Boy Mom

I like spiders. But that hasn't always been true. As a child and young adult I avoided touching anything creepy, crawly, slimey, or scaley. And I didn't have time to stop and admire, much less look at bugs, unless it was to step on them swiftly and strongly. Stomp. Squish. Dead.

I'm not sure exactly when my thoughts and feelings toward insects and spiders began to change, but it was sometime in the last 8 years, after my son was born. As a boy mom I determined not to instill an irrational fear of bugs into my son. So instead of shuddering and stomping, I stooped and observed. To satisfy his curiosity I watched shows and YouTube videos and read books with him that all extolled the wonderful world of bugs. Sure, there was a good mixture of dinosaurs and construction vehicles in there as well, but who has problems with bulldozers or triceratops? I didn't need convincing on those topics. My hang ups were all those creepy legs and disturbingly crunchy shells. We aren't talking tacos here, people. But I persisted in my decision to stay chill on the bug front.

And all those factoids about legs and thoraxes and compound eyes? They began to stick. In my brain. And you know what, I began to truly see the fascinating world of insects and arachnids all around me. God put so much detail into every aspect of His creation, and this was no exception. The design of the body of a honeybee and the social structure of a hive. The fact that there are spiders that have adapted to almost any environment, and many of them don't even live in webs. The persistence, diligence, and bravery of an ant colony. This world of insects and arachnids wasn't just fascinating, it sang. It was a harmonizing strain of  the same song in my heart, the song God put within all of us, that He teaches a little more of everyday. A song of Him, and for Him, and to Him.

So now I like spiders. And insects in general. Don't get me wrong. I can't reconcile myself to the millipedes that have recently invaded my home. Nor do I hesitate to end the life of any species of roach (surely a direct product of the Fall if not direct spawn of Satan.) But for the most part I am so interested in the small but ordered world of bugs. I love to see them crawling around on my herbs and flowers, to observe the different methods of gathering nectar or pollen. To watch the stages of transformation from corpulent caterpillar to lithe and lovely butterfly.

To change is to learn. To learn is to grow. To grow is to understand. To understand is to appreciate.

Go watch a spider, and tell me what you think.

A Poem, at Evening

There is a sky

above. The world below

still spins and tilts

and man will suffer

hunger

clamor

strive.

The rose of evening

blooms above the leaves.

Gold-caped clouds

stream pink air

under the trees.

The peace above defeats

the hearts below.

The rage of life cease into

solemn breath.

Bathed by beauty

in the evening hour

Barely Merry & Bright

Yesterday was a day when I should have felt like I had it all together. I had eaten wisely, exercised (what?!), showered, and had done my hair and makeup. Check check check. I was finishing up a successful Christmas and grocery shopping trip (thank you Target for being almost all things to almost all women (until we get Costco, hehe)) with Chai latte in hand. But as I drove toward my last stop before heading home, I found myself sitting at a red light feeling completely empty. Why was that? This is supposed to be a season of glad tidings and good cheer. Why did my heart feel as heavy as the rain-laden clouds that dulled the sky?

Maybe I had missed a step, something crucial that when plugged into the Holiday Happiness Formula would instantly produce flurries of snow, cups of steaming cocoa, and good will toward all men. Or maybe I had done something wrong. I definitely spent more money than I had anticipated. But those gift tags were just so cute! And really, who doesn't need a rotating projector to blast Christmas cheer all over the front of their house in the dark hours of the evening? Was I having buyers remorse? What was nagging me so badly?

Maybe it was because this holiday season is fraught with relational tension. It's been a tough year for my heart, and while I am trying to work diligently and lovingly to retrace or reforge some paths between myself and others, many times it feels like one step forward and two steps back. 

Or perhaps it was my kids. They had been a chore to drag from store to store. And my belabored decision-making was certainly hampered further by a constant need to supervise, shepherd, and search for my kids. Never are we more wandering souls than in the glittering aisles of the Wonder Shop at Target. But no. It wasn't their fault that I was feeling this way. In their own way they are caught up in joyful participation and anticipation. And they are just kids, still being formed and trained. I can't blame them.

No, the reason I felt bottomed out and caved in at that red light was not because I had done too much or too little. It wasn't because I'm treading lonely and confusing waters where once I had only experienced warmth and community. And it's certainly was not my kids fault for being happy and energetic. God bless them I'm glad they are healthy and whole today and every day! None of those surface explanations can touch the real issue. 

