A Simple Thing

I pack you up, reminder of difficult days. White as if innocent, but I know you stain easily. Red jello is not your friend. Your structure allowed easy port access, so you were purchased. You were only worn at those times, and so sat dormant when not needed. I hope you are never needed again even though I harbor no ill will towards you. You became a symbol of days apart, sickness, and visits to bring the family together again; even if it was just for a cafeteria lunch. Amazing how something so simple can evoke such a complex memory. I am sentimental, foolish, and inappropriately superstitious, so I am keeping you and your clones for now. I am not ready to forget the foaming hand sanitizer, C.S. Lewis books read in stages, walks to Children’s for ice cream, and squishing into tiny rooms to brighten a day. When I unpack you I will remember with renewed emotion, which is the valuable medicine I need. Some things need to go dormant as long as the lesson they were a part of lives strong.

Life in Metaphor

Over the past couple of years life has become very metaphorical for me. The types of things I have had to deal with have caused me to see things differently than in the past. Most of the metaphors have been spiritual in nature, reflecting my deep need for God in a trial. Some of them would crash into my conscience like a runaway truck, while others drifted slowly down upon my awareness like a plucked feather lazily descends to earth. I see why Jesus so often turned to stories, metaphors, and hyperbole to help man begin to understand the kingdom of God.


I had a recent experience-turned-metaphor that hit home on an issue I have struggled with for some time. I love to be in control, or at least have a firm, false sensation that I am in control. I like to think I will be able to protect and preserve the ones I love by my own powerful self. Anyone laughing yet? By sheer stubbornness I clench my hands around my stuff to protect it and keep it from God. He might take it away or do something differently than I would, you know. Clenched hands can damage what they hold and have no room to receive anything new. Daily I struggle to let go, give God what is His to begin with, and try to remember I must loose my life to truly find it and live it.

So, here is the aforementioned metaphor. I took the kids to the zoo during our second to last week in Nashville before we moved. We had a lot of playdates that week to see our friends one last time, and that day happened to be the only day we could go. I didn’t even bother looking at the weather. After being there for less than an hour I see dark clouds heading our way. I called Chris to see how bad things would get and after a small discussion I felt it would be safe to stay. It sprinkled a bit and cleared out, which is what I thought would happen after Chris told me about the radar. My dear husband is no meteorologist. About an hour later after we have had lunch I realize we are going to get round two of some precipitation. I plan in my head we will go to a certain point and then be able to get back around to some shelter. Silly girl! The heavens open up and I realize we have one shot at shelter before we are totally and thoroughly soaked. I use the word “shelter” here loosely. It comprised of a small bench under a roof about the size of one piece of tin. It is open on all sides and sits in front of the porcupine exhibit. Being the Nashville zoo there are trees all around. Several people are running away up the path as we approach (but none with four kids) including a zoo staff member. We are alone. We run up and plop down on the bench and pull our knees up to our chest and watch the deluge begin. I pulled the stroller under as far as I could and snuggled Claire on my lap. Lightening is coming closer our way.

“Mom, how do you find out how close the lightening is again?”

“Start counting when you see it, then divide that number by four when you hear the thunder. It is one mile for every four seconds. But you need to count one-one-thousand so you don’t count too fast.”

“Oh, OK.”

Flash of lightening.

“One one-thou-BOOM!!!!!!!!”

“Mom?”

“Yes, well that is pretty close guys. Um, well, we could pray now.”

So we sat and prayed under our little tin roof as it “protected” us from the storm. I prayed for my tiny flock, asking God to take pity on our situation and help the storm move through quickly. God, with His wonderful sense of ironic humor, brought to my mind how well equipped I was to protect these young lives. I fell a little short. When it comes down to it everyday is a storm under a tiny tin roof. I can protect them only as well as God gives me the ability to. But I tell you, as I sat there I also was gifted an amazing peace; I knew He saw us there and I knew it would be OK. He was even more gracious and gave the kids that same peace. I was so impressed at their bravery; even when it improved once the storm moved on.   Noah, always the goof and able to make me laugh, said, “Mom! I wasn’t just praying, I was singing praise songs too!!!”

