Windows...

I lay in bed and look up, first thing, at the trees. The changing light and swaying limbs are a treat early in the day. This is nearly ritual for me. I am drawn to look out before I do anything else. Eyes roam the familiar and the known. Some days I judge it priority to get out, others show me that looking is all I need do. This is the second house that finds me this way.
They are many, and they are large. So much light pours through.  It is spring when we find out, and blue sky is the backdrop for budding green. I walk past the windows and he is in front of me holding a sign. Baby girl is kicking inside of me, and I wonder how well she will know him.
A few weeks later, with the thing now named, I sit and look up, out the window.  More green and more buds. I find myself each week looking out that window, and my very own time lapse emerges. Through the long summer of new treatments, moving, adjusting, and birthing. In the fall when he has the big surgery and the long two months of recovery after that, I sit mostly with him, sometimes by myself. I become a creature of habit and look up and out that same window - it becomes my moment with God.
When we were finally done with it, it, my view had come full circle. Gray sky and thin, unadorned branches gave way to blue, green, and white.

I love windows. For me, the more light the better. I like to see and when I am in a room with few windows I feel stifled. I like the steady feeling of the objects that don’t change: trees, buildings, rocks, bushes, decks, streets, and telephone poles. The familiar gets spiced up with the perpetual seasons, animals, flowers, changing leaves, angles of light, and the activity of the place.
I love to ponder who has looked out old windows and how similar what I see is to what they saw. Windows make me understand what it is to gaze. Maybe not nearly as intoxicating as a fire, but a firm draw nonetheless.  Unlike anything else in the building they are part of, they herald the marching of time. Through them you can survey wide open spaces and what they might offer, or see if the indoors has what will entice you in.
And if you choose, you can mark the time, measure the progress, and engage in holy moments.

The Crow Was Playing

I was jogging and it was warm. Over eighty degrees today, the first time this year. Fitting for St. Patrick's day, I could see green sprouting shyly. Like dipping your toe in the bath or the pool to see if the temperature is fitting, green shoots peek out from the dirt slowly to see if this spring will finally overcome the winter.

Sweat stung my eyes as I viewed this changing scape. The birds are a little louder and the breeze doesn't bite. I am thankful and soak up the sun like a basking lizard.
I hear it then, the unmistakable "Caw, caw!" Looking up I see the crow as it calls, and it is swooping and diving, and flying in loops. It continues to call while displaying its acrobatic prowess. Yes, I do believe it sounds giddy. Spring does that to me too.
The earth knows it and displays it. Harsh winter and death give way. I have never heard an animal complain about enduring the winter. It is either life or death for them, and life is about doing what needs to be done. The birds, with their tiny bodies, must revel in the sun that can now warm their wings. And this crow, it seems to sense that the worst is over and better has come.
I smile, continue to jog, myself now giddy at the prospects the changing can bring - and I will look for new life every day.

Her little hand groped for mine in the dark. She was pulling at my shirt until I realized what she was looking for. I let her gain purchase on what she wanted and I felt the heat in her little paw. Her fingers squeeze tight over mine.
She has been sick. Mucous flows freely and she is hoarse and her little sad sick face melts me. I am worn out and sleep deprived. She won't stay in her bed like usual. I can't hardly blame her - who wants to be alone when they feel that bad? I suppose she figures that if I can't make it go away the least she can do is make sure I understand the scope of what she is enduring.
She tosses and turns, throws herself across my body. I will not rest tonight - again.
She is not alone. Her brothers add to the chorus of coughs, hacks, sneezes, and snots. All four - this is a record. Their personalities are so interesting to me when they are sick. One common theme emerges, however. Mom. Mom should have the answers, the relief. I medicate, make hot tea, rub backs, wipe snot, and remind that hands need to be washed.
She is smiling now. Medicine on board and waffle in tummy. Her hoarse little voice is so cute as she says, "I got a baaaaayyybyy!!"
Better go. I have hands to hold, noses to wipe, and a little mom magic to dish out. Someday.... I will sleep.

