My Parents Play Nerf with Me

One of Sam's friends came over today, and after snack they asked if I would play Nerf War with them.

You guys, I have two life hacks that are my absolute favourite.  (The first one is The Sacrificial Chip: tossing a naked chip on top of a pan full of loaded nachos, so it can burn and alert your nose that the nachos are ready without ruining the whole panful of deliciousness. Yum.)  The second is filling up my kids' hearts by putting aside my busy-ness and playing like a crazy 7-year-old.

When we first moved here, I noticed a shift in Sam. He was missing his friends, especially his little neighbour buddy who used to come over to play almost every day. He just seemed a little withdrawn, a little lost inside himself.  He wasn't really interested in our stroller-paced walks to the park, or drawing with Vava, or in building Lego by himself.

So Patrick ordered a huge box of Nerf bullets and we told Sam it was game on. (Our house rule is no shooting anyone unless they have a gun, so the little kids were safe.)  We ran upstairs and down, hid in corners and under tables and grabbed pillows for shields.  We yelled and laughed, shot and were shot, and played ourselves out all over the house. And when it was over, Sam's eyes were glowing and his heart was filled.  Yeah - what that homesick little boy needed wasn't anything expensive or difficult to find - he wanted to be played with.  We needed to speak love to Sam by playing the things he loves with him - not just letting him enjoy them alone.  And it was amazing.

 And when he finally made friends and invited a buddy over to our house, they were making plans for spending their time. And I heard him say, "my parents play Nerf with me."

And I held my breath because I thought they might think that wasn't so cool - parents, after all.  But his friend's eyes lit up and he said, "do you think they will play with us?"

And you guys, every single kid who comes over has the same reaction.  They LOVE it. They get to be a team, they get to battle grown-ups, and never want it to end.  For me, too, even though my aim stinks and I get hit way more than I hit - I love it.  It's just fun.  They love being played with at their level - not being sent off to play together, which is fine, but what they truly delight in is when I put down my chores and enjoy doing their fun stuff along with them.

And I can hear that same proud delight in the gospel of John, when he introduces Jesus: "The Word became flesh and blood, and moved into the neighbourhood. We saw the glory with our own eyes, the one-of-a-kind glory, like Father, like son, Generous inside and out, true from start to finish." (John 1:14, MSG)

He came to us.
Right here, became flesh like us, moved into the neighbourhood and dwelt among us.

And when we see Him, our hearts glow.  God with us.  (With us!!!)

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Kind of an Ugly Gap

There's a gap - kind of an ugly gap - in our Christmas tree.  I think it's the spot where the straps held it tight to our roof on the drive home. The branches hang lower, and a patch of brown needles gapes, unbeautifully.

And it was bugging me all day, but the tree just kept standing there all twinkly, wearing its collection of lights and homemade ornaments, staring rather impudently at my own flawed exterior whenever I sighed about that gap.

And it's so silly, because of course I could spin it around and show the full side, the rich side, the lovelier side, and leave the gap at the back where it won't be seen.

But God didn't send his Son at Christmas to make things look better.
He sent a Redeemer, to transform the way things are.

And the last thing I need for my own gaps - ugliness of character, my selfishness and sin - is an image consultant.  I don't need to look better, don't need to spin from view to hide the ugliness.  I need wholeness. Healing. Redemption.  Our whole aching world does.

And that's Christmas, right? That's why God gave Jesus - to meet us where we are, right here in our sin. To redeem us. To make us whole. Healed. And lovely.

So instead of hiding that gap, I filled it. And once I started shuffling things around, I found that that gap is just the right place for ornaments that are too large for ordinary branches.  They hang down from the branches above and dance in that space as if it's what I intended all along.

They redeem it.
And make it lovely.




Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

Not Even a Mouse

God's love is meteoric, his loyalty astronomic, 

His purpose titanic, his verdicts oceanic. 

Yet in his largeness nothing gets lost; 

Not a man, not a mouse, slips through the cracks.

Psalm 36:5-6 MSG

Merry Christmas, dear friends.

xo.

A Christmas Preposition

While the grandparents were here, I moved Vava into Pascal's room - slid her dresser down the hall, and put her duvet on the spare bed in his room. This left V's room (with the big double bed) free for our parents.

Now, every morning, Pascal wakes up early and calls to Vava.  She wakes up and crawls into his crib or lifts him out to cuddle with her before they come to our room and find us.  She's really not a huge fan of waking up on the wrong side of 6am, so this morning I asked her if she wanted me to help her move back to her room.

She thought it over for a minute and then shook her head, reluctantly. "No," she answered, "Pascal needs me." 

"He'll be fine," I assured her, "he was fine before you moved in, and he'll be fine when you move back."

"No," she stood firm, "he's scared without me. He told me. He wants me to stay with him."

(Oh, that precious four-letter preposition is the Christmasiest one of all: with.)

Just like us, aching for a Saviour, longing for a God-with-us.

He moved into our room, wrapped up in what my kids call "waddling clothes," and meets us where we are. His presence comforts us when we cry out in the dark, and in the end, He holds our hand and takes us to our Father.

He loves us so much, God-with-us.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

I Forgive You

I'm a day late with my favourite Christmas tradition - counting through Advent with 24 days of posts. It might need to be pared back a bit this year, because I'm still so weak from my tonsillectomy on Nov 20. I know that sounds ridiculous, unless you've had one as an adult ... in which case I don't need to explain a thing.

For eight days I laid in my bed, while my parents and then Patrick's parents took care of me and my kids. On the ninth day I got up for part of the day, and on the tenth, for most of the day. I'm on the mend, but - whew - I'm still shaky and weak.

