Adult Summer Reading Program

I was excited to hear that my local library is offering an Adult Summer Reading Program.  I remember the children’s programs I participated in… elaborate displays in the kids’ section of the library where I’d move my game piece along a path to show how many books I’d read.  And checking out stacks of books and giving brief oral book reports to the librarian to prove that I’d read the books.  And the rewards of pizza coupons and trinkets and silly little things that seemed huge.

This one’s a little different.  When you become an adult, you don’t even have to READ books to participate in the program!  All you have to do is check them out, and for each book you check out you get to fill out a form that gets entered in a drawing for cool stuff.  So, technically, this is a See Who Can Schlep The Most Books To And From Their Car Program.  Come on, people.  At least make people turn their books back in before you let them fill out the form.  Or, better yet, for this stickler-for-punctual-returns library (50 cent fines, seriously???  $5 owed blocks my account, seriously???), only allow patrons to fill out the form if they return their book ON TIME.  I’d never fill out a single form. 

So.  I like reading and I like a fair contest, so I don’t need no stinkin’ Adult Summer Check-Books-Out Program.  But I do like extra motivation to read instead of spending too much time on the facebook-pinterest-google Bermuda Triangle.  So this summer I’m going to blog about what I’m reading – books, kids books, articles, newspapers, websites, whatever strikes my fancy.  This blog has no focus and comes and goes with my attention span and bursts of creativity, but I think this will be a fun way to get a little focus for the summer and hopefully read more.

First up:  Magic Tree House Books One and Two, by Mary Pope Osborne

I started reading the Magic Tree House series to Eden this week.  She’s ready for some longer stories and loves to be read to, and I’d heard that this was a good series to start with.  We tried The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe awhile back but it was just a little too long and we were just irregular enough with reading it that she got lost in the story.  This series seems to be a good middle ground between the Frog And Toad size story and a full length novel. 

Pros: 
~The characters’ names are Annie and Jack, and it really doesn’t get any cuter than that.  Plus, with these kinds of stories you’ll find yourself reading “said Jack” and “Annie said” about a million times, so you want the names to be cute.   

~These books took about 30 minutes to read out loud, so we were able to finish them the same day we started and Eden could remember the whole story. 

~The basic plot of each story involves the characters looking through books in a tree house library and then time traveling to one of the settings in one of the books.  Jack then uses the book and Annie uses her intuition to help make sense of their surroundings and help them find their way through their adventures.  I’m a big reader and a book nerd, so I love that books are central to the plot and the kids aren’t googling with their iphones to figure out what a Pteranodon eats. 

~The siblings’ approach to life and reality is contrasted interestingly.  Annie is intuitive, imaginative, can communicate with animals (not telepathically, but just reading body language, nonverbals, etc.), believes easily in magic, and is trusting.  Jack is scientific, skeptical, grounded in physical proof, and needs evidence to believe.  The differences are obvious and do pigeonhole the personalities of the characters, but it is interesting to see the contrasting approaches and how it affects their adventures.  I think it’s a good introduction for young kids regarding how your perception of the world affects how you interact with it. 

~In the first book in the series, Dinosaurs Before Dark, Jack forgets his notebook and shouts dramatically with bearded face, “I HAVE TO GO BACK!!”  Or maybe that’s LOST.  It felt like a shout out to all those adults out there reading the book. 

~The author’s middle name is Pope.  How cool is that? 

Cons:

~When Jack is unhappy with something Annie does, he occasionally says, “I’m going to kill her.”  This bothers me.  I realize that Eden might be younger than the intended audience, but it still seems like a bit much to express his mild frustration.  I skipped the line or made up my own. 

~Annie is 7 and Jack is 8 ½.  In the second book in the series, The Knight at Dawn, they sneak out of the house at 5:30am when their parents are sleeping and have an adventure, and then sneak back in without their parents noticing.  Um…

~Sentence fragments.  I’m guessing that the author was trying to use short sentences for the benefit of early readers, but in her attempts, she uses almost more sentence fragments than actual sentences (exaggeration, but there are a lot of them).  I swear I’m not the grammar police, and I firmly believe in breaking grammar rules if you have a good reason and IF YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT.  But I think it’s important for early readers to get a firm handle on the basics. 

So, these books seem to be fun adventure stories that are a good length to read to kids who are ready to transition to chapter books.  They are definitely light reading – you won’t find much meaningful commentary on life or people or Big Ideas, but they capture your imagination and introduce kids to different time periods and ideas that they might not have been exposed to.  Eden was really confused with why the Knight in the second book was nice to the kids and took them back to the tree house, because he looked mean and scary in his armor.  I explained a tiny bit about the code of chivalry and that was fun.  I could see these books being a jumping off point for further exploration of a topic or time period. 

We’ll definitely read more of this series, and I’m also excited to try the Little House series again and the C.S. Lewis series again.  I think with more consistent reading times built into our routine, we’d be able to get through those longer books fast enough that she’d track with the story.  Now that summer’s here, more consistent reading times seems doable! 

Next Up:  How reading a reprint of The Great Gatsby with Leonardo DiCaprio on the cover changes the way the book reads.  

Peace In A Jar: Conversation Questions

Dinnertime conversation has resembled locker room talk around here lately.  Our mealtime rules are pretty clear:  stay in your seat, ask for things politely, no potty talk, and no fighting.  Lately these rules have become regularly ignored, to the point where Kasey and I were breaking rules 2 and 4 in our demands that the kids follow rules 1 and 3.  So, I instituted the “Conversation Question Jar” in an attempt to culture us a little bit. 

I gathered a bunch of random conversation questions from the interwebs, printed them, and stuffed them in a small mason jar.  Voila.  Peace in a jar. 

Almost. 

It definitely helped with rules 1, 2, and 4. 

The first question pulled out was “What is something that you’re really proud of yourself for?” 

Eden:  “I’m proud that I’m a big sister to Isaac.”  (So sweet.  I love that she’s proud of something she IS, not something that she DOES.)

Isaac:  “…(long pause)…I proud dat I pee in my diaper.  Hee hee.”   (Awesome.) 

Question number two was “What is something that you want to learn how to do well?” 

Eden:  “I want to learn how to tie my shoes!” 

Isaac:  “I want to learn how to get da ‘tuff from da roof of da shelter when it raining.”  (Love his imagination.  He sounds like a future Survivor Man or something.) 

And I should have left well enough alone, but for some reason I couldn’t resist taking the opportunity to encourage potty learning by saying, “And Isaac, are you looking forward to learning how to pee in the potty?” 

Isaac:  “Pee on da floor.  Hee hee.” 