Yes, what a great time to sing praise. So here I am, clicking open the selfish, human fists I have made. Some days just resolving to not clench them tighter; some days actually opening them up a notch. I do know God will always need to be sending me a bit of lightening here and there for motivation.

Five Noisy Minutes of Our Life

I have chatty kids. Exceptionally chatty. Levi opens his mouth when he wakes up and the whole day is one long run on sentence for him. He can follow me around the house with a never ending dialogue. I try hard to listen well, but sometimes when my brain is numb from the banter I tend to space out a little; or ask for a five minute break to let my brain rest. Silas can never “give me a minute.” He must finish what he has to say before you can go on to anything else. Noah does not stalk me so much with his need to utilize speech, but he sure has a lot to throw his brother’s way. I tend to be shy in social situations, but when I get a chance to have a “grown up” conversation I do not usually run out of topics. It is really great when we go on road trips. Chris doesn’t say much, so I can get a lot off my chest as we eat up the miles.




So, the other day as we were heading home from church I was noticing the ridiculous and crazy things that sometimes come up in conversation. Words and thoughts collide in mid air as each one tries to get their point across. The volume escalates as someone in the back tries to tell me something in the front, while someone else feels the need to crescendo to preserve their say.

On this day I was so amused at the turns in the conversation I decided to share with you the weirdness that evolves on a car ride with my family. Here is a five minute excerpt of a typical Fontaine car ride. For ease of typing “C” is Chris, “M” is me, “L” is Levi, “N” is Noah, “S” is Silas, and “B” is Claire (baby).



S- “Did you know that God is everywhere?!?!?!”

M-”Yes, isn’t that awesome?”

N-”Yeah, Si! God can be anywhere, and He is everywhere all at the same time. He is right here right now!”

B- “Blag a lala dadada, SQUEEL!!!, badada.”

M-”Do you-” (I have been cut off) Under breath, “I can’t ever finish a sentence.”

S- “Guys!!!” (clapping hands) “God is even in my bloody lip!!”

N- “God is right there on your shoe!”

L- “Mom! What do you call a happy car?”

M- “I don’t know, what?”

L-”A joy-ota!!”

B-”A bla bla!! Ondabla, ahhhhhh!!!”

M-”Very cute Levi.”
Levi and Noah are now in some nonsense banter about a bunch of stupid stuff, and Silas is trying hard to get control of the situation.

S- “God is even in our tires!!!”

C- (laughing) “That’s so funny that he said that!”

M- (non stop kid voices in background) “Why?”

C- “That’s why the Amish won’t use air filled tires. They think it is somehow trapping the Holy Spirit.”

M -”Why do they think that?”

C-”I don’t know, some random verse they have taken out of context.”

S-”Levi!! Can I have that?!?”

C-”I wonder if the Amish can use those new Nitrogen filled tires?”

S-”God is everywhere; He is in my throat!!!”

L- “Mom!! What do cars play with??”

M-”What?”

L- “A toy-ota!!”

M- groan…

N-”Levi! Levi! Levi!”

M-”Levi, would you answer him?” (to Chris now) “Maybe if they use the Nitrogen tires it’s only like trapping part of the Holy Spirit. You know Nitrogen is only a fraction of air.”

N-”Si, you know what’s great? You aren’t hungry in heaven!”

S-”Yeah! If you’re hungry and need a snack, boom!- you get one!”

B-”SHRIEK!!!! A blu blu bla bla bla!!!!”

M-”You know, our kids are nuts.”

C-”Yeah.”



I suppose someday I will miss it all. It will be awfully lonely to drive in a car by myself with only the radio to listen to.

We are a weird family - we Fontaine’s. Hope you enjoyed a moment of our oddity.

