A Way of Boomeranging

 Don't pick on people, jump on their failures, criticize their faults - unless, of course, you want the same treatment. That critical spirit has a way of boomeranging. It's easy to see a smudge on your neighbour's face and be oblivious to the ugly sneer on your own. Do you have the nerve to say "Let me wash your face for you," when your own face is distorted by contempt? It's this whole traveling road-show mentality all over again, playing a holier-than-thou part instead of just living your part. Wipe that ugly sneer off your own face, and you might be fit to offer a washcloth to your neighbour.

 Matthew 7:1-5, from the Message.

I was reading this section this morning when my kids were sniping at each other, criticizing each other and just being thoughtlessly mean. "Hey," I told them, "I've got just the word for you." And I read them the passage, feeling like Such A Good Mom. I found a teachable moment (and straight from the Bible, extra points!).

You see where this is going, right?  Oof. I should have known.

 It wasn't an hour later when I was jumping all over my kids' failures, criticizing their faults, my own face twisted into an ugly sneer. My guiding words from this morning dissolved into wisps of nothing; my actions spoke so much louder.

Yeah. That word this morning was for me.  Uggggh.

I feel like it's pretty easy for me to justify jumping on my kids' failures, pointing out where they need to improve. Doesn't a good mom have to? I mean, I see those dirty faces, and I hand out washcloths all the time.

But ... I rarely think to check if I've got something on my own first.

And as soon as I realized how dirty my face was, the criticism came flooding up. Sharp, harsh, devastating. Ouch. Right from within.

So then. What do I need to change? I had to open up to re-read it, and it's right there in the passage - 

The solution to being critical of others is authenticity.

Wait, what - authenticity? I was expecting to see kindness or repentance or something like that. I had to go back and read it a few times. "...playing a holier-than-thou part instead of just living your part. Wipe that ugly sneer off your own face ..."

Hypocrisy is no light at all.

No performance parenting. No trying to be Such A Good Mom. I don't need to be the Holy Spirit in my kids' lives (or in anyone else's life). It's easy to see a smudge on your neighbour's face and be oblivious to the ugly sneer on your own. 

To put it in that delicious Acadian phrase, I need to keep my own onions.

Peace, little bunny

This afternoon, Kachi and Pascal and their friend asked me if I would take them for a walk around the block. "The block" is a little wooded path along the walking trail behind our house, a very small outing and doesn't take too long. So I said yes and off we went.

The three of them rode their scooters, and I walked the dog. We stopped at every possible interesting place, to sniff and snuffle, search for frogs, and pick up litter.  They realized recently that they could make this slice of the world a better place by picking up any trash they find. There are two garbage cans along the route, so they pick up trash, deposit it where it belongs, and wear a little extra swagger because they are saving the world.

 On our last stretch before home, their friend noticed a bunny hunkered down in the grassy field. Wonder of wonders, Eevee didn't see or sniff it at all (her nose was keeping her on the other side of the path, in urgent pursuit of a pair of squirrels). 

The bunny sat as still as could be, with one wide, glossy eye staring straight at us.

Pascal threw down his scooter and ran after it, and I caught him and held him back. "I want to chase it like Eevee!" he howled, "I won't hurt it! I want to see it run!"  And bunny hops are delicious to witness but there was something about this bunny that seemed too scared, too frozen in fear. "We've got to be kind," I insisted, "so it will want to keep living in our neighbourhood." I guess that did it, because he stopped struggling, but he scowled angrily the whole way home. 

I would have cared more, I think, but Pascal will have many more chances to watch bunnies hop. And the rest of the way home, I could see a velvety little pair of ears poking above the grass, waving the world's sweetest peace sign in our direction.

Kachi's recipe for bacon

 Yesterday morning, Kachi asked if I would take him for a walk. "Just the two of us, mama?" he asked, and I had 20 minutes while the bacon cooked so I said yes.

We had friends over last month, and the bacon took a really long time to cook - longer than I expected. So I've been experimenting with different bacon, different pans, and different times. (It's a rough job, but someone's got to do it.) I popped thick-sliced bacon on a parchment-lined, cheap cookie sheet and set the timer for 20 minutes, setting the oven at 400*F.  With a glass pan, I need closer to 30 minutes. With thin-sliced bacon, 15. But I thought this should be perfect.

We stepped out into the surprisingly bright, very warm morning. Baking hot sunshine poured over everything. "Can you hear that osprey?" Kachi asked. (Ospreys - or is it osprey? - have a surprisingly cheerful, un-predator-like song. It's pretty and full of delight.) We could hear one, and Kachi spotted it perched high in a dead tree at the water's edge.

We'd seen them all week long, while we were in the park for French camp, the parents teaching the babies how to fly. They soared and swooped and sang to each other. 

Flying lessons complete, the adult was teaching the young one how to fish. It would chirp madly, then swoop, then dive - then retreat to the other side of the river, waiting for the smaller one to do the same. We watched the scene for far too long before remembering the bacon and hurrying home, alight with wonder.

We could smell the bacon and hear the timer beeping from the driveway.

I opened the oven door in trepidation, worried we had ruined breakfast - but the bacon was perfect. I scrambled some eggs while Pascal ran outside to catch a glimpse of the birds fishing.

It was delicious.

(I give Kachi's recipe 5/5 stars, definitely recommend.)

here is love, vast as the ocean

I miss my ocean.

I miss the salt tang in the air.

I miss the way the enormous crash and shhh of the surf pounds pettiness to dust and settles my heart.

I come to the shore with a heart full of tossing and the vastness steadies me, thrills me.

Sometimes we get a huge storm here that gives me a similar feeling: a little perspective adjustment and awe. But still, I miss my ocean.

It's no secret that the past few years have been hard. Difficulties have crashed down, wave after wave, and my body keeps the score. The hair at my temples has turned white, age spots and wrinkles are etched into my face. I've been grinding my teeth at night and breaking old fillings. Struggles have pressed themselves indelibly into my body, and I feel like I've aged ten years in the past three.

So last week when a teenager at camp showed me the prison tat she had given herself, and offered to give me my first tattoo, I said yes. 

I know it's all kinds of crazy, but -

Sorrow has left its mark: I want to leave a mark of joy and reminder of goodness too.

So she inked a line of waves across my shoulder: my own little ocean. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. 

I have been held and buoyed up.

I have been hard pressed but not overcome.

My heart is at the feet of the One who walks on water.

And now, my body keeps that score too.

❤️xo