That one was totally my fault.  

Worms

I stared at the sidewalk on the way to class this morning, trying to avoid wormicide, to avoid splattering slimy segments up the back of my pants, wishing I hadn’t worn flip flops.  The air smelled ripe and swampy.  Some of them were stretched out long, trying to get to the other side safely.  Some were curled up into themselves, trying to present as small a target as possible for the thumping soles. 

“I wear flip flops on our dairy farm,” said my student.  “I’ve been stepped on a few times and gotten broken toes, but that doesn’t bother me.  I hate worms.  They creep me out.  I think it’s because they slither towards you.  I had to talk on the phone to distract myself on the way to class.” 

Eden made a worm farm in a plastic bucket.  She was so proud, carefully shoveling in dried out mud and adding a bit of water to the bottom.  She dropped her five worm family into the bucket, where they sloshed around and disappeared.  She later cried that she lost them.  We dug around and found half of one and remains of another. 

Isaac collects them in a toy watering can, all piled one on top of the other.  Despite being educated about the optimal conditions for worm survival, he leaves them with only each other.  He later laments that they have “deaded” and aren’t moving. 

“I used to line them up on my grandma’s kitchen table,” said another student.  “I’d give them baths in her sink.  She couldn’t stand it.  I don’t know why I touched them; they’re so gross.  I think I drowned them.” 

I walked back to my car, still staring at the sidewalk.  What worms remained were dried out sticks or slimy shadows, the worms themselves carried across campus on someone’s tread.  A few shiny curlicues slithered still, proving the sticking power of the worm.  

When I'm A Mommy, I'm Going To Use My Nice Words

There’s been an anti-screaming theme in my life lately.  I came across the book Screamfree Parenting on my sister’s bookshelf and was intrigued.  Then one of my favorite bloggers, digthischick, mentioned the book Peaceful Parent, Happy Kids: How to Stop Yelling and Start Connecting.  Then I forgot about those books because I’m stubborn and don’t like to learn new (hard) things. But then my friend Sierra, another of my favorite bloggers, referred to the digthischick book recommendation on her blog.  And that same day, my friend Emily linked via facebook to this Huff Post article by The OrangeRhino. 

Hmmm…maybe I should pay attention to this theme? 

I gave up my avoidance tactics and got Screamfree Parenting from the library and started reading it.  I read The Orange Rhino’s blog and could relate to so much of what she said. 

And then I had a chance to practice.  It didn’t go well. 

The short version is that we met up with some friends, and all our kids were playing together.  Then there were 3, yes THREE, “accidents” wherein my little innocents injured a little boy (the same little boy all 3 times) to the point of tears.  So we left, and my words and tone in the van on the way home got a little too steamy.  The kids said I was being mean.  I said I was being mad. 

Everyone took a break from each other for awhile when we got home, and then we regrouped to talk it through.  I made sure that my sweet littles knew that we do not hurt our friends, and if we cannot control our bodies enough to prevent “accidents,” then we will have to stay home to protect our friends until we learn how.  We talked about how we would feel if our friends hurt us, or hypothetically, hurt us 3 times in one hour.  We talked about how we might not be too excited to see those friends again if that kept happening. 

We seemed to come to an understanding, we put it behind us, and we moved on. 

Later that day, Eden was playing quietly and said, “When you talked to us in the living room, you didn’t say you were sorry for talking mean at us.  When I’m a mommy, I’m not going to yell.  I’m going to use my nice words.” 

Uh, um, stammer stammer… she was right.  Despite my recent reeducation into the concept that yelling at small people is not acceptable, I hadn’t even thought to apologize.  I was so bent on their behavior that I completely overlooked mine. 

Here’s the thing.  I tell myself that if I’m to the point of yelling, it’s because of my kids’ behavior.  That they have “triggered” me.  That they have made one too many bad decisions and it’s time to rein them in. 

But really, it’s all about me.  Why was I so mad about what happened with our friends?  Well, if I’m honest, I was mostly embarrassed.  Embarrassed that no one else’s kids were beating up on each other and mine were somewhat relentless about it on that occasion.  That it somehow reflected on my parenting and me as a person if my kids made bad choices (or had numerous accidents, by their account).  I was also afraid.  Afraid that these incidents were signs that some insidious bad habits are taking hold, or that my kids lack any shreds of empathy, or that we will never be able to leave our house for fear of injuring others. 

In other words, my “talking mean at them,” i.e., yelling, was about my feelings and my inability to deal with them.  And what I’m learning from the Well-Adjusted People Who Don’t Yell is that I need to deal with my own self, and let my kids deal with their own selves.  They need me to be calm, so they can learn.  When I yell, they are anxious and fearful and will do and say things just to calm my anxiety rather than to learn.  That sounds like some crazy codependence that I want no part of. 

Calm consequences teach.

So the next time I feel a yell coming on, I will step back and ask myself what I am feeling.  And what I need to cope with that feeling.  I will tell myself the truth, such as: I have the most amazing friends in the world who are absolutely not judging me and have my back.  And, if my friends saw insidious habits developing in my kids or had genuine concerns about my parenting, I think they would talk to me about it.  And, my kids are normal and have their moments of violence but also have their moments of sweet caring and nurturing. 

I apologized to Eden and Isaac, and they forgave me, as kids do, quickly and totally.  Kids are awesome at forgiveness.  And when I was tucking Eden in that night, I told her that I was going to try really hard to use my nice words when I was angry and yell less.  She looked at me and said, “Less?  You shouldn’t yell at all!” 

“Um, right, yes, I will make it my goal to not yell at all.”

It’s a high standard.  And my kids are worth it.  

Eden, Restored

We are restored. 

To what? 

Images of heaven in the Bible are hard for me to get excited about.  I’m not all that into jewels and gold and mansions and stuff.  I don’t understand the images of horses and scrolls and angels.  Other images of heaven rendered by humans are equally unexciting or baffling. 

Let’s imagine for a moment the Thomas Kinkade, Hallmark Hall of Fame Movie version of heaven…everything has a cozy, soft glow, and flowers of every color can be found in one yard and even on one bush.  There is a perpetual sunset.  Every house is a cottage with warm glowy lights inside, beckoning you in to get toasty by the fire and drink hot cocoa with marshmallows.  Jesus is your best friend who sits by the fire to ask you attentive and caring questions about your day.  Every relationship is as dewy as the shiny lawns.  Spouses look at each other with G-rated affection and never argue.  People smile a lot.  Everyone is happy.  Children dance in the yard and wave streamers and only laugh.  Neighbors bring each other pot pies and everyone has a satisfying job with a good income.  Everyone gets along because no one disagrees. 

