Dear James

So I tried to figure out how much longer we have you here at home ("OK Google, how many more days do we have James?")  It looks like about 7 more months as I start this letter, depending on where you end up heading off too.

I have never wanted you to leave, I know some people are "ready" for their kids to leave when they go off to school, but I am not.  It isn't that I think you should stay. 
You shouldn't.  This is right and perfect. 
I am just saying I can not think of a time when I wanted this time to come.  I never said, "I can't wait until he leaves for college".  Truthfully I wouldn't mind freezing this time and savoring it a little longer. 

I keep thinking of things I want to make sure I tell you before you go, or tell you again more likely.
But the one of first most importance is this:

I love you no matter what.

I don't know if it is the way of all mothers' love, but it is the way of this mother's.
My love will follow you to JMU or Virginia Tech or wherever you decide to go (even if it is UVA).
It will hang on even if you commit a crime, get a tattoo, join a band, get addicted to drugs, vote democrat, decide you are gay, get a girl pregnant, drop out of school..in short, if you blow it by anyone's standards.
I want you to know that there is no hole deep enough that I would not still do everything I could to pull you out.
I have heard of kids thinking that there is a place of no return.  Thinking, "I know I am drunk and I should call my parents but I don't want to tell them".  Thinking, "I have been arrested for something, maybe I can keep this from them". 
This is my loud protest to those kinds of thoughts. 


I can not promise you that I won't be sad.  I will be sad with you, when you make a stupid decision, or some great plan doesn't turn out the way you had hoped.  I will try, however, not to make it worse by making dumb mother comments.  I will try to love you without my agenda, because I want always to be a part of your life, a good part.  No matter where you go.
No matter what.

Oh, and if you are having any anxiety about leaving, can I just say, you are going to be fine!
I, on the other hand, am going to be a basket case.
But you should go anyway.

love, mom

The Sideline

 

I was on the phone with my mother the other day and shared a particular difficulty I was having with one of the girls. I told her some ideas of things that might help the situation (including one involving food, because after all I think most everything can be cured by some alteration in your diet..).  She listened and responded supportively,  "sounds interesting" in regards to the research and "couldn't hurt to try".
A little later she pointed out that, actually, we had had a similar situation with one of the older children when they were preschoolers.  She reminded me that that was cured by some discipline and not so much by food.

I received it.  She is probably right.  It might be a little of the other, but mostly ...



The reason for that story is this.  When she pointed that out to me, when she, in essence, made a child rearing suggestion to me, I didn't feel the least little sting. 

My feathers weren't ruffled, and it wasn't because I am particularly good at that sort of thing.

Why is that?

It is something I have thought about a fair amount because I have been repeatedly surprised by how few adult women seem to have a good relationship with their mom.  They feel criticized at every turn, unaccepted.  They hide things from her because they don't want her, presumably negative, opinion.

 

I don't have that with my mom. 

I am not sure of all of the reasons but I can speculate. 
She didn't fear man, or teacher or anyone else who was doing something not in the best interest of her children.   
She let me be a separate person with my own opinions.
We spent a lot of time together just the 2 of us in my middle school and high school years.  She was my "best friend" as I proclaimed one night, sitting in a canoe, in the dark, on the James river, me having had a beer or two and she a glass of wine.

Maybe the fact that I even have that story says a lot.

She took her family seriously.  She took her job seriously.  Herself?  Not so much.

And with that came a humility, an air, communicated to me at 8 and 18 and 48, that she didn't think she had all the answers. 
She had some. 
She actually had many, but she never made me feel that she had the corner market on them. 
I could have some answers too.
I could tell her which jumper looked good with what, what paint color was best for the kitchen, whether her idea for a project for her class was a flop or a fly.
She respected me.

Ultimately though, the thing with the largest impact, is that my mom has always been in my corner.

