9.20.2015

I'm not the scientific type.  I don't particularly care how things work.  I defer most serious science questions, lobbed at me by curious children, to Nick.  He almost always can explain any phenomena to the satisfaction of the kids.  Not me!  "Why do the leaves turn colors in the autumn?"  I flip through the small mental rolodex of "things I remember from 6th grade earth science" and come up empty.  "Uh, well, I guess because the color scheme of fall is yellow, orange, and red, and all those bright green leaves seemed clashy."  Four kids rolls their eyes.  Nixon is impressed!  Nick whips out words like "clorophyll" and "glucose" and I proceed to zone out, ensuring that I will still not know the answer the next time I am asked.  But now and then I observe something that interests me, which probably has a simple scientific explanation, for completely unscientific reasons.

Example:

We are just entering our third autumn in Japan.  Through much of the spring, and almost all of the summer, Mt. Fuji isn't visible to us from our house.  Then, sometime in the fall, it will start appearing.  We will be driving down the road and, lo and behold! Mt. Fuji will be there!  It's not a hard-and-fast rule.  Every now and then we catch a glimpse of Fuji in summer and once and a while it is hidden in the winter, but not generally speaking.

I am not very fond of winter.  I don't particularly like the cold and the whipping wind.  Things seem desolate and lonely.  We have to brace ourselves to face the elements.  We walk through snow and slush and we slip on hidden patches of ice.  It's rough!  And there, in the midst of all the things that I would rather not deal with, Fuji shows up, looking majestic and steady.

In my 30 years, God has often worked that way, too.  When things are easy, steady, and balmy, I don't see Him every day.  I set cruise control and don't worry about the fact that He isn't showing up.  But once winter hits, when I am trapped in a snowstorm, bam! I find Him.  In the middle of my chaos, He looms, unchanged and unchanging, right where He has always been, whether I looked for Him or not.  Whether I could see Him or not.

How do you train yourself to remain diligent and mindful in the summer?  Habit, I suppose.  A greater dedication than I am prone to have!  This winter Fuji will be the string around my finger.  When I am encountered with that mountain, multiple times a day, I want to take a moment to seek out God.  Just for a minute.  To tell Him that I wish to seek Him and to see Him even in this "summer" of life.  It is one of the easiest fallacies to believe: that I need Him less when life is simple.
Lord, I need You, oh I need You.
Every hour I need You.
My one defense.
My righteousness.
Oh, God, how I need You.

09/07/2015

I recall feeling entirely conflicted as I drove home with a crusty-eyed, wheezing, filthy little ball of fur in a box next to me.  I love a good rescue, particularly when it comes to animals, but this one seemed particularly inconvenient.  Kittens, even healthy ones, can be a lot of work and, in addition to the four children already causing noise and messes joy in our house, we had another little one expected in just a few months.  I told myself that we would just do what we could for the kitten and once it was healthy it would be easy to find him a home.  

"Grumbles" was gingerly placed in an old dog crate with a worn-out towel and a pudding-turned-litter box where he wheezed and sneezed through the night.  I had enough experience to know that between his age (he was very young) and the severity of his condition, his chances of survival were, at best, slim.  I had forewarned the kids:  Grumbles may not make it through the night.  He was in terrible condition.  But in the morning, long before I would have awakened on my own, four delighted children brought the report:  He was still alive!!!  

So, as planned, I took Grumbles to the vet and within days he was looking and acting like a healthy kitten.

About 12 seconds after Grumbles arrived at our house, it became clear that Nathan had a particular love for the kitten.  And Grumbles had a particular affinity for Nathan.  Perhaps that was just coincidence.  Or perhaps kittens, like people, can sense when they are loved and just gravitate toward the affection.

After Grumbles had completed his rounds of antibiotics and steroids, he was part of the family.  Nick only accepted him on behalf of the rest of us, who would spend hours giggling at Grumbles as he did nothing spectacular.  He just charmed us with the antics that any 6-week-old kitten would exhibit.  And then, completely exhausted from countless haphazard leaps and wobbly-legged chases, he would snuggle up with Nathan and sleep.  

This post really isn't about Grumbles.  

This post is about Nathan.  Let me try and describe him.

He is thin; particular about the color, temperature, smell, texture, and ingredients of every. single. meal. ever placed in front of him.  It's exhausting to try and cook for him.  He's particular about his things, with almost unending requests for a little sewing repair between the toes on one of his stuffed animals or in an absolute panic because he cannot find his blanket.  And, no, a different blanket will not suffice.  What a ridiculous suggestion!  He is particular about the books he reads, the games he plays, the schedule of the day, the sounds around him, etc.  