Is that what we were designed for?  Is that what we’re destined to? 

God, I hope not.  I think heaven is Eden 2.0.  I’ll take a few liberties in imagining heaven as Eden restored…

It’s wild.  You give the lions a respectful distance unless they approach you.  You know that there are fungi that will kill you if you eat them but you remember without a guidebook which ones they are and successfully avoid them.  You realize that rainbows have 47 different hues instead of the 7 you saw before.  Your ear can distinguish new octaves that it never heard before.  Instead of being overwhelmed by your new eyes that see and your new ears that hear, all 100% of your brain is used to process and absorb and delight in your world.  You know that your body will go to mush if you just sit around and eat twinkies all day, but you don’t want to sit around and eat twinkies.  Grapes and broccoli have more flavor than you ever noticed before and you don’t want to eat anything else.  You want to move and feel the strength of your body and enjoy it.  Some people train for and run marathons and although it’s exhausting and some are faster than others, everyone wakes up the day after the race refreshed, with no aches or lingering soreness. 

You’re vaguely aware that your Adam sometimes annoys you in the way he leaves his towel on the floor after his bath, but you’re so in love that you don’t care.  You feel wholly connected to him and petty little habits don’t bother you enough to mention.  Your love is passionate and fulfilling and complete.  You have a history together and no fear about the future and you choose every moment to love him fully.  You are blessed with kids and you always choose grace and kindness.  Your kids know no shame because you know no shame.  Your kids always choose grace and kindness because they are complete and loved. 

Jesus is the life of the party.  Literally.  His life fills up all of the empty spaces in peoples’ hearts so there are no empty spaces in peoples’ hearts anymore.  You are in awe that Jesus would ever talk to you and that he even knows your name, but at the same time you have never felt closer to anyone in your life.  You are overwhelmed with love for this God-man and gratitude and most of all, peace.  Jesus comes to your neighborhood for dinner every night and everyone gathers at a neighbor’s house and it’s a big party.  You hear that he also goes to other neighborhoods for dinner every night and you’re not quite sure how that works but it doesn’t matter. 

Nobody is poor or needs anything because everyone shares their stuff, their time, their talents.  Artists get to paint, write, design, sing, all day long and their work feeds the souls of those that work in other ways.  Some peoples’ entire job is to walk around telling other people how good they’re doing at their work.  People work because they enjoy it and it fulfills them and incidentally, it benefits others.  People don’t radiate happiness exactly, but rather contentment and purpose and peace.  Always peace.  You are at peace with yourself at all times, and your soul is at peace with your Creator, and you give peace to all that you connect with.  And Jesus himself is your peace.  People don’t always agree, but there is always peace. 

People say that heaven will be perfect, whether in the Hallmark sense of nauseating niceness or in the sense that we will be superhumans with superpowers and desire nothing other than to sing worship songs all day.  I don’t know if that’s true.  Maybe it is.  But my sense tells me that heaven will be a lot more like earth than we think.  I think there will be struggles in gardens in the night, but we will always choose life and grace.  I think there will be tears, but they will always be wiped away by a loving hand. 

For a time I didn’t believe in God.  I tried not to, at least.  But I realized after awhile that my disillusionment and disappointment with the God-story I had been given revealed a longing for a different God-story.  For God himself.  I couldn’t find a place for things like wonder, longing, and that feeling I got when I finished an amazing novel or was moved to tears by a piece of music, apart from God.  All of that belongs to this earth, yes, but I sensed that it originated somewhere outside this earth in its current state. 

Heaven reinstates the originals.  It restores us to our fullest sense, our fullest expression of humanness.  We get glimpses of heaven now, and these restore our faith in ourselves and our purpose and our God. 

Francis Schaeffer called us humans “glorious ruins.”  I have always loved this description, except I think it is more accurate in reverse.  For we are not ruins.  Not in our truest state.  We are, instead, ruinous glories.  We will be restored one day.  And we see glimpses even now. 

It is finished. 

We are restored!

Violent Communication

I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but I wasn't aware that the Supreme Court was considering the Defense of Marriage Act until I started seeing all of the red equals signs on facebook.  

I think this is a good indication that I need to start getting some sort of newspaper delivered.  I used to get my news from NPR on my morning and afternoon commutes, and for the first few years after having kids I could still stay in the loop that way.  But now that Eden’s old enough to pick out words like “killed” and “bomb” and ask a ton of questions I unfortunately can’t listen to news radio anymore. 

I think it’s interesting how facebook is used during times like these.  No doubt, the Court’s decision is important and momentous and matters.  But it seems that much of the virtual “conversation” surrounding the issue is angry and hurtful and unproductive.  I wonder, how many people are talking about this issue face-to-face?  Have virtual debates taken the place of personal conversations?  My guess is that the virtual argument – because it’s full of polarity, anger, and fear – discourages face-to-face conversation.

I recently was rereading one of my all-time favorite books, Nonviolent Communication.  I have to read it, along with about 4 other books, once every couple of years because it speaks truth and I am so stubborn that I can’t seem to absorb it into my life.  In case you’re not familiar, the basic steps in the process of nonviolent communication (or NVC) are

1. Observe without judgment the actions that are affecting me.
2. Identify my feeling in response to what I observe.
3. Determine my need, value, desire that creates my feelings.

4. Decide what concrete action I can request in order to enrich my life. 

The goal is to use this communication style to both express our own feelings/needs and to receive the feelings/needs of others.  The end result is to meet needs and enrich lives rather than place blame and foster resentment.  Yes, it’s very hippy and psychobabbly, but also productive and helpful.  The author has had amazing results using this process with the most vitriolic and volatile conflicts in the world (think Palestinians and Israelis, for example).  

I suck at this.  My natural style of communication is violent communication (or VC):

1. Observe what someone else did that was wrong.
2. Shame you because you made me feel bad.
3. Lament that you will never change.
4. Reserve my right to complain forever about what you just did or said. 

My guess is that my struggle to incorporate NVC into my life consistently is not because I’m an immature, mean, and spiteful person.  My guess is that it’s because I haven’t learned yet to be okay with who I am enough that I can let other people be radically different from me.  And I haven’t learned yet that it’s okay to have needs and be vulnerable enough to express them.  And I haven’t learned yet to give myself grace when I am hurtful, so I don’t give that grace to others. 

Maybe other people are like me in that.

I am in a politically diverse marriage (you like my politically correct language?).  We are one partially red, one partially blue, and together some shade of purple.  It’s hard to scream obscenities at and stereotype your political counterpart when you are married to them.  You know them too well to stereotype, and you also know you’d better be careful because you’re going to be living under the same roof for the rest of your life. 