The problem with me that day is the problem with this whole world. It's broken. I'm broken. In the beginning God made all things good. And we broke it. And we continue breaking it over and over again. And this brokenness cannot be fixed with feelings of accomplishment and a victory latte. We can't, I can't fix this brokenness at all. And that's what this season is truly all about. God knew that we would never come to Him to be fixed. And so He came to us. The eternally existent God came into the form and person of a finite man, to show us the way back to wholeness. Healing began in a manger, under a star. 

The Christmas season can be good, and terrible. It's an emotional roller coaster of well-wishes and high hopes and the crashing thump of reality with things don't go as planned. We can tell ourselves to just roll with it because that's the way things are. And in some ways that's true. We should give ourselves the gifts of grace and reality, knowing that pretty much nothing will go according to our well-laid plans. But that isn't the ever and all. If nothing else this season needs to teach us to yearn and to hope. To know that eventually the Babe will return as the risen and victorious King and He will claim His own. He will forever fix our broken hearts and take us to Himself. That comfort and joy will be like none we have never known. And it will be forever. 

Junky Heart

So I'm thinking about clutter. Toy clutter, specifically. A few months ago the raging demon of organization within took hold and banished most of my children's toys to the closets of the playroom, with specific instructions that NO CHILD was to open those closets and remove any toys, whatsoever. Sound cold-hearted? Cruel? Probably. I smashed all the stuffed animals into plastic bags, dumped all the 5 million junky little pieces into baskets and made precarious towers in the closets before finally shutting the door and forgetting about it all. Well, forgetting about it until my precious daughter would ask for one of her dolls. I would reply, "I don't know where it is. Probably in the closet," and then go about whatever task I was doing at the time. Yep, heartless. But tidy.

Okay. I truly am a horrible person.

In my defense, I could not take ANY MORE of having every floor, table top, EVERY STINKING FLAT SURFACE covered with knick-knacky plastic pieces that have the nerve to be labeled "toys," thus making them assume some marginal value. Or, in the case of my children, the status of precious objects that must be loved and cherished, but only when Mom decides it's time to get rid of them. Until that point it's fine to strew them everywhere and forget about them.

AGH.

So, into the closet it all went.

And right back out it all came today. What. Was. I. Thinking???

Here was the reasoning behind The Great Toy Exit 2017: 

With cold weather coming (eventually?), I wanted to go ahead and cull through the kids clothes so I could consign the ones that had been outgrown and fund the purchase of the next size up wardrobe. So yesterday my hilariously compliant son tried on about 30 items of clothing for me so that I could determine what to keep and what to toss. With my daughter's clothes it was a bit easier. Tried on two sweaters, hooray they still fit, and then packed up the pile that has been slowly growing in the top of her closet as I stashed items that were too small.

But then that light bulb went off in my head. You know, the one that ALL MOMS EVERYWHERE should always ignore. The one that says, "Hey, you're already in the mode of cleaning out. Why don't you go through the toys, too?" Never, EVER listen to that thought!! Slam your mind shut to it! Hum the latest Disney song! Stream an N*SYNC album! ANYTHING but going through the toys!

Alas, I succumbed to THE THOUGHT, opened the closet doors, and begin pulling out the bags and baskets brimming with banished toys. At first the kids didn't catch on. They know that diving into those closets is a big no-no so they were probably waiting for me to be struck by lightning. But then the truth slowly started to dawn and it was like Christmas morning. In about one minute flat the previously tidy play room floor was littered with toys and looking like Times Square after a ticker tape parade. The declarations of joy and rapture coming from my kids were merely dimmed by the whooshing sound of my sanity flying out the window. 

To deal with all of this stuff I decided to go ahead and get rid of anything the kids completely ignored as I pulled it out of the closet. That took care of a garbage bag full of stuffed animals. Next I exercised some motherly discretion and pulled out a box worth of toys that were pretty much always ignored. Those two culls left way more than I still wanted to have, but one side of my heart was feeling all mushy from hearing how happy my kids were to see their stuff, and I decided that if I could just get it organized and everything could have a home, then maybe it would be okay. That is one big maybe. But I gave it a go, gathering baskets and boxes and bins to try and contain all the tiny pieces. 

Getting my daughter's toys sorted and stored took the measure of strength equivalent to that needed to traverse the Himalayas. That done, I called rest time and betook myself to the couch where I renewed my strength with a bag of kettle corn and a phone call to my mom. And took the time to write this blog. Which isn't really about clutter. At least not toy clutter.

This blog is about a heart that is cluttered with selfishness and idolatry. A heart that has valued controlling the amount of stuff that my kids have access to more than it has valued teaching them good stewardship. A heart that feels smug and accomplished when it should feel compassionate and helpful. 

