Overexposed

These pictures are all super blown-out and over-exposed, but you know what?  I love them anyway. I don't know why.  Because Judah is just a big 'ol HOSS and can push tractors weighed down by brother and sisters?  In his skivvies no less?!  Because that is JUST the face Little Addie Mae gives when she is happily surprised at something?   Because Andrew and Corynn bear those very same expressions every day?  Because those purple/pink flowers are the first posies to bloom in my flower circle?  Because those wisps of white crowning a pale little bud of a girl?  Probably all of the above.

 How was your Mother's Day weekend?

I spent my Mother's Day gathering armload after arm load of not-quite-opened lilacs into the house and into vases to spread around the house.  I've been looking so forward to lilacs which I haven't enjoyed in ever so long (last years' were zapped by a late frost before they even came close to blossoming) and whose smell happens to be one of my most favorites.  Tonight is supposed to be a killing frost which makes me so sad!  Tonight I will gather all the tarps and blankets I can find and try to cover the lilacs and apple blossoms up but just in case, I have plenty of vases scattered around the house. It is snowing at this very minute. 

Snow in May.  Ridiculous.

And as I plucked baby flowers to save them from a cruel fate...I pondered.

After the last few weeks and all the anxiety of not knowing what was wrong with me  (and assuming the WORST, naturally), I spent my Mothers' Day a bit more reflective than in previous years.  Being a mother is such a joy and such a gift- but with that gift and that joy there is a deep commitment and responsibility that is...dare I say it?... daunting.  As I was considering (what I deemed to be) imminent death, all I could focus on were all the things I SHOULD have done.  I felt gripping fear as I considered "Have I done enough to train my children to love the Lord?  Have I been a good witness to them, a good testament of Christ?  Have I prepared them for life without me but with Christ?  Has my life helped or hindered the gospel in my childrens' lives?"  It is scary to know that there is only so much time to do what you are meant to.  Oil lamps aren't always at the ready.  Sometimes we just get lazy.  Sometimes we just get tired.  Sometimes, the schoolwork or the housework or the yardwork or the ANYTHING gets more attention than the most important things.

When you are a mother, every single day is a gift, but also an obligation.  And knowing that I am put in charge of God's children and have only so much time to do what needs to be done, adds a certain fervor to the equation.  May God grant us mothers unending love and compassion to fulfill our calling, eyes open and grateful hearts for the love and blessings that the Lord has poured out for us,  also wisdom overflowing and a zeal to live for Him and to do His work. 

That is, after all, why we are here.

No other success in life-not being president, or being wealthy, or going to college, or anything else- comes up to the success of man and woman who can feel that they have done their duty and that their children and grandchildren rise up and call them blessed.  

                                                                    ~~Theodore Roosevelt

Improbable Beauty

Smooch hiccups, over and over again, and stretches womb with toes as I sit, legs curled over ugly but comfy armchair, reading of Benjamin West and hairless cats to fingers that color and build fences at my feet and a husband takings glimpses of Seasons Past.

This chair, with her rustic country stripes accommodated legs thrown over the side while Baby Boo squirmed and wiggled seven years ago. I nursed Boo turned Rynnie Roo, fresh and new Mama, in wee hours of the morning and the chair sat in the teeny tiny house by the window of the teeny tiny living room and the moon whispered to me and the cows bawled.

It rocked as woman on husbands' lap, cried on shoulder when he lost his job. It helped desperate, scared man to console frightened new Mama when no words could reassure. We moved jobs and houses and we took the chair with us, Matt cursing its' huge bulk and I resolutely standing by it, we WILL be taking this ugly, wonderful chair. It rocked a womb baby Peanut turned Panda, in a new home-in a musty basement because it wouldn't fit anywhere else-but it lured me down there and there I would rock baby turned boy. It followed us again, to another home and forgave us for all its bumps and bruises along the way.

Baby Bunkin finally came, and not so fresh and new Mama had to compete with little arms and legs that would bound to it, sprawl out on it and rock it too hard. Still, it rocked...this time next to a warm vent that rises heat from the basement woodstove. Feet plant firmly on the floor because wood floor is warmed by woodstove down below. The seat cushion got a friendly smile, in the center, from where I sat sideways and it isn't quite as comfortable to sit "the right way" anymore. So, when floor is cold with summer, I throw my legs over the side as I have always done.