Maybe we should all pretend to be married to those political counterparts we engage with on this issue of gay marriage.  Or maybe some nonviolent communication would help.  Either way, I think we would do well to remember that whether we’re looking at an equals sign or a photo, behind it is a real, complex, feeling human being. 

I know, it’s hard.  I know, with what some people are posting, it’s easy to think that there is no feeling human being behind it.  But there is.  “Those people” may be completely disconnected from the effects of their words, and the feelings and needs of others.  If that’s the case, they are likely equally disconnected from their own feelings and needs.  Shame begets shame.  Hurt begets hurt. 

The way forward is nonviolent words and actions.  It’s grace for ourselves and others.  And it’s equal acceptance of all. 

Is There Room In The Middle?

We like labels.  Democrat, Republican.  Christian, Atheist.  Attachment parent, Authoritarian parent.  Putting people in categories in our mind is how we make sense of them, how we understand them.  This is not usually done maliciously; it’s not usually even done consciously.  We also label ourselves to give ourselves a sense of belonging, of identity.  

But what happens when the labels become constraining, limiting, and defining?  What happens when they become caricatures of real people, real positions, real thoughts?  When they become derogatory terms that we can sling at each other to avoid dialogue and solution-finding? 

Is there room in the middle? 

Is there room for a person who believes that life begins at conception and also believes that welfare programs are necessary to help the poor and unemployed live functioning lives?  Who believes that preserving life is important but just the first step?  That a life of just surviving is not a life with dignity? 

I once sat in front of a student who was describing her anguish…after having an abortion as a teenager for an unwanted baby, she had a miscarriage for a very much wanted baby as a college student.  Imagine her pain, her questioning if this was some kind of punishment or some cruel joke… the pain.  How could anyone respond but with compassion? 

Is there room for a person whose heterosexual marriage and religious beliefs about marriage are not threatened by legalizing same-sex marriage?  Who believes that a homosexual lifestyle is not God’s design and also believes that this should not be the defining belief of Christianity? 

I once sat with my friend who had just broken up with his boyfriend after learning about his infidelity.  He was heartbroken and wondered aloud if he would ever hurt less than he did right now.  I had little to offer other than the hope that in time his heart would hurt less and a hug.  How could I respond but with compassion? 

Is there room for a parent who cosleeps and responds to infant cries and also uses timeouts and teaches her children to respect her authority? 

I once left my infant to cry, trying to teach her to sleep independently.  I cried as I heard her cry, and it didn’t feel right.  We changed plans, we became more flexible, and we learned from our daughter and our mistakes.  How should I respond to other parents but with compassion? 

Is there room for a conservative Christian who also believes in social justice?  Who loves liturgy and finds stability in tradition and also sees that liturgy can become empty and tradition can become an excuse to no longer think for yourself?  For a Lutheran wannabe Catholic who reads St. Augustine and Mother Teresa along with Francis Chan and Jen Hatmaker?  Who believes that Jesus is who he said he is and also that it is each person’s inherent right and gift to travel their own spiritual journey? 

I’ve been as conservative as evangelicals can be; I’ve had a brief stint as an atheist before considering myself an agnostic for several years; and now I find myself coming to a place of peace in Christian tradition and historical theology.  I’ve done my share of judging and been judged plenty.  How can I not respond to your spiritual journey with compassion?

Is there room in the middle?  There is.  There has to be.  Even now as I quake in my boots at the thought of publishing this, I think that maybe there are some of you reading who might be relating to not quite fitting in the categories laid out for you.  When we each admit how fluid and ever-changing we are, how imperfect, how human; how can we respond to each other but with compassion?

I think more of us are actually in the middle than we realize.  If everyone everywhere fit into one big venn diagram, I think the majority of us would have at least one foot in the “same” category.  When we take away the pressure to whole-heartedly champion one political party, one religious view, one parenting approach, I think we would all realize that we’re a bit more complex than the labels allow. 

And what if we relished our complexity, and used it to find solutions to vexing problems, to show love and mercy to one another, and to discover differences as interesting and fun?  What if instead of like-mindedness, we sought out and fostered environments where everyone, and I mean everyone, was accepted and their opinions welcomed?  And what if we were brave and put our strange, probably inconsistent, not set in stone, middle opinions out there, and gave others a chance to accept and learn from us?  

A Couple Almost-Emergencies And Some Quiet Days

Remember how I was saying that I was feeling overwhelmed and overscheduled a couple days ago?  Well, the universe/God/coincidence intervened and took care of that for me. 

Tuesday night, Eden woke up with horrible stomach pains that kept her awake for a couple hours.  After that she slept fine and woke up feeling okay, but late morning the pain kept back.  After a couple hours of her laying in a tightly curled ball on the couch and whimpering in pain, I was polling friends and acquaintances for information about viruses going around, calling our nurse, and generally getting very worried.  Our nurse advised that if the pain was intermittent it was likely a virus, but if it was constant and getting worse, we should take her to the ER (probably fearing appendicitis).  So basically, don’t worry at all, or worry very much.  It’s hard to gauge someone else’s pain, but I knew it was bad. 

Right when I was on the verge of deciding to take her in just in case, she started vomiting and feeling better, being able to keep Tylenol down and sleep, and the virus started acting like a normal virus.  Phew.  Emergency averted.

Meanwhile, while the kids were napping that day, I started hearing an increasingly high-pitched whistling noise, like a giant tea kettle would make.  Well, you know what’s basically a giant tea kettle?  A hot water heater.  I sleuthed my way around the house until I got to the basement and saw the relief valve spilling out almost boiling water onto our basement floor.  The whistling had stopped for the moment so I went upstairs to try to contact Kasey and figure out what the heck was going on.  Well, whenever there’s a near emergency of any kind, the universe/God/coincidence intervenes and Kasey becomes unreachable.  Maybe this is supposed to instill some sort of confidence in my ability to handle these situations on my own.  That doesn’t tend to happen, though.  So I did the next best thing, and put an all-call out on facebook for hot water heater help and started googling. 

Then I started hearing the whistling again.  I made my way downstairs, but then the whistling got higher, and higher, and higher, into registers that only dogs can hear, and I got scared.  I ran upstairs and got in a corner far away from where the hot water tank would be blasting through the floor.  You think I’m overreacting, but mythbusters proves that a hot water tank can blast through 2 floors of a house.  Thankfully we had seen this episode and even though I didn’t recall it consciously at the time, my subconscious must have remembered and my self-protection kicked in. 