When It Feels Like Home, It Is

I took the kids to Kingston Springs yesterday. We have not been back in almost a year. They wanted to see “our house” one more time before we leave Tennessee. We wound up the bluff around the familiar curves to Cross Country Drive. It’s amazing how your brain can take the time you have been gone and shrink it to what feels like mere seconds. After a slow drive by and flashing memories we reluctantly pulled away. For all the turmoil we had in that house I am relieved that pretty much just happy memories prevail. On the way back to the highway I was a bit surprised to notice that I could go on auto pilot if I so wished. I remembered the feel of the road and could anticipate the next curve or dip. I accelerated and braked without consciously thinking to do so. It took me off guard that the feeling of familiarity brought such comfort. That house was home for us, here in Tennessee. The apartment we lived in for seven months utill we bought the house, and this rental house we have been in just shy of a year have never really felt like “home.”


Whenever we travel back to Kansas there is always such anticipation. It is home; it is family; it is familiar; it is safe. At Christmas time I always notice that slipping back in like we never left is always possible. The time we have been away vanishes just like on that drive to house number 1005. I treasure family and history. That is a large reason we have chosen to move back. I have one life and one chance to give family and history to my children the way I had it as a child.

As I think of my friends that I must leave now, my stomach sinks and I get an empty feeling in my chest. My friends allow me to be myself and have stepped in to be my family in ways I never realized friends could do before living here. It has been a rocky five years in the Volunteer State, and without friends the memories of the pain would have no bright spots. I am sad to have to leave the familiarity of my friends; my new family. I know I can stay in touch. What I mourn is slipping into auto pilot around a group of people I love. Knowing and anticipating what can make someone laugh, cheer them up, help them see something differently, and give them encouragement means a lot to me. I also mourn being able to look someone in the eye that I respect as they love, encourage, teach, and comfort me. I never thought Tennessee would feel like home the way it has. My dear sweet friends, thank you for giving me that.

So I am leaving family and home to go back to family and home. I am lucky and sad; happy and grieving; anticipating and regretting; hopeful and contemplative.

This post is for you, my Tennessee family. I’m a Midwest girl who never thought she could be happy away from family. Before I moved here I never knew you had to specify the caloric content of your tea. I had no idea streets could be schizophrenic, changing their names in an intersection. I learned to adapt to not being able to see for miles unless you were at the top of the bluff. I now allow people who don’t know me to call me “sweetie”, “honey”, and “darlin’” without cringing. I will actually miss it. The best part about coming here was being forced to rely on people who didn’t share the blood that runs in my veins. That has been the most amazing lesson and blessing I have ever had. You all rock, and I am eternally in your debt for giving me a second home. Love you guys.

I. Am. Mom.

Mom! Moooooooommmm!! Mommy! Mama! Mooooomiiiiiieeeee!
Yeah, I'll answer to that.  Even if you aren't my child, I might look your way.
Nine years and two months ago I officially became mom. 
Hey, kids! God knew you first, but I was a close second.  I knew about all of you before you had existed even a month.  I tolerate pregnancy, labor, and delivery (all uncomfortable, the last two you may pay me back for later) because I knew it meant I could hold you in my arms someday.
I was the first to love you, comfort you, nourish you, clean you, teach you, and protect you.
  But , I'm not perfect.  I raise my voice.  I fail.  I don't always meet your needs like I would like to now that you are bigger.
None of that disqualifies me.  I know you better than anyone else.  I know when you went to bed without brushing your teeth, when you snuck the food, brought the toy in the car, spoke under your breath, and disobeyed my wishes when I wasn't around.  I know how much food to put on your plate, what color of shirt to get you, what book you might like, and when you need alone time.  Most of your inside jokes are with me.  I am an expert in your odd quirks.
Kids, mommy is working hard.  She is trying to be your mom more like God is her father.  I need more patience, kindness, and self control.  I need to tell you "good job" more.  I need to tell you how awesome I think you handled the last year of crisis.  You need more gentle reminders in place of my frustrated critiques.
You are all smart, beautiful, creative, funny, strong, loving, and unique.  Hang in there.  Stick with me.  We have come a long way and have a long way to go.  I need to hold your hand on the way.