was not likely to forget. Her midnight-black fur was artfully tousled about her face, accentuating the fathomless pools that were her eyes. A stripe of white coloured her nose and one rogue, chestnut-brown patch encircled an eye; the rest of her body was a snowy white mass of curls and sweet swirling rosettes. Large, floppy ears framed her face and four delicate paws allowed her to move about with a dainty grace. When she first noticed Fudge staring unabashedly at her, she nervously chutted several times and then let out a tentative squeak. Fudge licked his dry lips, twitched his whiskers once or twice and then let out a low and glorious rumble. Oreo seemed pleased by this reaction and she purred softly, impressed by this marvellous older male before her. Fudge had broad, stocky shoulders and strong masculine paws. His fur was a rich tawny colour that was beautifully broken up with black patches. His eyes were a dark, moody brown and bore within their depths the wisdom of his older years.
To say that is was love at first sight or squeak would have been to cheapen their feelings, Fudge thought. After their initial introduction, Fudge nudged Oreo towards the pellet bowl and shared his meal with her. He showed her around their habitat and indicated his favourite sleeping spot with another rumble and a purr. With Oreo around, Fudge felt that life was infused with blissful possibility. The days began to blend together in an intoxicating blur of love. Feeding time became date nights together. Pellets, Timothy hay and water had never tasted this good. Resting became cuddle time and they would snuffle and snuggle together in a corner of the habitat, their colourful fur intertwined as their two heartbeats thrummed as one.
On one particular day, Fudge professed his feelings; using words that he had only penned that morning. Poetry came naturally to Fudge and he was well versed in the written arts of the greats such as William Muttsphere and Mutter Seuss. In a tone that trembled timidly, he gingerly began:
"Dearest Oreo," he squeaked,
"Your fur is black, brownish and white
Life without you would be a horrific plight.
Your squeaking and chutting fill my days with delight.
I love you with all my might."
Oreo giggled, wheeked and purred with delight. Those were the glorious days of blazing, brash and bold love. These were also the days when it became blatantly obvious that Oreo was not who she was supposed to be. Hers was a case of mistaken identity for, while Oreo was intended to be a replacement companion for Fudge, she was intended to be a male.
Oreo's exotic femininity was conspicuous to all but those who introduced her to Fudge. Her true identity became obvious, however, as her body changed. Oreo was now pregnant. No longer could Fudge and Oreo hide their love from the world. Time passed and her body swelled, now great with pups. Fudge and Oreo still feasted together, still nestled together, still purred and rumbled out their love story together. They knew that their time together was drawing to a close and this was a bittersweet realization.
On a sun-dappled Sunday afternoon, Oreo's body convulsed. The time was here. Fudge fled to a corner of their habitat and watched in horror as the great love of his life doubled over in pain. But his devastation gave way to wonder as she hunched over and pulled out one-two-three-four wet and mewling pups. One black and white, two white and cream-coloured and one whose fur colours blended his tawny-orange with her black and white. Four gorgeous, forever-reminders of a love that would never die.
Fudge felt himself being lifted up, up, up and away into another habitat and he waved his paws in a futile attempt to stay near Oreo and their pups. His heart constricted with pain, loneliness and sorrow at this separation. He crouched in a corner and noticed that if he remained very quiet, he could still hear the tiny squeaks and chuts of his newborn babies and the muffled purring of his beloved Oreo.
Theirs was a love that was doomed from the start. They would not be able to stay together. They would not last. Their love could not overcome the obstacles that they would face by being together. But for a short time, their love blazed brightly.
And that was enough, Fudge thought.
That fierce and short-lived love was enough to last him a lifetime.
A mistaken identity, a heart raw with loss, naivete.........these were the fragmented factors that laid the fragile foundation of their relationship. But, once their infatuation was kindled, it burned wildly and furiously out of control. Harmonious blends of squeaks, wheeks, rumbles and staccatoed chutting made up the melody of their life's love song.
For nearly thirty days, their love was hidden from the eyes of this world - eyes that would have extinguished the flames of desire once they realized them for what they were. For nearly thirty days, they could exchange brown-eyed glances filled with longing and contented purring. Cherished days immortalized in memory.