The whistling stopped, the overflowing recommenced, and my facebook peeps came through.  I shut off the gas and the water, my dad stopped by to double-check, and all was well.  Phew.  Emergency averted. 

So that was an exciting day. 

And then, instead of having days too full with too little margins, my days became one big blank space.  I love when that happens.

Since then, we’ve been in calm, vacation-like mode.  It’s nice to have an excuse to not leave the house and to watch a lot of tv.  Grandma brought over some fresh DVDs and snacks.  Kasey MacGyvers the hot water tank every morning to give us enough hot water to stay stink free and wash stomach virus laundry. 

Today my girl’s feeling a lot better so I’m trying to entice her away from the tv.  We made playdough with our favorite recipe.  We omitted the spices because she wanted it to be green, and then she and Isaac played with it for a loooooong time.  Never underestimate the power of fresh playdough.  I got a shower, made muffins, and wrote.  Ahhhh. 

Our near-emergencies acted as a giant reset button, and my kids are acting less like monkeys and more like their sweet selves.  I’m feeling little stress and am enjoying cuddles with my girl on the couch and wrestling with my boy on the floor. 

Sometimes it's hard to figure out what is a cosmic joke, what is God intervening directly, and what is coincidence.  Today I'm less interested in figuring that out and more interested in laughing at the joke and being thankful for the unexpected free time to enjoy.  Here’s to the quiet days! 

 

 

Confessions Of A Former Nanny Turned Mama

Confession:  Sometimes I think I was a better nanny than I am a mama. 

I’ve been feeling spread thin lately…I think I’ve made too many commitments and filled my calendar too full, and when the margins around my life shrink to nothing I get anxious and stressed.  I feel like I’m dabbling in everything and doing nothing well, while projects that I really care about and think about constantly sit untouched.  My stress level can be assigned a numerical value according to the number of m&ms consumed per day, and let me tell you, it’s not pretty. 

Meanwhile, the kids are in winter funk zone, where they’ve shed their normal sweet personalities in favor of crazy.  Just crazy.  You should see a mealtime around here lately.  It’s like eating with monkeys. 

When I’m feeling stressed and overcommitted and my children are feeling like monkeys, I tend to struggle being a good mama.  I tend to get impatient instead of understanding, to want to distract them instead of engage them, to count the hours until bedtime instead of living in the present moment. 

When I was a nanny in my post-college years in Chicago, it was my job.  I was paid well to watch one child for 10 hours per day, which legitimized spending my days on the carpet rolling balls back and forth, spending hours at the park, walking to the lakefront and looking at the boats.  I felt justified in having leisurely meals with my little charge and reading as many books as he wanted.  I didn’t feel like I had to have anything to show for my time, other than a happy, fed, rested boy to greet his mom at the end of the day. 

Even though he was my job, I wasn’t ultimately responsible for that boy’s life.  I was a little detached, being careful not to try to take the place of his mom and making sure to always reinforce her role in his life.  I didn’t have to make decisions about his routines; I just had to carry them out.  I didn’t worry about how my actions would shape his life into adulthood; I knew that I was a blip on the radar of his long life and I just needed to love him and care for him that day.

I also got to leave at the end of the day.  I drove or rode my bike home, relishing the aloneness and enjoying my freedom again.  I spent my evenings with Kasey however we wanted and enjoyed my weekends.  If the little boy was having a hard day or I was especially tired, I knew that I would be off duty in a matter of hours and that gave me the energy to rally for the remainder of the day. 

What if I viewed mothering more like nannying? 

What if I gave myself permission every now and then to not have anything to show for my day, other than happy, fed, rested children?  Not even a clean bathroom, or laundry finished, or a phone call made, or an errand run?  What if I legitimized playing with my kids in my own head, even put it on my to-do list?  What if I allowed myself to recognize my limits and say “no” when I’m at capacity for outside commitments? 

And what if I realized that I am not ultimately responsible for my kids’ lives?  Even now at ages 4 and 2, they are their own people and their decisions are their own.  This will only become more true as they grow.  I can keep a healthy detachment, being sure that I’m not trying to take the place of God in their lives.  While I do have to think about how my actions will shape their lives into adulthood, I don’t have to assume responsibility for their choices and see them as reflections of me and my values.  I just need to love them and care for them today. 

Now, as for the leaving at the end of the day part, well that’s just not possible.  Parenting is a 24 hour job and there is no time off the clock.  And for an introvert like me who craves solitude and silence, this can be difficult.  Yes, I know, get up an hour before your kids do and have some quiet time to yourself.  Trouble is, my kids have built-in mama’s-awake-alarms and my wake time is their wake time.  I need some serious grace to thrive in the midst of the neverendingness of parenting.  It’s my opportunity for growth, I suppose.  But parenting veterans tell me that things will not always be this intense…and someday kids will even leave your house, I hear.  

While there are lessons to be learned from my nannying days, I wouldn’t trade mothering for anything, monkey kids and all.  I may have been a better nanny than a mama, but I’d rather be a good mama than an excellent nanny.  

Math According To Kids

ADDITION:

Two kids + one snack + one 5 minute desperation shower by mama = peanut butter smeared on table, milk on floor, cracker crumbs everywhere, too much laughter and talk of bodily functions at the table

One sister + one brother + one blanket = adventures in a fort, on a plane, having a picnic, going on a trip

One trip to bank + one trip to post office + one trip to gym + 2 kids = 6 stupid suckers (or 6 tantrums)

One sister + one brother + one sound machine with a thunderstorm setting = hours of playing “thunderstorm” under the sheets of mama and dada’s bed 

SUBTRACTION:

Minivan with 7 seats – 4 people in seats = 3 seats left which oldest daughter thinks must be filled with siblings as soon as possible

One hour – time it takes to get 3 people fed, dressed, and in the car = 23 minutes late to everything

MULTIPLICATION:

One fun event X 3 = meltdown

One fun event X too many kids = meltdown

One fun event X number of hours of advance notice to child of said fun event = epic meltdown

DIVISION:

One stick /2 = Yay!  2 sticks!!

One cookie/2 = Tears, tears, tears.  I want a whole one!!! 

ADVANCED MATH:

Two adults + offspring = Calculus (the mathematical study of how things change and how quickly they change), Game Theory (the study of mathematical models of conflict and cooperation between intelligent rational decision-makers), and E = mc², where E = energy, m = mass, and c = children.
 

Today Was A Hard Day

Relatively speaking.

I have some sort of mean virus where my chest feels prickly when breathing and my throat feels needley when swallowing or talking and the whole rest of my head feels achy and squished and too full.  I wanted to lay on the couch and watch back-to-back episodes of Mad Men all day.  Alas, those days are non-existent in parentworld. 