Nowadays we call this type of behavior OCD.  But for hundreds of years prior to the psychological boom, people probably would have said he was just a little high-strung.  

Let's be honest, it can be wearying to live with someone who's blood pressure is high on a relaxed day.  But it is much worse to BE the person who is constantly fighting the instinct to panic.  And that's Nathan.  It's one of the things that makes him special.  

And that's why Grumbles is special.  Because Grumbles loves every single little thing about Nathan.  Grumbles knows how to wiggle his way into the empty spot next to Nathan just when Nath needs a friend the most.  Grumbles listens to all the worries and, without saying anything, says "It's okay, buddy!  I'm here."  

Grumbles is patient and tolerant.  Grumbles is soft and just the right size for small people to lug around without excessive difficultly.  Grumbles makes Nathan (and the rest of us) laugh.  Grumbles doesn't know he isn't a person.  Grumbles is irreplaceable.  

Tonight I snuck into Nathan's room and there he was, sleeping soundly.  And right next to him, as I have grown to expect, was a sleeping orange kitten.  There are some things about Nathan's personality that I can easily understand.  There are many other things that are solely his experience and that I cannot wrap my mind around.  For years and years I have wished I was better at filling the void that is created when you feel like no one has ever felt the way you feel or seen things the way you see them.  

But along came Grumbles, a mess of whiskers and claws and pillow-stealing, and he was a perfect fit!  Years from now when Nick will have to dig a small grave in the backyard and I'll have to seek out a shoebox worthy of burial, I will stand graveside and weep buckets and buckets of tears for a little boy (who will then be not-so-little) who will be brokenhearted.  And I will tell him that forever and ever I will be glad that, with sweat dripping down my face and my back, while hugely pregnant, I coaxed that sick little kitten out from his hiding place behind a Thai restaurant and brought him home.  I didn't know it then, but I was saving his best friend.  

9.6.2015

Hoy, little Captain, 

Master of your basket boat, 

With a blanket and a bottle 

For companions while you float.

What do you see, little eyes,

From your perch at basket's helm?

You are small, but make it clear:

You rule a vast and mighty realm.

And one day, darling boy,

Your hamper ship abandoned,

You'll be as big as you now dream yourself to be.

Unsteady at life's helm,

In an ocean far too wide,

I'll be saying (just as now): "Little Captain of the sea,

If the waves seem overwhelming, sail to me."

At Christmas time people throw around the name "Immanuel" an awful lot.  And it's understandable.  Not for the first time in history, but certainly for the most notable time in history, God showed up...

with us.

And, unlike His previous appearances in a burning bush, or on a mountaintop, etc., this time He came in human likeness.  So the setting was different and more approachable.  He wasn't so out of reach.  He was there, a baby, crying sometimes, hungry in the middle night when His Mom wanted to sleep, maybe exhibiting some scratches from the straw in His bed, dirtying Himself and, in all of the less-than-glory of the situation we find Him...

with us.


It's 2013, early in January, and I'm up writing after putting the kids in bed.  Repeatedly.  Because tonight, for whatever reason, every. single. child. had a million things on their agenda that simply stood in the way of an easy bedtime.  Lottie pooped.  Liam got a nosebleed.  Nathan had the hiccups and needed to "drink something slowly."  Nia wanted a story.  Liam wanted to sleep with some trains.  Nathan had read all the books he has upstairs and needed to swap 'em out for some new reading material.  The list went on.  And tonight, this was too much for me.

The difficulty I was having with bedtime compounded with acute homesickness, a lack of proper medication, and plain, old-fashioned hunger to reduce me to a blubbering mess.  So, I did what I often do in times of emotional crisis.  I sat down and played the piano.  And I reached this line in a song that I was singing, referring to Jesus:

"Emmanuel.  The promise kept.  It's the longing of my heart for God in flesh."

So I stopped singing.  Stopped playing.  And I let the tears fall silently.  Yes, He is the longing of my heart.

I started to think about that name, Emmanuel, God is with us.  And I briefly ran through the recounting of Jesus' 33-years on earth.  I was asking myself, "Where, to me, is the name Emmanuel epitomized?"  And, guess what?  It wasn't at Christmas.