It was in that first moment that Fudge laid eyes on Oreo, that his world shifted. His life had been so bleak, bereft and barren after losing a dear companion; Maple Mutt-Skin the Second had been a friend who was closer than a brother and Fudge's heart ached with his absence. So, when Fudge met Oreo, his tender heart swelled with joy. Suddenly life felt full once again; full of hope and sparkle, effervescence, ecstasy and elation.
Oreo was the kind of creature one was not likely to forget. Her midnight-black fur was artfully tousled about her face, accentuating the fathomless pools that were her eyes. A stripe of white coloured her nose and one rogue, chestnut-brown patch encircled an eye; the rest of her body was a snowy white mass of curls and sweet swirling rosettes. Large, floppy ears framed her face and four delicate paws allowed her to move about with a dainty grace. When she first noticed Fudge staring unabashedly at her, she nervously chutted several times and then let out a tentative squeak. Fudge licked his dry lips, twitched his whiskers once or twice and then let out a low and glorious rumble. Oreo seemed pleased by this reaction and she purred softly, impressed by this marvellous older male before her. Fudge had broad, stocky shoulders and strong masculine paws. His fur was a rich tawny colour that was beautifully broken up with black patches. His eyes were a dark, moody brown and bore within their depths the wisdom of his older years.
To say that is was love at first sight or squeak would have been to cheapen their feelings, Fudge thought. After their initial introduction, Fudge nudged Oreo towards the pellet bowl and shared his meal with her. He showed her around their habitat and indicated his favourite sleeping spot with another rumble and a purr. With Oreo around, Fudge felt that life was infused with blissful possibility. The days began to blend together in an intoxicating blur of love. Feeding time became date nights together. Pellets, Timothy hay and water had never tasted this good. Resting became cuddle time and they would snuffle and snuggle together in a corner of the habitat, their colourful fur intertwined as their two heartbeats thrummed as one.
On one particular day, Fudge professed his feelings; using words that he had only penned that morning. Poetry came naturally to Fudge and he was well versed in the written arts of the greats such as William Muttsphere and Mutter Seuss. In a tone that trembled timidly, he gingerly began:
"Dearest Oreo," he squeaked,
"Your fur is black, brownish and white
Life without you would be a horrific plight.
Your squeaking and chutting fill my days with delight.
I love you with all my might."
Oreo giggled, wheeked and purred with delight. Those were the glorious days of blazing, brash and bold love. These were also the days when it became blatantly obvious that Oreo was not who she was supposed to be. Hers was a case of mistaken identity for, while Oreo was intended to be a replacement companion for Fudge, she was intended to be a male.
Oreo's exotic femininity was conspicuous to all but those who introduced her to Fudge. Her true identity became obvious, however, as her body changed. Oreo was now pregnant. No longer could Fudge and Oreo hide their love from the world. Time passed and her body swelled, now great with pups. Fudge and Oreo still feasted together, still nestled together, still purred and rumbled out their love story together. They knew that their time together was drawing to a close and this was a bittersweet realization.
On a sun-dappled Sunday afternoon, Oreo's body convulsed. The time was here. Fudge fled to a corner of their habitat and watched in horror as the great love of his life doubled over in pain. But his devastation gave way to wonder as she hunched over and pulled out one-two-three-four wet and mewling pups. One black and white, two white and cream-coloured and one whose fur colours blended his tawny-orange with her black and white. Four gorgeous, forever-reminders of a love that would never die.
Fudge felt himself being lifted up, up, up and away into another habitat and he waved his paws in a futile attempt to stay near Oreo and their pups. His heart constricted with pain, loneliness and sorrow at this separation. He crouched in a corner and noticed that if he remained very quiet, he could still hear the tiny squeaks and chuts of his newborn babies and the muffled purring of his beloved Oreo.
Theirs was a love that was doomed from the start. They would not be able to stay together. They would not last. Their love could not overcome the obstacles that they would face by being together. But for a short time, their love blazed brightly.
And that was enough, Fudge thought.
That fierce and short-lived love was enough to last him a lifetime.
Fudge and Oreo
Shivers, Chestnut, Peanut and Snickers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)