Mama, thrice, the chair is well worn by now. The arm has a slit where big girl and boy bums have listened to stories, leaving room for nursing babe turned squirming toddler. The chair fills up as children gather on my lap and on each arm and I think of Smoochs' hiccups and I think how this will be the only time a Mama and four children can squish into a chair, when fourth is but a belly baby. And only then, when Mama is squished to near oblivion by melting children.

I think of all the days I would look at plaid chair and dream about magazine living rooms and coordinated furniture. White. With some blue the color of robins eggs and always a fresh vase of pale pink peonies on the coffee table.

But Mamas who live among babies and dirty barefeet that trudge carrying eggs and calf grain don't buy white couches. Mamas who stay home while Papa works hard to make ends meet don't buy furniture from furniture stores at all, at least not this one....they pick things up off the side of the road or pluck them from yard sales and find beauty in the ugly. Find thanksgiving in the ordinary. Find comfort in the "being there".

I realize, this ugly plaid chair that matches nothing and sports smiles and slits in awkward places has turned beautiful to me. It occurs to me that the beauty of the thing lies not in its appearance, but its comfortable devotion and faithful BEING there.

My children think I am a beauty. They say it often. I look in the car mirror to finish my eyeliner before church and see a girl staring back at me, admiring. A little boy says I am pwetty and tells of his future blonde- haired wife.

Could the beauty of this ordinary, worn Mama of four be the same as the chair? Could my beauty lie in the comfort of presence? Of dependable shoulders to cry on and a voice that can be heard throughout the day? Is "quality time" enough for children or is the beauty in the quantity of time?

My chair rocks, faithfully, as it has since we moved it from bachelor "trailer-mansion" to newly married "little house" and it has been there as girl turns woman turns wife turns mother and still it rocks. And I find its beauty.

Will my children find mine?

Will my husband look at his gray-haired woman with saggy skin, wrinkles and fragile bones and find beauty in me as he remembers my constant faithfulness, devotion? Will I grace his memories with presence? Can I be beautiful even if the only magazine covers in my life are those on the bathroom floor, sandwiched between toilet paper and sink?

My life is more beautiful because of that ugly ripped, plaid chair. I hope that this tarnished woman can make the lives of these wonders of mine a bit more beautiful by the end.

Here I sit. Faithfully rocking.

I want so badly to be beautiful.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finding bits of beautiful in my life, extraordinary bits of ordinary. Continuing my gratitude list......

• a chair, who has rocked me with my babies, all of them
• a home full of castoffs, humble beauty
• mud reflections

• scarred head of husband-all constant reminders of the beauty of his life.
  
• feeling rough, thick fingers gently stroke
  
• the only two rings I have, treasures
• a weekend of safe travels
  
• a reunion of friends
• admiring gardens of all sorts
• a farmer boy, who would rather help with chores than play with toys
  
• dozens of children, all keeping one another occupied.
• seeing a sweetling in person, wearing the dress *I* made for her.

• snitching fresh pineapple
• rain that pours only AFTER strawberry picking
• stone houses at dusk

• young women who are more wise than most grown women~I see in them, hope for the future. Here is one. Here is one. And one was celebrated this weekend past weekend.
  
• handpicked rubies
  

• the smell of honey in the air
• muffins baking
  
• the start of a new family read-aloud. Charlotte's Web, handpicked by Panda
  
• matching red bandannas on matching golden locks

Gifts numbered 402 to 422 gratefully realized.

What are YOU thankful for????

Sacrament of Place

“To be a Mother is to be the sacrament — the effective symbol — of place. Mothers do not make homes, they are our home: in the simple sense that we begin our days by a long sojourn within the body of a woman; in the extended sense that she remains our center of gravity through the years. She is the very diagram of belonging, the where in whose vicinity we are fed and watered, and have our wounds bound up and our noses wiped. She is geography incarnate, with her breasts and her womb, her relative immobility, and her hands reaching up to us the fruitfulness of the earth.

...Your body is the first object any child of man ever wanted. Therefore dispose yourself to be loved, to be wanted, to be available. Be there for them with a vengeance. Be a gracious, bending woman. Incline your ear, your heart, your hands to them. Be found warm and comfortable, and disposed to affection. Be ready to be done by and to welcome their casual effusions with something better than preoccupation and indifference."

An excerpt from the book Bed and Board by Robert Farrar Capon, as discovered through N. Wilson's blog archives. Really spoke to me and put into solid thought the words that have been swirling about my brain these last few weeks.