Isaac has the same mean virus, and his coping mechanism is to spread the meanness to all who encounter him, by means of hitting and not listening and making messes that he is too tired to clean up and waking up at 5:15am. 

Eden is not sick but had an accidental up-chuck this morning which necessitated a stay away from small children day.  No gym, no playgroup, no preschool…no typical Monday routine. 

This, as you may know, is a recipe for disaster. 

In my morning fog of not enough coffee and too much time letting the interwebs warm my face, my children spread small things all over the house.  When I said to Isaac that I didn’t understand why they liked to play this way, he said, “Becud dat wat little babies and kids and boys do.”  When I asked why little babies and kids and boys do not like to put back all the small pieces where they belong, he replied, “Becud dey too tired.” 

One of my favorite lines from Sleepless in Seattle is when Tom Hanks’ character has the Annoying Laugh Lady over for dinner with his son after he’s gotten back in the saddle again.  His son does not like her and is alternately rude to her face, cloyingly sweet, and making faces at her behind her back.  Tom Hanks’ character says, “You’ll have to excuse him.  He’s 8.”  Annoying Laugh Lady says, “He’s good at it.” 

Isaac is 2 ½.  He’s very, very good at it. 

We regrouped and ran some errands which necessitated long drives.  This is sometimes my Plan B strategy, because I can listen to music that I like and the kids are contained enough that they can’t fight very well and at the very least, can’t make messes. 

Except that we listened to a Finding Nemo book on cd that barely makes sense...a 20 minute long version of a 2 hour movie, where they spliced together some of the key scenes, left some key scenes out, and changed the storyline in bizarre ways to cover the gaps, all with a horrible narrator throughout.  We listened to it 3 times. 

And except that in a moment of sheer genius, I made banana smoothies to take with us so they would be occupied and full.  I forgot that Isaac loves to pour drinks out of a straw, paint with them, and basically do everything but drink them.  We made an unscheduled stop so I could rescue his carseat from the onslaught. 

And except that while they weren’t fighting, they were entirely slap happy and shrieking, laughing, kicking seats, and generally having a grand old time at the expense of my head and ears and focus on driving.  I don’t know how many times I yelled in my screechy voice, “TOO LOUD!!!”  Because sometimes I literally have to yell to be heard.  I’m sure that my yelling at their yelling was very confusing to them, so they just kept yelling. 

Did I mention that somewhere in here I got a text from my parents?  They’re on a beach in Florida, ate fresh Florida strawberries today, and were just about to rent some Segways (which is both hilarious and awesome).  Let’s just say I had a twinge, nay a stab, nay a body slam of jealousy. 

So back home to sunshine and mud outside, and then mud inside.  And endless talk of poop and pee, because that is just what’s hilarious these days.  And a brief visit with Daddy before he went back to work this evening (did I mention Mondays are his long days?  The hits just keep on coming…). 

In a stellar parenting moment I bribed them to clean up at least two rooms of the house tonight.  I offered a “reward” for 7 minutes of full on cleaning.  Then I decided the reward would be marshmallows, because that seemed logical before bedtime.  Everyone cleaned, they ate marshmallows, and we had a relatively peaceful bedtime, due to my ongoing self-talk (“don’t say anything, don’t say anything, don’t say anything…if you don’t have anything helpful to say, just keep your mouth shut”).  I did tell Isaac that my patience was all used up and because there was none left he had to lay down and go to sleep quickly.  He didn’t seem to understand what I was saying. 

And now two beautiful, healthy, lovable kids lay asleep in their beds.  And I’m leaving the kitchen full of dirty dishes and am going to lay on the couch and watch something and drink hot tea.

Today was a hard day.  But really only relatively speaking. 

Summer 2012

Two Half-Finished Projects + One Child-Free Hour + One Cup Of Coffee = ???

I have a retro poster in my kitchen with a cheerful 50s housewife saying “Drink coffee!  Do stupid things faster with more energy!”  Today I decided to test that strategy.  I had one child-free hour with Eden at preschool and Isaac napping, two half-finished projects, and one leftover cup of coffee from this morning.  I had a little extra motivation because it’s the last day of February (yay!) and I’m ready to wrap up my February challenge. 

Half-finished decluttering project before: 

This is "Isaac's room."

 Where's the floor?  

I realize this room probably looks farther from half-finished to most people, but trust me, it was much worse.  This room has become the dumping grounds for anything I need to sort or that I haven’t chosen a place for yet.  I’m tired of trying to keep the kids out of it and having a room that we never use, so I decided to get this room in full use.  I’ve gotten rid of enough stuff that this is now possible.  I haven’t finished sorting, but I’m going to put unfinished boxes in the basement. 

Half-finished creative project before:

This is a painting that I started years ago and abandoned.  It was originally going to go in the bathroom  but I’m going to change course and finish it for the kitchen.  I’m using this tutorial for a copycat World Market print.  Sometimes trying too hard to be original is overwhelming and takes the fun out of playing with art for me.  And really, who is original anyway?  Aren’t we all using the same materials and working with the same themes and inspired by other artists who are doing similar things?  More on this in a later post…the simple version is sometimes it’s fun to be a copycat.   

So, one hour.  

It was amazing.  Time stood still and I totally finished both projects with time to spare. 

Ha.  Here’s the after one hour snapshots.  Keepin it real: 

I got on a roll with the room and spent most of my time there while I was waiting for my branches to dry.  (And I should've included a photo of the pile of boxes that I basically just moved outside the room into the hall, waiting to go down to the basement or be stored.) 

Painting tip:  Don’t pour all of your paint at the beginning, because you have to wait for the branches to dry before doing the swirly circles.  (And if you're painting the background, you'll have to wait for that to dry before doing the branches.  This is probably obvious to people who spend more time with a paintbrush in their hand than I do.)  And you have to wait for picking your daughter up from preschool.  And going to Home Depot for a rug for the room project.  Surprisingly, even after all that time the paint was still usable after stirring it a little bit. 

And here’s the real afters:  after one trip to Home Depot, one more hour of kids watching tv, and one hour of Kasey installing things into our crazy brick and lath and plaster and paneling walls. 

"Measure Me" growth chart
made by Grandma Fran on the far wall,
finally hung permanently!

The rug is a cheap indoor/outdoor one from Home Depot,
and warms up the floor nicely.

I’m so excited for the kids to have a space to spread out trains and blocks and someday, legos (when I’m brave enough to get Kasey’s old ones out) without having to worry about people stepping on them because it’s a throughway.  It’s finally looking like Isaac’s future room, rather than a storage space. 