The answers probably differ for various people.  Maybe for many, even most, Emmanuel is encapsulated in the events of Christmas.  But I find Emmanuel here:

Luke 22:39-44
Jesus went out as usual to the Mount of Olives, and his disciples followed him.  On reaching the place, he said to them, "Pray that you will not fall into temptation."  He withdrew about a stone's throw beyond them, knelt down and prayed, "Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done."  An angel from heaven appeared to him and strengthened him.  And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground.  

Gethsemane.  Emmanuel.  God going to great lengths to embrace the destitute condition of humanity.  Many times I have found myself in my own little Gethsemane; tears and sweat, anguish and fear, questions, many questions.  And I wish it would occur to me more often that Jesus, too, lay prostrate in that place.  And that while He pleaded with His Father, He spoke to me:  Emmanuel.

The other day I helped my 5-year-old put together a puzzle.  It had a couple hundred pieces and made quite a project for her.  When we were done we noticed that one piece was missing.  And although all 299 others were in their proper places, there was no satisfaction in competing the puzzle until we had crawled around on the floor and put that last piece into place.

In life, as in puzzles, we want to find that last, missing piece.  "It's the longing of my heart for God in flesh."  

I will, undoubtedly, lose track of that piece over, and over, and over again.  But tonight I found it, for a moment, when I encountered God where I needed Him most: a stone's throw from his sleeping disciples, weeping.

It's nice to gain some perspective.  I cry over so little.  He cried over so much.  Yet, I am blessed by Him, this God who weeps.

Emmanuel.

01/03/2012

Oh, Nathan. He is an asker of profound questions. The original topic of discussion was homophones. Nathan is intrigued by the English language and, whereas most of us are content with being generally baffled by the ins-and-outs of grammar rules (and the continual breaking of such rules), Nathan feels the need to master each concept. Back to homophones. "Whether, whether, whether, whether, whether you like it or not weather, weather, weather, weather, weather is cold, warm, or hot." All I know about homophones I learned from this VeggieTales ditty. I'll admit it. But, enter Nathan, and suddenly I'm required to have a formal definition, a boatload of examples, and explanation for why the folks inventing words didn't just come up with something that sounded original.

So, I'm listing all the homophones that immediately come to mind:

Too. Two. To.

I. Eye.

Dear. Deer.

Pray. Prey.

Be. Bee.

Where. Wear.

It's not a comprehensive list, obviously, but off the top of my head, I thought it was pretty good.

"What about 'right'?" Nathan asks. "You know, like, 'I'm usually right' or 'I'm going to write you a little note'."

I confirm that, indeed, these were homophones. He asks about several more and they are all definitely homophones. Then he says, "What about 'ark'?" He goes on to explain the two different definitions. One being a large boat used to hold a mobile zoo. The second being a box used to carry stone tablets with rules.

Unfortunately, these words are actually the same word. And I made the mistake of saying so. Conversation shift. We were then discussing the contents of the ark (the NOT mobile zoo edition). The Ark of the Covenant. What was a covenant? Where is the box now? Why couldn't people touch the ark-box? It was a long, in-depth theological discussion. With my six-year-old.

It was also several days ago. But, this morning while I was driving to WalMart, that discussion came back to mind and I found that I was fixated, not so much on the ark, but on the curtain. Do you know the one? The curtain that separated the Ark of Covenant from all but the High Priest. And, while I'm no Bible historian (and I'm not going to research this right now), I recall that even the High Priest only went into the room with the Ark something like once a year. And it was a terrifying experience. Because the Presence of God was in that Ark. And His presence is not something to approach flippantly.

But there He dwelt, among His people, until the moment when Jesus "gave up His spirit" as the ultimate sacrifice. And at that moment, the moment Jesus died, the curtain tore from top to bottom. Suddenly this room, with the Ark of the Covenant, which had been strictly forbidden to "common folks" and which was only approachable under the strictest of conditions (after a series of sacrifices, by only the High Priest, only on certain occasions, and with great fear and trembling), was open for all to see. Approachable.

Whoa. That makes one doozy of an adjustment if you are an Israelite, comfortable with the standards and rigmarole of Old Testament law. Fortunately for me, I was not born into a generation of pigeon sacrifices or lengthy redemption ceremonies. I was born in the PC generation (sure, computers, too!). I'm thinking of "Post Curtain."

So, it ought to be easy. I can just waltz up to the "Ark Box". Skip the lamb. No incense. No fire. No priest.

But, I've discovered something about myself: I'm a seamstress.