She supported me when I was going to be a school teacher, and when I was going to be a biologist, and when I was taking random classes with no apparent major in sight.
For more than four months after I went off to school she listened to me on the phone for hours at a time because I was so homesick.  And, it was over 25 years later when my own daughter moved out before she confessed that she would sometimes cry after she hung up the phone with me. 
She sent me care packages for every holiday listed on the Hallmark datebook, with treats for my roommate as well.
She shopped for cute work clothes with me when I wanted a career and then rallied for me when I quit that and wanted to go back to school 
She supported me with yet another round of phone calls when I decided to drop out of medical school and delighted in me staying home full time with my children. 
Despite 30 some years as a public school teacher, she managed to swallow most of her reservations when we decided to home school (she probably figured it wouldn't last any longer than the other things) and sent me curriculum ideas. 
She has done nothing but tell me how wonderful my children are on a regular basis.
I can receive her suggestions, because they are so rarely given.  The deafening noise on my sideline is her enthusiasm for me, not her criticism.

In short she has been my first, biggest, and best cheerleader all of my life.

So, since someone asked me recently, "do you have any advice for young mothers?"
It is this.
Cheer loudest.
Always cheer loudest.

That is what she did.  It is what she continues to do!  

"...whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable - if anything is excellent or praiseworthy - think about such things."
Philippians 4:8

Limping

"The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip."  Genesis 32:31

Confession time!
 I forgot Ellie's birthday.  No, not just the time the pediatrician's office asked so that they could look up her records, I do that with all of them, even myself on occasion.  I am talking about the preschool day closest to her birthday.  I show up with Ellie in tow and the teacher asks if I have brought any special treats to celebrate her birthday with her friends.
Long pause.
"Uh, no."  I had checked birthday off of my list on Saturday, when we celebrated with family and opened presents and had cake.  It never occurred to me that we needed an encore.  Now in my defense, my first two kids had summer birthdays so "party at preschool" had never been on my radar screen.
 
The teacher looked at me like I was pitiful.  And really, I guess it was pretty bad.
I ran to the CVS across the street and picked up some Mrs. Field's cookies (hey, those are  a treat at our house) and some Bounty napkins slightly decorated with butterflies because they did not have any actual party supplies at the drug store.  I got back over there well before snack time and I am sure that Ellie did not even notice.

No one wants to be the "limper".  The one who slows the party down because they can't keep up, or who just gets left behind altogether.  The thing is, this time around parenting in particular, I am that person. 
I am just not able to keep up with all of the ins and outs of every one's lives, even in just my own family.  I don't remember everything going on in the two different preschool classes, much less in the college ones. 
I am not going to be any body's homeroom mother anytime soon.
I rush to sign up to bring the paper products for the class parties because, hey, who knows what next week is going to look like and I don't want to be responsible for baking something and getting it there.  Plates and cups, however, can be brought in just as soon as you sign up and then you don't even have to try to remember what day the party is! 

No, I don't want to be the one holding up the crowd, or the one left behind while everyone else runs ahead. 
I don't like being the "not liked by the teacher" parent, and I am.
I would rather be pulled together and on top of things. 
I would rather be different.

But, when you hang back, when you are not keeping up, you find that actually, you aren't alone after all!  I am finding that there are others back here with me.  Other people whose lives are not going so smoothly, or who just do not have the energy to rally for another race to no where. 
Other people who were dealt a far more difficult hand than I . 
I don't think I would have met these people, I am not even sure I noticed them before. 

And this has put a lot more mercy in my little mind than use to be there. 
When your child is acting up in the grocery store my assumption is not that you just can't be consistent in your parenting.  When you are feeding them junk food through the entire trip to keep the peace, I am not thinking that you are contributing to their long-term demise.  When they are dressed in shorts and a t-shirt in January, I don't think of you as negligent. 
I am proud of you for remembering their shoes. 
I am bringing my two at lunch time so that we can eat through the entire trip, stopping at the deli first to get some turkey. 
I am trying to send you a look of sympathy, but understand completely why your eyes aren't meeting mine.  I just wish I could tell you, "hang in there, I am limping too and if I look pretty good today, it is a fluke, I assure you". 