It’s not completely dry yet and so not quite finished (needs to be put in frame and hung above the stove), but I’m happy with how it turned out.  I was trying to figure out if it felt finished and had enough circles on it, and then it was decided for me when it was dinnertime and I had to clean it up, since my art studio was the kitchen floor. 

So, the moral of the story is that everything takes longer than you think it’s going to, especially with kids.  But really, using that one hour gave me the momentum to finish a couple things, and you gotta start somewhere.  And coffee is always, always the answer.

Tomorrow brings March, and I’m relieved.  The average high temperature in March in Cleveland is 47, which is 9 degrees warmer than February’s average.  Plus March just sounds springy.  I’m not “done” with my decluttering and creative projects and rooting out consumerism from myself and my home, but I’ve made good progress and it’s given me something to focus on in my least favorite month of the year.  Here’s to daffodils and muddy boots, fresh air inside and more time outside!  

How To Store Your Kid's Artwork

One of the things that creates towering piles in our home is Eden’s prolific artwork.  She loves to color, paint, make cards, stamp, and write.  Each piece is a treasure to her and she loves to have them displayed around the house.  Her latest art gallery is her room, where she scotch tapes her pictures to the walls.  

peanut butter and honey and jelly sandwich in the middle
flanked by flowers and sea

I’m pretty good about rotating the art displayed on the fridge, but I have a hard time throwing away her artwork.  I usually let it pile up for about 3 months, and then sort through it.  Once the pile is 2 feet tall, I have an easier time choosing my favorites and her favorites and letting the rest go.  I like to keep the pieces that she did completely herself and were not directed by me or anyone else.  This allows me to easily throw away the thousands upon thousands of “craft projects” that we do at home and that she brings home from Sunday School, preschool, the library, and on and on and on. 

But I’ve regretted getting rid of some in the past.  For a long time I kept her first coloring book from the days when Elmo was her favorite friend, even though it showcased more of Kasey and my coloring abilities than Eden’s.  But she had a habit of taking one color crayon and flipping through the entire book, coloring one or two tiny things on each page that color.  I thought that was adorable.  But as I looked through it when she was 3, it was getting harder and harder for me to remember which coloring was hers and which was her parents’.  So I threw it away.  And regretted it the next time I sorted artwork. 

And then yesterday inspiration struck.  Eden had unpacked her backpack from preschool and spread her artwork all over the floor, and was excitedly telling me all about the pieces, what they were, how she created them, what she liked about them.  I thought to myself, “if only I could capture this excitement about her creations, her explanations of what these are.  I’ll never be able to remember when she’s 20 that this particular picture is a flamingo next to the flames of the rocketship he’s about to blast off on.” 

flamingo, flames, rocketship with person inside

And then I thought, VIDEO!!!  I’ll capture not only several pieces of artwork in one shot, but also her voice, her excitement, and her proud explanations.  

I found that her excitement and talkativeness is at its peak the first or second time she talks about her pieces.  I’m trying to learn to ask open-ended questions about her art (how? and why? and what? questions) and be descriptive instead of prescriptive (“I see you used a lot of red” instead of “it’s so beautiful!”).  All the smart people say that doing this results in a child retaining their sense of enjoyment in the process and creating for themselves rather than to please their audience (parents).  I’m not quite there yet, which is why you’ll hear me saying, “that’s so interesting!” in the video.  I’m trying to avoid being prescriptive but I come off as bland and unimpressed.  Don’t worry, I’m practicing.

I’m excited to have found a way to save more of her artwork without having to make more physical space for it in our house.  I think it’ll be so fun to look back on these videos later and see her growing along with her artistry. 

How about you?  What tips do you have for storing kid’s artwork?  

Great-Grandma Estella

We have this plastic play food, the kind with a microscopic hole designed for mysterious unknown purposes.  This tiny hole is just large enough to let in spit and bathwater but not big enough to let it out.  So these play oranges and tin cans soon become disgusting petri dishes.  I’ve gotten rid of some of them, but I’m having a hard time letting go of the rest.  You see, they were given to Eden from her Great-Grandma Estella (Kasey’s Grandma), who has since passed away.  Well, not really even given from her, more like purchased by me on her behalf with her money.

Still life

But these impersonal, poor-quality toys have come to represent things that I want my kids to know and not forget:  the thoughtful and generous spirit of their Great-Grandma Estella.

Sometimes it’s hard to let go of things because of the immaterial meaning they bring to us.  And that’s okay, I think.  That’s a pretty good reason to keep something, as reasons go.  But in the case of the play food, it really needs to go.  So in the spirit of making the meaning permanent even if the toys aren’t, I’m going to write a little bit about Great-Grandma Estella for my kids to remember.

Dear kiddos,

Your Great-Grandma Estella loved kids.  Up through the last of her years, she was loving on kids, feeding them, and caring for them in her home, which was full of toys for kids of all ages.  Grandkids, nieces and nephews, and great-grandkids were always welcome.  She never said no to taking care of kids.  She loved holding you, Eden, when you were a baby.  Her fridge was always covered with the latest photos of the youngest generation in her family tree. 

Christmas 2008

She was a child of the depression.  She lived through days of scarcity and scraping-every-last-bit-of-butter-from-the-wrapper (and then save the wrapper because you could use it later to wrap something in).  She carried her saving mentality throughout her life, and was generous with her money and time.  She gave regularly to over a dozen charities and missionaries.  When a grandchild got married, she sent birthday money to the new spouse.  My check was something like $37.50, as the budgeted birthday money was divided by a bigger and bigger pool of relatives.    

She was sharp.  Toward the end of her life her hearing started to fade, but not if someone was talking about her in the other room.  I remember being part of a quiet sidebar conversation in the kitchen while she sat at the dining room table at the Parmelee’s house in Colorado.  She must have heard a snippet, because she made some remark about someone being a smartass that ended our conversation pretty quickly. 

She was faithful.  She believed strongly in God, went to church faithfully, listened to Christian radio constantly, and studied her Bible on her own.  Some of her letters to Kasey are as theologically rich as any sermon.

I knew her for just a fraction of her life, but she made a lasting impression.  She was a matriarch, caring for her family both near and far in many ways until the end of her earthly life.  She was a strong, independent, active woman who never stopped giving, living, and loving.  She accepted her family members as the messed up people that we all are, and never gave up on any of them. 

I wish that you would have had more years to know her and be loved by her.  I’m passing these memories along to you so that as you grow, you can see the legacy she left in the lives of her family, including you! 

