Night-time visitations

They visit me in the night: the things I failed to do today.
           Put the blueberry plants in pots. (How do I manage to repeatedly overlook this all day only to remember it in the middle of the night?)
           Send a reply to that email from a friend.
           Speak to my son gently instead of snapping when he whined for "mama" yet again.
           Bring the laundry in from the line. (I listen to the rain pouring outside; instead of being lulled to sleep, I fret about clothes that are already wet.

As I doze off briefly, I dream of a beautiful day near the water with my family.  Given a moment alone, I wander off to watch the birds, only to be attacked by some large prehistoric animal that looks like a wild boar, only much bigger.  It rams me in middle of my chest, right where I have pain from a pulled muscle. In the gloom of the night, I feel like maybe it is my heart breaking. 

Baby C

                 I listen.

Expecting it, waiting for it: bum-bum. bum-bum. bum-bum.

Giddy, remembering the first time I heard it from your brothers. It had blown me away.  A moment sealed in my memory.  Today I am more prepared. And I wait for it:

                 bum-bum. bum-bum.

As the wait lengthens, I remember words quickly spoken, last night before going to sleep. 
                 Said too lightly,  never believed.

The silence continues.

I wait.

Finally the pain comes.  I wish for more.  Enough to fill the gaping wound.  Enough to alert the world. 
Silence remains.

They tell me I will see you some day. 
I hear the cliche.  Does it comfort or confuse? 
                  I silence my questions.

Dear one, I'm sorry.
For my fear.
For my ambivalence.
For my silence:
                  Do not think it was shame. 
                  Do not think I did not love you enough to say your name. 

The sun rises. 
Your brothers ask for their morning milk and snuggles.  

And I will speak your name: Baby C

Like a little child

Several weeks ago my son Titus had a nightmare.  Imprinted in my memory is the image of a mostly-asleep, stumbling toddler SCREAMING and RUNNING full-tilt in the dark through the open doorway to his parent's room and into my arms.

Yesterday, the whole family went for a hike on what may possibly have been the most beautiful day of Fall 2011.  While the rules about hand-holding are strictly enforced on our city sidewalks, there is no expectation of hand-holding while in the woods.  However, I found as we walked along that both boys instinctively reached up warm chubby hands to be gripped in mine as we walked and talked and looked.

This is trust.  Instinctive.  Freely given, unforced. 

As much as I fail as a mother, my sons trust me.  They run into my arms when terrified and reach for me when happy.  They give it not a thought.

Jesus said:

"Let the little children come to me,

and do not hinder them, 

for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.

I tell you the truth,

anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God

like a little child

will never enter it."

Mark 10:14-15 

Father, please teach me to trust you like a child.  To understand your love so completely that I instinctively run to You, reach for You.  Amen.

I don't trust God for that

I don't trust God for some things.  Some big things.

I don't trust God for happiness. 
I don't trust God for a life free from tragedy.
I don't trust God for good health or enough money to pay the mortgage.
I don't trust God to preserve the lives of my children.
I don't trust God for a healthy, growing church.
I don't trust Him to protect me from debilitating depression, from loss of home or death of spouse, from doubt and confusion.  I don't trust Him to make the sun shine everyday and to give me neighbors who always smile and wave. 


So, you may ask, why do you trust Him?  What is He good for?

I do trust God with some things.  Some big things.

I trust God for joy.  
I trust God for peace beyond my understanding.
I trust God to love me with love greater than any other love I'll know. 
I trust God, whatever else this life may hold, that He holds me in His eternal loving grasp.
I trust God to forgive my sins, which are many, and to release me from death and condemnation.
I trust God to be as faithful in my future as He has shown Himself to be in my past.
I trust God for my future home and life, eternally celebrating His love. 

I look at these lists and I feel anxiety creeping.  I also feel amazing comfort and excitement to see how God is going to keep His promises to me. 

Do you trust Him?  Do you not?  What would be on your lists today?

Things I was planning not to say:

Things I was planning not to say:

1.  No No No No No No! 
(alternately: Micah Micah Micah Micah; Stop Stop Stop Stop Stop)

 Really, shouldn't one time be enough?

2. Why did you do that?

Why questions are awful.  And to a two-year old?

 

3. You're making me crazy!

No excuses... this one is awful!

4. That wasn't so bad, was it?

Close relative to "I told you so"

5. Guys
Ugh, what an ugly word.

"Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." Ps 90:12

Today, on a perfectly lovely family Monday (our day "off"), I found myself watching the clock.  If the boys get up from their nap now, I calculated, I have to get through five more hours until bedtime.

And then what?  What exactly was I looking forward to?  Peace and quiet?  Time to go on Facebook and find out how everyone else spent their day?  Sleep? Prayer time?  Starting all over tomorrow?

I know that these are the moments I will treasure for the rest of my life.  Not to discount all the previous moments and the ones to come, but really, two-year-old twin boys?  It doesn't get much sweeter than this.

Time, numbers, money, fractions, counting... my mind plays games with these things.  I credit (blame?) my dad for this... he loved to teach us to count, counting our toes, the steps, you name it, over and over.  I've seen him do it with his grandchildren.  And along the way I've picked up some strange habits... you may choose to label them otherwise.  On the treadmill, I calculate fancy percentages: "I'm 80% done."  Walking, I count "one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four..."  Coming home from the grocery store, I mentally tally up my purchases and try to match my total to what I paid (coupons make an extra fun challenge!)  And when the boys were small, time was our life.  When will they be hungry again?  How long did they sleep?

We're now at a glorious stage where my sons won't go into a meltdown if dinner is ten minutes or even an hour late.  They might nap for two hours or not at all.  I have no need to watch the clock obsessively. 

I should be obsessively watching my Jesus.

 "Therefore, holy brothers, who share in the heavenly calling, 

fix your thoughts on Jesus, 

the apostle and high priest whom we confess."

Heb 3:1

I don't want to reach the end of my days and long for more time.  This is the time.  It is good.  I choose to spend it well.  I often fail.  And I ask God to teach me the right way to number my days.  If you are with me in clock-watching, spend some time with me meditating on Psalm 90.