Jacob finishes his life renamed by God, reunited with his brother, restored and redeemed with his father.  He is blessed with children and their wives and grandchildren that numbered 70 in total when they moved to Egypt.  God had his hand in his life, even during the limping years, maybe even especially during those years.
And that gives me great hope, for all of us who are falling off of the jungle gym on the playground of life.

"Thus Israel settled in the land of Egypt, in the land of Goshen, and they gained possessions in it, and were fruitful and multiplied greatly.  And Jacob lived in the land of Egypt seventeen years.  So the days of Jacob, the years of his life, were 147 years."  Genesis 47:27-28

Finding the Real Fruit

 

We just returned from a visit to my parent's house.  It was the Apple Festival at their "next door neighbors", where you can buy some of the best apples grown by God.  If you ever have reason to be in North Garden, look up Vintage Virginia Apples.  It is worth the trip.  The weekend weather was perfect for lying in the middle of their acreage and playing with my girls.  We were able to meet and re-meet many of the friends who have loved on them so well through the ups and downs of life.
I felt terribly thankful.  Almost painfully so if that makes any sense.

 

 

 

For the most part, parents are an under appreciated lot.  I don't think you can fully "get it" until you are one anyway, and each year deepens my respect for my own. 

Tonight I was walking in our yard, strolling past the neglected vegetable garden so overgrown with weeds you would think it had been way more than one season that we completely didn't try. 
None of us are gardeners. 
James, had he been born into another family, could have been.  He is the only one of us so far with the patience said endeavor takes.

I looked at all of the things my dad did in that garden.  The raised beds that once held weed free soil.  The blackberry bushes harvested, planted, pruned (though you can't tell now).  The water barrels placed next to the garden so that James would not have to cart water all the way from the house one bucket at a time.  The garlic and onions gone "to seed", or gone to the rodents, or just plain gone.  Tomato cages rusted.

 

I wish we had kept it up.  I feel terribly guilty about that. 
It occurred to me however, my father has never once, not ever, expressed disappointment in us over it.  That is just amazing.  And profoundly grace filled.

 

I guess at 78 you know that it isn't about whether or not the pegboard in the garage actually helped better organize your son-in-law.  It doesn't matter that the 15 pages you printed off of the internet about local fox trappers and snare designs didn't actually net any victories over James's nemesis to the poultry business.  Building Maggie's room in the basement was a relative success, but seems short-lived as she is already gone for good. 
What I think he must know is that it is the being there.  It's the being all there. 
The tasks themselves don't actually have to be successful. 

 

The fruit isn't in the garden.

It is housed in a weekend where all four grandchildren were equally delighted to spend time enjoying and helping them.

Honor your father and your mother, as the lord your God has commanded you ....
Deuteronomy 5:16

Vox Musicorum

There is something about the ocean that relaxes me in a way no other place does.  Even with people around, my mind feels free, like the world might not be my responsibility after all, which is my usual modus operandi.

I do not know why this is so. 
We did not spend "summers at the seashore" growing up.  I do not have any spectacular memories of significant events that happened there.  In fact, I was thirteen before I even saw the ocean. 
I think, for whatever reason, it is on the beach that I am able to hear the background music of my life - that carefully chosen tune that the Lord is directing and the Heavenly Host is playing. 

The music is large and bold, deep and broad, and good. 
The score. 
It is what my heart wants, needs, to hear.  The music that makes the body want to lift up arms and dance with reckless abandon.  When I hear it, life some how all makes sense and the hard parts feel worth it.
It is the way I think, albeit even more deeply, that we are supposed to live everyday.  The way we were created to live.

I have always been impressed with music written for movies.  That a composer is able to write from the story and make the viewer's emotion match the storyteller's desire, is pretty amazing.  The music in a movie tells us how to feel before the action even takes place.  I think when Jesus says "abide in me" (John 15:9) and that "his sheep hear his voice" (John 10:3), it is because He wrote a musical score that we are meant to be listening to as we walk out our days.  While our feet are on this earth, our ears are supposed to be listening to the Word.  He tells us how we are to feel while our story unfolds.