Not a very nice heart.

Nevertheless, it is a heart that is loved. A heart restored by sacrifice not of it's own. A heart sought, purchased, and won for eternal possession. A heart with a second chance, and a third chance, and a millionth chance to be kind, to be humble, to be selfless. 

So after rest time, I'm going to continue sorting and storing. But I'll do it with a sense of joy, not martyrdom. I'll smile with my kids as they create new games with their newly found toys, and at the end of the day I'll help them sort it all again and put it away. I will love them by allowing them this joy, this cluttery, inconvenient joy.

Because that's the kind of heart I want them to have, so that is the kind of heart they must see.

Greater Light

I'm just going to come right out and say it: The eclipse freaked me out a little bit. Maybe it's because I didn't have themed snacks, or a nifty viewer. I just had my son and the view from my front porch. But as I watched the shadows of the trees swallow my lawn, and the quality of the light dim to the point where the very air seemed to be effected, I confess I only felt a sense of unease. I shake my head at myself. I am a self-professed space nerd, and even aspired to being an astronomer in my youth (back when dreams weren't determined by the number of math credits I would need). But for some reason I just couldn't hop on the train this time, and the excitement everyone else seemed to feel over the eclipse just rolled right off me. 

But it wasn't a completely lost experience for me. Because, like so many other things in my life, it brought me back to Jesus. He's the greatest light. He can never be eclipsed. He never wavers. His Father is my Father, the Father of lights who is never shadowed, the Giver of all good gifts. Even freakish and unnerving eclipses. So maybe I wasn't excited about it, but I'm thankful I experienced it, and even MORE thankful that the same God who created those massive bodies and governs their paths through space, is the same God who created me and guides and protects my path on earth. Although I aspire to reflect His glory now, like the moon does the light of the sun, I hasten the day when I am fully swallowed up by His holiness and awesome purity, when I am remade and may dwell with Him forever. Amen and Amen.

A Late Tribute

(At the time I wrote this, I just couldn't get the words right. It all came together today. I hope you enjoy it.)

My husband's grandfather passed away last week. In black and white that doesn't look like much, but it was. He was old, and sick, and weak. Well, his body was. But his spirit was still strong and vibrant, and every inch the man that my husband grew up loving and admiring. The man whose eyes glittered with life, and whose voice rang out strong with a warm welcome to "Come in! Come in!" The man who stood up in the pew at church and clutched a closed Bible to his chest because he knew the words by heart as he gave them forth to the congregation. The man who was born on the same day as my daughter, 89 years earlier. The man who inspired respect and admiration, not just for the years he had lived, but because of how he had lived them. This wasn't just any man. This was our BoBo. And we miss him.

To pay our respects and remember his life with other family members required a trip to southeast Missouri, to the town where my husband lived his boyhood, where his grandparents are living their last days. We've been back to visit several times since we married, and though I always enjoy the time we have with family, I've never particularly liked the journey to get there. But this time was a little different. Maybe because my heart was tender and my eyes were a little red with grief, or perhaps because life has been so busy lately that the monotonous hours in the car finally allowed my mind to be at rest, for whatever reason, I found reasons to smile, and admire, and wonder along those many, many miles. 

We traveled many county highways and country roads past fields upon fields of toasted corn stalks and verdant soy plants. The farm houses, with their tidy yards and soaring silver silos never grew old to me; the orderliness of it all had it's own kind of beauty. Most of the fields were uniform, either the dry corn plants, stooping in the sun, or the low and lush soy. But one set of fields defied the norm, with rogue corn plants sprouting like undiscovered geysers from the surrounding soy. Those corn plants were still green and straight, unwilling to bow to the cycle of farm life. That's perseverance for you. And downright rebellion. And hope.

Along the way we stopped at a place I've visited only once before, a tiny state park nestled in a sliver of Illinois. On my first trip to Missouri, on a very cold day in December, my future husband and I stopped and took our picture here. I was in awe at being in the very place where the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers meet, and wanted to document the fact that we were there. It remains one of my favorite pictures of us. 

This time when we stopped, we were joined by our two children, and it was a fresh experience. The rivers were full of barges and noisy tugboats and everything about the landscape seemed to have changed. We found some beautifully sun-bleached trees that the kids climbed on. My son, as most 5 year-old boys, enjoyed throwing rocks in the rivers, lamenting when he missed because I wouldn't allow him closer to the water. I pointed out the spot where you can see the currents of the two rivers meeting, to convey some of the wonder in that moment in that place, but I'm not sure it worked. No matter. That's the magic I find in that place. Perhaps his magic was found somewhere else, in the soil beneath the rocks he pried free, or the heft of those rocks in his hand, or the arc they made as they traveled down the overgrown bank. 