Change and Love

A rare trip to the store by myself. Missing my little girl since it is evening and I like spending that time of day with my kids, but grateful for the alone time. I’ve been a mom for a full decade now. I am pondering how much I have changed. A full ten years? Really? I was so young, so naïve once. OK, I’m still naïve, but not so young. I say no to things I used to indulge. I am open to things I thought I did not want or like. I eat guacamole now. For years I had myself convinced I didn’t like it and I’m not really sure why. I like to think of myself as a tree that has had the realization that it need not strive so hard for height or stature-that comes naturally with sun and rain. But instead it should put its energy in branching out, growing spectacular leaves, and bearing much fruit. Anyone can reach for the clouds, but it is easy to loose track of what is going on at ground level.
I wish this town had a good radio station. I really miss what I used to listen to. I shuffle through the FM offerings hoping to get lucky. Gentle mandolin licks and soulful strains of the violin reach my ears. I pause. It reminds me of where I just was this week, where my friends are. “America’s real country” he says. I listen to the heartache and feel good story all wrapped together with the twang and acoustic chapter of blue collar life -and I’m unable to stop listening. I want to hear the story for the first time. As I pull into the parking lot I catch myself thinking about how I can get coffee first and then continue my mission. Coffee. Yet another item I had convinced myself I did not like despite thinking the aroma of the beans in the grocery store isle was fantastic. I’m not a purist, I do dress it up a bit. Does this mean I’ve grown up? If I like coffee now? I sweep the thought aside.
Coffee in hand I commence with the browsing and choosing. Now this whole experience would have been so much better if I had had a trash can to dispose of my empty cup once done, but we can’t have it our way all the time. I learned that by age two. Selections made, merchandise paid for, back to the car.
She is singing about the ages and stages of a woman’s life, her babies and husband, how she is changing. I become wrapped up in the tale and wish the chorus was shorter so we could move on to the next verse. Good golly, do I really care so much what happens to this unknown character? She changes and realizes she doesn’t love what she thought she loved, and she is ready to give it all up - the pretense. She is only a year older than I when this happens. I lean forward a bit, turn up the volume. What will she do? Her husband wants to keep her, surely she stays. The song, disappointedly, ends awkwardly with no real outcome. No concise conclusion to what seems a wasted life, or at least wasted time.
I sit back in my seat, sigh. What will I not love in a year? I can’t fathom my children, my husband, my family and friends not being in my heart where they are now. And God, I can’t stand the pain of the thought of giving up on Him.
It’s a song, Charity. A song. Threads of real life woven in make me stop and think. So, I’m grounding myself as I stretch out and sprout new leaves. I’m in a better mood as I walk through the door. The sweet smile in those huge brown eyes as I hand him the new game - it’s a balm. We sit and play, laugh and poke fun. I hope the wounded woman can find this again.

Mom - For a Decade

March 13th, 2001 
We stand at the door to the stairs in the freezing cold parking garage. I am swollen up with our first born who is now an overdue little bundle, and my arms ache for him.
“Too late to change it now.”
We look at each other and silently start down the stairs - the adventure awaits.

Two days later
I set him down on the coffee table, still in the car seat. I am hungry. I get some soup and some cheese, sit down to eat.
“What do I do with him now??”, I ask myself. I look around the room, and suddenly everything looks too dirty, too dangerous.  The hospital seemed clean, safe, and there were many there who knew what to do.
He is so tiny. I’ve never done this and now his life is in my hands.

Ten years later
He is nearly at my shoulder. He loves history and science. He spells as well as I do and is an avid reader. He jokes and laughs, and is emotional. He is madly in love with his little sister - as it should be. He plays well with his two brothers, with a couple of punches and yells thrown in for good measure. Friends and family are important to him and God is close. He is tender, he is rough. He is little boy with man bursting through. I forget his age and treat him like is older than he is and then I see his face - that sweet expression I loved so much as a toddler. I want to cuddle him again.

I am his mom for ten years now, he is my teacher for ten years now. The one person that has changed me immediately. I don’t pick him up anymore. He hugs me close when he knows I am hurting. It all seems like yesterday, but I know it is painfully lost to the past. He has made me swell with pride and want to bang my head against something hard with frustration.

Mom for a decade. Is it possible? Most days I still struggle to be the grown up.

Happy birthday, my sweet first born. Mommy loves you so much.

Coming up Blank...

I am looking for the right card, but this is hard, awkward. She is dying of cancer, but she has been so faithful to pray for us - never stops giving thanks for our miracle. She doesn't complain, but continues to give thanks to God for what He has done, what He does, what He will do. She apologizes for not being able to get the prayer sheet out - she is dying. Apologize?
We have not met in person. She knew of us due to someone else spreading the word, asking for prayer. She picked up the vigil and hasn't stopped though we are now 12 hours away and probably won't meet until we can clasp hands before the Savior together.
She is dying, but couldn't be more full of life. That close to death you have a better handle on what living really is.
I am looking for just the right card. Really?!? Is this all there is to offer?

Blank? No message? No kind words or comforting sayings? How can I lift her spirits with a blank page, sterile of sentiment and warmth?

I give up, frustrated. Seriously, I wish I could be paid to write these cards. What is here is junk, and what I need is missing. Where are the cards for the real world?

I remember. I never really read the swirly font or well crafted little poems on the cards we received. I read the penned portions of hearts that were there. 

I have the kids draw some pictures, and I scrawl down my small piece of hurting heart.

Say what's in your heart for the hurting ones. But don't sell them short. They can be more full of life and purpose than you would ever know.