It is turning down the volume of the rest of our lives in order to hear that song that is so, so difficult.

Psalm 89:15-16
Blessed are the people who know the joyful sound!  They walk, O Lord, in the light of Your countenance.  In Your name they rejoice all day long...

Poop

        

Parenting is difficult for a number of reasons, one of which is the number of gray areas not covered in "the books".  This thing, in this particular circumstance, from this child, on this day .... 

There really is not a formula.

One of the things that Ellie has trouble with is telling us that she has poop in her diaper.  She can just have been making that cute little 'I am pooping' face, staring right at you and then promptly deny that it produced anything.
You can say, "Ellie, do you have a poopoo?  Do you need a new diaper?"
She will look at you and say "no".
"Really, Ellie," I respond, "Are you sure?  Because if you did and you told mommy that you didn't that would not be honest.  You wouldn't want to lie to mommy."
"No poo poo, just pee" she says with great predictability.
"Ellie.  Here's the thing, somebody in the room pooped and as you are the only one with a diaper on I am really hoping it was you."

 

We go change the diaper and I debate on various days the extent to which I want to try to teach this lesson at this age.

Recently a family we knew came up in conversation.  Their schedules are full, they have more children than we do, their house is tidy, their kids are clean .... we were admiring that.  Someone remarked "They run a pretty tight ship over there."    Maggie and I had toddlers crawling over us dressed in their self-chosen cacophony while we sat on a rug that had not been vacuumed since I do not know when, toys strung about, a basket of unfolded laundry was probably on the couch.  I looked around and asked, "What kind of ship are we running here?"
"The Ship of Grace!  That's it",  we laughed.

And I do hope we are!  I hope when both of you read my blog or when my conversations are overheard that the thing most felt is grace.  Because I believe Jesus covered the sins of the murderer and the sins of the gossiper alike.  I believe that the cross satisfies for adultery, the struggle of homosexuality, the addictions of pornography or alcohol or whatever else.  I believe, if asked, Jesus is happy to cart every one of those (and the thousands in myself that I am blind to) away from the judgement seat of God. 
But we have to own them first.

We have to admit that we didn't make it to the potty.

Jealousy? "No, not me." 
Control? "I don't think so." 
Discontent? "No, Lord, that's not my diaper - must be someone else's that you smell."

Moving On

Yesterday morning the cats moved out. 
As most of our animal departures occur via death, this one was, relatively speaking, good.  I had not held out much hope of finding them a new home.  I mean cats seem pretty ubiquitous and people have these conflicted relationships with the ones they own.  So when the first person Maggie mentioned it to, actually wanted them? 
Well, it was a God thing.
The family who took them seemed genuinely thrilled to have them.  Who would have thought?
So ... that's good, really good. 

Except for this one thing. 

It would not be happening if Maggie was not also moving out. 

Everyone who knows me knows I will find it hard.  Some people laugh when they find out that her moving out is not even leaving the town we are in.  Some people say they understand.  Others remind me that it is the appropriate next step.  They tell me that she will be home often.  They tell me how miles don't change your relationship.  They scold me into thinking of how the alternative - her never leaving - could be a really sad thing.

I know all of that!

It is good!

Her leaving, her ability to leave, and to be excited about it, is indicative of a great deal of healing in our family.  For that I am so, so thankful. 
These past four years with all of their drama, also contained great gifts one of which was this amazingly precious relationship with her.  When she showed up, no matter what the state of things, she made it better.    When people would say "dumb" things to us about our situation, we would smile at one another knowing they meant well.  With one look across a room we could communicate a whole paragraph of response.  She is the only one who breathed the same air that I did and thus the only one who fully understood the depth, the scope, the far flung consequences of certain things.  There were trials in her life going on too, ones in which a mother is a very good thing to have. 
So it is nice for her not to need me so much anymore.

Well, sort of.