Love,
Mama 

Creating Negative Space

We devoted many hours this weekend to decluttering, organizing, and getting rid of stuff, all for the sake of bringing more peace to our home, more borders between our stuff and ourselves.  What this looked like practically was me gathering random tiny pieces of things (why are kid toys in so many small pieces??) from one room and putting them in a basket, and then wandering around the rest of the house putting those @#!*% tiny things back where they belong.  Some of these random small things ended up in a trash bag, which I made the mistake of putting down at one point.  Then a certain 4-year-old discovered the bag of “treasures” and some of the small things came back into circulation.  After that I hid the trash/treasure bag. 

Only while cleaning up did I realize how much stuff had taken over some areas of our home.  Every nook and cranny was filled to overflowing.  It’s not like I set out to live a borderline hoarders existence; it just somehow happened in the midst of moving, sorting, rearranging rooms, remodeling, and settling into our new home.  Apparently if you don’t keep a close eye on it, stuff develops a life of its own and takes over. 

We’re not done yet, but as I walk around some areas of our house now I literally feel like I can breathe better.  Like creating negative space on our shelves has infused those areas with a little extra oxygen. 

the former leaning tower of randomness  (before)

I can function pretty well in a chaotic environment (you should have seen my college dorm room), but I’m learning that I’d prefer not to.  I’d also prefer to have our kids learn to take care of their things, which they can’t do if they have too much stuff. 

Eden's room after  (before)

There’s some sort of tipping point where the kids’ toys become equivalent to carpet in their eyes.  Once the number of puzzle pieces and play food and books and matchbox cars and blocks spread out all over the house reaches this point, my children cease to be creative artists and engineers and learners and instead become bulldozers and destroyers and fighters.  They need negative space too, in order to engage with their toys in constructive ways. 

I’m hoping that a little extra space on our shelves and in our rooms leads to time leftover for other things – that placing a border around our stuff creates a line that says, “you can take this much of my time and attention, my care and my energy, but no more.”  And I’m looking forward to seeing what new non-stuff can fill in those extra spaces.  

Hiding From My Own Flesh

I went to bible college in downtown Chicago.  We lived less than a mile from the Gold Coast district where the wealthy lived in their lakefront skyscrapers, and less than a mile from the Cabrini Green projects where the poor lived until their homes were torn down in one giant attempt at a do-over.  As part of freshman orientation, we learned how to cope with big-city living, since most of us had no experience with it.  We learned to never travel alone at night, to take gentlemen with us if we were going near the projects, to carry pepper spray and shove an assailant’s nose into their brain in such-and-such a way, and to never give money to homeless people because they’ll just buy drugs or alcohol with it. 

For the most part, we followed the advice.  A well-meaning friend of mine once bought diapers for a homeless man who said he needed them for his daughter.  The man persuaded my friend to give him the receipt as well, in case the diapers were the wrong size.  My friend did, and then watched as the man headed right back into the store to return the diapers for cash.  We reminded ourselves of these stories when we felt uncomfortable twinges after saying “no” to yet another request from a homeless person. 

We were being wise.  We were not going to participate in the cycle of addiction that kept them on the streets asking for money.  We were hoping they’d find meaningful, long-term solutions to their underlying issues and eventually be living functional lives off the streets.  Some of us were working in ministries that were trying to accomplish these long-term goals – it wasn’t all just wishful thinking and good intentions. 

But still…if this was the wise thing to do, why those uncomfortable twinges? 

I’ve been reading about fasting in this Lenten season, and came across this definition of the kind of fast that is pleasing to God:

“Is not this the fast that I choose:

                to loose the bonds of wickedness,

                to undo the straps of the yoke,

      to let the oppressed go free,

                and to break every yoke?

Is it not to share your bread with the hungry

                and bring the homeless poor into your house;

      when you see the naked, to cover him,

                and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?”  (Isaiah 58)

Did you catch the part about determining from a glance whether or not the hungry person is hungry because he didn’t try hard enough to get a job?  And the part about ensuring that the homeless poor are not addicted to anything before helping them?  And that last bit about making sure that you have plenty of extra before giving anything to the poor? 

This fasting stuff is extreme.  Share your bread.  Bring the homeless into your house.  Give the naked the shirt off your back if it’s all you have and expose yourself to nakedness.

I don’t see much here about being “wise” when giving to the poor.  In fact, the degree to which we are being asked to give sounds foolish – really, put myself in a position of needing something because I gave my last one away?  That’s reckless. 

Reckless giving makes sense in God’s economy.    

I think that’s what those uncomfortable twinges were about, back on the streets of Chicago.  Here stood another human being, asking me for money, for food, for help, and I withheld.  I hid from my own flesh.  Sure, maybe he was going to use that money for booze and spend the rest of the night drunk in an alley.  Maybe he needed that drink to warm him up, to numb himself from thinking about the family he lost, to forget about the reality of his life.  Who am I to judge if that’s why he wanted money?  And maybe he was going to use that money for food and went to sleep hungry because of me.  What then?  Reckless giving. 

It’s my job to give.  Not because I’m some great human being but because I’m one human being and the hungry person I’m talking to is another human being.  We’re all bare flesh underneath.  We’re here on this earth to love each other and learn from each other, God help us.  And love doesn’t come out with judgments blazing, conditions stated, and the carrot held just out of reach.  Love just gives, every time.      

Today I met David, a homeless man about 40ish with clear blue eyes and a direct gaze.  Yes, he knows about the Haven of Rest but he avoids that area of Akron because it’s too dangerous.  He has his own way – he has a tent, although he’d like a better one.  There’s a lady that sometimes lets him sleep in her garage.  Once a week he gets a room at a motel so he can get cleaned up and watch the news, because he likes to see what’s going on, who shot who.  He needs batteries and hand warmers. 

He appreciates the food and money I give him.  He says God bless you.  I say it’s the least I could do and I’ll pray for you.  He says I love God and Jesus is my best friend.  I can’t tell if he means it or if he’s cutting off what he perceives as yet another attempt to convert him.  I instantly wish I hadn’t told him I would pray for him and I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to love God for my sake, I'm not interested in converting him.  Don’t worry, David. 

I get back in my warm van to drive to my warm house with my trunk full of groceries and I cry for David and pray that someone who’s in a position to do so will give him a chance, give him a job if that’s what he wants.  I thank God for the lady who lets him sleep in her garage.  I pray that his family is alive, hasn’t forgotten him, will reach out to him. 

I feel a little broken, like a little more of my heart-flesh is exposed.  I hope that David feels a little cared for.  He let me into his world today, gave me a glimpse of what his life is like, gave me gratitude and warmth.