On this trip to honor the dead I was reminded again of all the humor and grandeur and beauty that comes with living. Whether it's roguish stalks of corn or mighty rivers meeting or my children's hair shining in the sun, there is so much to see, to wonder at, to be thankful for in this life, even in the face of death.

Love & Loathing

Well, today was both humbling, and enlightening. The Bible says that knowledge puffs up, and I heartily agree. But I think that any time we I can receive a bit of new information with a sense of quiet gratitude I am that much the better for it. I know I am. Read on and perhaps you will agree. 

Let me set the stage for you. As most mothers of young children tend to do this time of year, I've decided to celebrate the season with a smorgasbord of holiday crafts, even though I generally give my glue gun the evil eye while I turn away and smugly sip my coffee. I don't know if it's that we poor dears, as a group, are deceived into this heightened sense of creative festivity by the aroma of snow-scented candles (ask me how I know this scent exists), the reams of colorful paper and their starkly bare inner tubes that begin to grow like sapling forests in our closets, or just the wild proliferation of joy and anticipation, but no matter the cause the end result is this-those of us who, as a general rule, refuse crafting at all costs, not only embrace this messy, expensive, time-consuming hobby, we invite our children to join us. What madness are we perpetrating?! In my enthusiasm I have planned an entire 24 days worth of celebratory events, many of which involve the use of scissors, glue, and paint. Paint! What am I thinking?!

Of all the evil minions lurking the shelves of a craft store, paint, in all formulas, is my self-sworn foe. Acrylic? For grown-ups only please. Crayola's offering with that tiny purple-handled brush and about 5 plasticky bristles? The primary colors are positively screaming obscenities at me as they promise irreversible stains, never mind the profuse promises on the package. Barking dog, says I. Don't get me started on finger paint. Have the manufacturers never seen how children are absolutely, fatally prone to shoving their messy digits into their mouths at any and all given moments?! Imbeciles.

Despite my very strong feeling regarding paint in all forms and colors, one activity I planned to do with my 5 year old son and 2 year old daughter was assembling snowflakes with craft sticks, puzzle pieces, and hot glue, then painting them. I'm going to give you a moment to snicker at me. Joke's on your if you snort your peppermint mocha. That'll burn.

So here we are, my sweet children and I, crouched on the floor because I can't find an extension cord to make the glue gun reach the table, merrily making these snowflake ornaments. My son is practically vibrating, high on a cup of cocoa and the intense joy of wielding an instrument whose name includes the words "glue" and "gun", two of his favorite items of all time. My daughter manages to burn herself only three or four times as she sticks the puzzle pieces to the craft sticks, but soldiers on like a true artist, unfazed by pain, intent on lining those pieces up perfectly. Once the pieces are dry and I've removed most (some?) of the excess glue strands, it's time to paint our snowflakes. 

My son fetches a paper plate. My daughter selects her paint brush. I squirt the paint with an uncharacteristic liberality and verve, and away we go. Bristles are quickly gobbed with paint; puzzles pieces are transformed by swift, joyful smears. I remain tense and watchful, ready to call it quits, grab an entire roll of paper towels, and swear off painting forever, or at least until next Christmas. I continue to watch, and then realize, They are doing just fine. Sure, my son reloads his brush for every single puzzle piece, and my daughter seems to paint the same three or four branches of her snowflake over and over again. But neither of them have painted themselves, or each other. Their clothes are unsmeared. One drip on the table is easily wiped away. I breathe out and slowly reach for my camera. Snap a few pictures. Feel brave enough to break their concentration and ask them to look at me, smile, and say "Merry Christmas!" The magic isn't broken, so I grab my own snowflake and paintbrush and begin to paint. As I smooth the glittery gold color over the brown puzzle pieces, I actually relax. And then my son says, "I love painting. It's my favorite kind of art." And on he paints, blithely, merrily, a bit messily, as I am struck down by his simple confession. I, who from this moment on, can no longer profess to love my son and loathe paint, who must realize that the joy in those blue eyes is worth any smear of paint on the table, or the stain on any shirt. How can I let my own selfish obsession with neatness and order hold sway, even in the wildly unfettered world of art and creative play? The simple, truthful answer is that, I can't. 

And so, today I am converted. Today painting has become an accepted, embraced, and encouraged form of self-expression. Today I give my son the gift of freedom, and find it for myself as well.

-Ashley