2012 years after that curtain tore, stubborn Rachel seeks to sew it back together. Stitch by painstaking stitch. I don't think I'm the only seamstress.

Much has been made, at least in my experience, of the legalism and standards of Christianity. And, while I'm not trying to throw morals out the window or say that "anything goes", I want to get in touch with my seam ripper this year.

Because I innately understand legalism. Something inside me feels the need to provide my own environment of purgatory. Right here. Right now. Can I beat myself up? You betcha! Can I carry my own guilt around? Oh, yeah! Can I lock the bars on my opened prison cell? I can. And I do.

Because I seek to sew the curtain.

I'm not big on New Year's Resolutions. But this year, I am resolved to use my seam ripper. In the areas of my life where I have sewn the curtain shut and have blocked forgiveness, redemption, freedom, and Jesus, I want to cut the thread. There is much of the Bible that I understand. There is much that I can explain to inquisitive Nathan. But what of freedom in Christ? What do I know of that? Not enough.

John 10:10 "I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full."

10/08/2011

At nearly-six, you're not too big

to rock to sleep at night.

You're not too old to kiss, to hold,

to sleep with a nightlight.

At nearly-six, you're not too big

for flannel pajamas and dinosaur tees.

You're not aware that people might stare

if you fall and you skin your knee.

At nearly-six, you do not care

if you fit in society's mold.

You just live and laugh and love because,

at just nearly-six you aren't old.

At nearly-six, your Mom recalls

miles of memories.

And it seems to her a paradox

how quickly those miles can flee.

Nearly-six years of shared stories.

Nearly-six years of your smile.

Nearly-six years of bottles and meals.

And, oh, how nearly-six flies!

Nearly-six, will you stay a bit longer?

Will you linger while I take you in?

I do not need to turn back time's dial,

just for a time cease it to spin.

Nearly-six and he's checking for loose teeth,

saying that he's growing tall,

asking grown-up questions,

and calling toddlers "small."

Nearly-six and he's fast comprehending

that some things can't be understood:

That the world is dark, that fear is real,

and that somehow God is still good.

Oh, twenty six year old Mother,

don't let these moments slip past.

Nearly-seven is just 'round the corner.

Fill the years with things that will last.

08/02/2011

"Mom, did you ever go to a castle when you were a kid?" Nathan poses the question to me while we are driving in the car. I tell him that, in fact, I did visit a castle. Nathan wonders if I could recount some of the details, so I started in on my story.

My family was on vacation in Toronto, and we had decided to tour a local castle (Casa Loma). I recall that the castle had various modern fashion pieces on display, which seemed a little ironic considering the age of the castle. One of the items was a dress made entirely out of bubble wrap. I also relayed the more predictable features of the property: various stairways, rooms for the servants, ornate lighting fixtures, and classic architecture. But the part that stands out in my mind, which was consequently the part that most interested Nathan, was the secret underground passage.

Casa Loma has an 800-foot-long underground tunnel that connects the castle to the stable building. It is long and dark, it twists and turns, and it reeks of moist, stagnant air.

"Is it creepy?" Nathan interrupts.

"Oh, yeah," I tell him, "It was super creepy!"

And that's where I left it. Nathan remained deep in thought for a while and then said to me, "Hey, Mom! I wish I could see a MOVIE of you going through the tunnel when you were a kid!"

And this struck me as funny. Because the part of the story I didn't divulge was the emotional and physical breakdown that I had about 150 feet into that tunnel. I was an incredibly nervous kid, and claustrophobia combined with the general propensity to panic led to a full-blown anxiety attack. And so, there I was, probably in my young teens, being carried through the tunnel by my Dad while I absolutely bawled.

And I pictured Nathan and I sitting on the couch and watching that little episode and munching on popcorn. Pathetic.

You know why it was pathetic? Not because claustrophobia isn't real. Not because the tunnel wasn't dark. Not because the smell wasn't a little nauseating. Not because the passageway was pleasant.

It was pathetic because I was there with my Dad. And my Dad would never, not in a million years, put his daughter in a situation that he thought would bring her harm.

When I cried through the duration of the "It's a Small World" ride at Disney: my Dad was there. When I had a meltdown on top of Pike's Peak: my Dad was there. When I searched my room up and down for spiders that weren't there, guess who was? Yep. My Dad. When my husband was in the hospital and I was too nervous to stay and be a support to him: My Dad was there. And in the middle of that dreadful tunnel.

My. Dad. Was. There.