Adding that book to my Must-Read list.

Underfoot

It was two Saturday's past, warm, sunny and inviting outside. It also happened to be the first day the children and I had been able to enjoy the presence of our most beloved husband/father for more than a few hours as his work had called him away for a few days.

For nearly three days we had spread the memory of his words, his sounds, his smell and his love out; hoarding the memories and coveting the time when he would return and conserving them with fervor. But our tanks were low, we were running on fumes-and we needed him near us again.

That Saturday, before He had even woke up and been given proper time to rest himself, we famished three (and a half) came and drank him in as camels in a desert, overwhelming him with US. We hadn't allowed him time to nourish himself and so the day began grimly.

The children, wanting to be near and close to the father they love so tremendously with their entire beings were at every corner underfoot. And children underfoot of an unrested soul is never a good thing.

I was working in the kitchen, alone (and enjoying the peace, not having had it for three days) and listening to the sounds on the other side of the door~ the sound of the Papa, breaking down emptied cardboard boxes, the giggles and delight of the children as they could hardly contain just being NEAR him.

I heard impatience, and felt the stress continuing to rise as Matt couldn't come up for air.

And I prayed aloud, my hands gathering the ingredients to begin preparing our meal, my eyes glancing out the window at Matt,

"Lord, open His eyes to the love his children have for him. Help him to realize that they need to be near, and that the most precious thing for them AND him is for them to be together. Open his eyes to the fact that he ought to be HAPPY that they are underfoot, and help him to realize that if he grows impatient and stern- that one day, they won't WANT to be there. Give him patience, Lord, and show Him how important this is..."

It wasn't long after my lips became silent that the door slammed and an excited wispy haired girl came inside, beaming despite the strain obvious to me in Matt's voice.

"Mama. Whatcha doin'?" my girl asked.

"Working on supper..." my simple reply.

"Can I help you with something?" she asked, and I knew in her heart she was pleading.

"No, Corynn. Thanks for offering but there isn't much to do. I just have to make the grilled cheese and cut the cantalope and... Well, I can do it myself. It would just be easier if you ran outside and played."

"But Mama- I can get the stool, I can help you cut the cantalope. I'll be careful with the knife!" the pleading I knew was inside her was, as suspected, starting to emerge.

"Corynn." I said in my serious voice. The voice I give when she argues with the answer I give her... "You heard what I said. Go outside and play." Then, I added a strained "please." as if feigned politeness would make it all better.

She turned on her heels and headed outdoors and I heard her mutter, " All I wanted to do was help you, Mama."

Those words, deep and steeped in confusion, hit me hard in the gut. Then, I remembered the prayer I had just prayed on behalf of Matt.

And another crushing blow forced me to my knees.

I pray and I long for others to change~ but the log has not been pried from my own, blinded eyes. Full of pride, I point out what our children need (to Matt, to God, to blogdom), and how much, and when~ and yet, I don't act on behalf of that knowledge. I see the joy potential, but don't give of myself to live it out.

I stood, humbled and ashamed for many moments, not believing what had just happened and the irony of the prayer I had just spoken on another's behalf. Who WAS I?

I said a little prayer of repentence, then went outside to find Corynn. I told her that I was wrong to push her out the door, and that I would be pleased to have her come help me in the kitchen.

The rest of the evening, she slathered bread with butter as I sliced cheese and ham for grilled cheese. I took the seeds from a cantelope and wedged it, she cut the wedges into little pieces (with a sharp knife!) She pushed the buttons on the microwave and helped stir as our soup warmed. She set the table and I lit the candles. She called the 'men' in for supper as I filled the glasses.

Her little body, perched atop a stool but doing grown up things, right alongside me. Fingers working, getting soiled alongside one another, hands working to a greater, common good. That night I sought joy by giving of myself, and it was realized. But, I found out too, that giving of myself to create that joy-memory, wasn't as inconvenient as I thought. It wasn't that great of a sacrifice.

In fact, it was pleasure. It was fun. It was a glimpse into the future, when hands much bigger and more capable can work alongside me in the many projects and endeavors I have. It was the cultivating of ground so that when those hands ARE bigger, they will still seek me out to help and share, and love and give.

Lord, help me to realize my shortcomings, and to see clearly my need for change. Open MY eyes to the joy of these children and help me to show them that I want them near, that they are important and dear. Help me to cultivate the ground in this early years so that it might be fertile and grow beautiful gardens later.