Today I'm feeling about 150 feet into life's tunnel, and it's feeling uncomfortable. Today we are learning that Nathan has (what we are "for now" calling) probable-Asperger's Syndrome. Today we are learning that he has a sensory processing disorder, and life as we know it is changing. Today we are trying to figure things out financially, emotionally, and logistically. Today we are composing lists that tell us what to do, how to do it, and when to do it, and we are preparing for tomorrow, when that list will be marked all over, erased in places, and edited in red marker. Today I'm aware of the tunnel.

Have you ever had those days?

Right now, we don't see the light at the tunnel's end. And, frankly, this portion of the tunnel doesn't seem very well lit. And my 13-year-old inclination is to panic. To render myself immobile. To cry. And, I'll be honest, over the past few weeks, I have done each of those things. But as I replayed the little movie of the Casa Loma tunnel, my perspective on this tunnel changed.

Because my Dad is here.

Because my Dad would never, not in an eternity, put His daughter in a situation that He knew would bring her harm.

So maybe I can do today what I had to do all those years ago. I can just look up into my Dad's face and focus on Him while He carries me.

"So do not fear for I am with you. Do not be dismayed for I am Your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with My righteous right hand." -Isaiah 41:10

4/19/2011

I have a habit. I'm a sing-song-name-inserter.

I'll expound.

There was this little ditty that my Mom used to sing to us as kids, "Bye-O, Bye-O, Baby Bunting, Bye-O, Bye-O, Baby Girl...". Once I had Nathan, I found myself naturally customizing the song for him: "Bye-O, Bye-O, Baby Nathan, Bye-O, Bye-O, Baby Peej...". (It has been such a long time since I even recalled the nickname "Peej"!)

Then came Nia. "Bye-O, Bye-O, Baby Nia...".

But my habit started to spread. It no longer solely influenced my singing of that traditional family ditty (I hear it was passed down from my Great Grandma Lottie and goodness knows where she learned it!). It sneaked into songs that call for no customization or personalization at all. How about this lullaby:

"...and down will come Nia, cradle and all."

And it didn't stop with lullabies. I found myself teaching the kids to insert the names of dear friends and family members in the "Peanut Butter" song. Do you know the one? The one where it should be a peanut sitting on a railroad track. More commonly, at my house, it could be heard:

"Lottie sat on a railroad track,

heart was all a-flutter.

Round the bend came the 5:15,

Toot! Toot!

Lottie Butter!"

It's gruesome, really, I know. But it's a habit, and I'm having a hard time kicking it.

Today I got thinking about the old song, "Oh, how I love Jesus." Most of you will know it. But in case you don't:

"Oh, how I love Jesus.

Oh, how I love Jesus.

Oh, how I love Jesus,

Because He first loved me."

Two or three repeats and I find myself sticking in other people's names.

"Oh, how I love Liam.

Oh, how I love Liam...."

But then I hit that last line and I think to myself, "Liam didn't love me first." So why do I love Liam? Well, of course, with Liam the answers are simple, and straightforward. He's my son. He has those cheeks that just BEG to be loved. He is part of our family. He is mine! I love him naturally and innately.

But...

But what about the people that we don't want to love? What about the people that don't seem lovable? Maybe you're a natural people-lover, and maybe everyone who comes to your mind brings thoughts of love and smiles, but I can think of a few people that I umm, struggle to love. What about them? Why do I love them?

Because I'm commanded to, perhaps? Because I feel like it's polite? Because I think the expectation is that I show love to each individual I meet? (And, by the way, I'm regularly a major flunk in the subject of love, so don't read this as a proclamation of successfully loving the truly irritating!)

And then it hit me: I should be able to stick anyone's name in those first three lines because the last line never changes.

He. First. Loved. Me.

Oh, how I love Nicolas.

Oh, how I love my children.

Oh, how I love my neighbors.

Oh, how I love the policeman who has just pulled me over.

Oh, how I love this pauper.

Oh, how I love this prince.

Oh, how I love the pretty.

Oh, how I love the plain.

Oh, how I love the just-plain-ugly!

Oh, how I love you, and you, and you...

"Because He first loved me."

And, at the end of the day, I really just want to see people the way Jesus sees them.

01/11/2011

Like the miners, forty-niners,

we all headed to find gold,

to find riches, to seek treasure,

and a heap 'o wealth behold.
But alas, despite the interest

and the effort that we gave,
No treasures found compared

to the treasure of the cave:

01/07/2011

Lovely Little Lads and Lasses