In the foggy blur of recovery, I had a few precious moments with my kids. Kachi came up and snuggled me for a few minutes every night before bed. Pascal played on my bed with his dinosaurs in the mornings. Sam gave me little kisses.  And each afternoon, Vava came up and told me about her day after school.

One day she was bouncing around, chirping about her friends and things she had drawn and suddenly she stopped, horrified, as she remembered something.  "I drew an OWL!" she wailed, "The word was renard! I was supposed to make a fox!"  And she threw herself down on the nest (the  bed on our floor where the kids curl up if they have bad dreams), and raged. "I can't fix it! It's too late. I already gave it to the teacher! And it's WRONG!"

And I think if I had been healthy and well, busy putting away lunchboxes and hanging up snowsuits, I would have told her to calm down or forget about it or some other unhelpful thing. But because I was lying there with literally nothing else to do, I was able to see the heart of the matter.

"If one of your friends had made this mistake on her work," I asked her, "would you be yelling at her now? Would you be angry with her?"

"No," she replied, calming down.

"Did you try your best today?" I asked her, knowing without a doubt she had.

"Yes."

"Then I think you should go over to the mirror and smile at that very sad girl inside and tell her you love her and forgive her."

She stood in front of the mirror, but couldn't quite manage.

"Try to say 'I forgive you, sweet friend'," I prompted.

She still couldn't smile, but squeaked out the words: "I forgive you, sweet friend." And then the smile came, glowing like sunlight all over her face, and she leapt into bed with me and told me about the rest of her day.

After she left, I cried.

Because forgiving ourselves for falling short of our own expectations is really really hard.

And at Christmas - at Christmas, God sent Jesus to be with us, one of us, to die for our forgiveness, and rise again to bring us to God.

And - I'm asking this of you, only because I asked it of myself last week after Vava left - if He came all this way and went through all that to offer you full forgiveness, isn't it a good idea to forgive yourself?

For whatever lump in your heart is angry or bitter or regretful about being weak, or inadequate, or selfish, or for drawing an hibou instead of a renard ...

There's nothing righteous or good or true in holding onto it. Let yourself remember why He sent that baby:

To whisper to all waiting and aching hearts, I forgive you, sweet friend.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.

So Full

Now that cold weather is here, getting everyone ready in the mornings seems like a Herculean task.  They dig in their heels from wake-up to bus-time because none of my kids wants to go outside.  They hate that it takes an extra ten minutes to get into snowpants and boots, jackets, and hats and mittens. They hate the struggle of looping their backpacks over puffy sleeves and bulky shoulders.  So all morning long they dawdle and whine and moan and refuse to cooperate.

It's not my favourite.

Yesterday was particularly hard, and after we all made it to the bus stop, three children were sobbing. (The fourth was teetering on the brink.)  I briefly considered quitting.  "What would they do all day," I wondered, "If I just stayed in bed?"  But I know they'd soon be fighting in my room and who would teach them how to get along? You know it.

The other day I was walking by my mirror and idly thinking "ugh you're ugly" and God reminded me to take every thought captive so I stood there and tried to deliberately compliment my body.

"You're strong," I said, and then a verse I had read that morning echoed in my mind. "I'm singing at the top of my lungs, I'm so full of answered prayers." (Psalm 13:6, the Message).

And suddenly I realized that these stretched-out muscles that look like another baby on the way are the result of the babies that God sent to answer my prayers.  And my hair is greying because I'm getting older - because God answers my prayers for yet another day with my family.  And I'm standing here in my big warm house with more than I need - so full of answered prayers.

I'm so full of answered prayers.

And God reminded me of that again today when I straggled home from the bus stop, worn out from the morning battle.

I didn't lose my temper - maybe the biggest answered prayer of all. We didn't miss the bus.  Patrick had a safe drive to work. Everyone's lunch bag was packed full of good nutrition.  Everyone was wrapped up cozy in their snowsuits.

Yes.
Even bedraggled from wrestling a four year old into three layers of clothes. (My darling four year old!) So full of answered prayers.

And thinking on that lifted up my weary heart.
So I thought I would share, in case yours needs a lift too.  In case you have a long list of yet-to-be-answereds.  In case your battle feels more like a sludge through the mud instead of a bound over a mountain top.

We are so full of answered prayers.

Of Course It Is

Earlier this week, Patrick and I were cuddling down for a movie. I made myself a cup of tea, trying not to snack. "Ugh," I groaned, sitting down, "I just wish I could lose weight."  He looked over at me, surprised, "Is that bothering you lately?" 
And I didn't know how to answer because

1. Yes
and
2. Isn't it supposed to?
and
3. Of course it is
and
4. Every second
    Of every day
    Since I was nine
and
7. Doesn't everyone feel like this?

And then I realized his surprise was genuine.  He was just hanging out, enjoying a cup of tea, surprised to hear I was feeling down on myself for my weight.  This was the innocent question of a person who hadn't thought about his own weight today, this week, maybe this whole month.

I keep mulling it over.  It's been a weird few days.  But I feel like Patrick's question was straight from God.

Because I'm having a really hard time imagining a single hour where I don't feel bad for looking like I do, let alone a day or two, let alone "lately." Not a day goes by when I don't tell myself I need to try harder to lose weight, do better, be better.

(Since I was nine or ten, there have been maybe 3 times when I was happy with my size. And I spent most of those times worrying about how I would feel when the number inevitably changed.  I felt less embarrassed about cameras, and loved buying clothes, but I didn't relax or rest in it.)

And that's a whole lot of gross.  That's so gross.  It makes me so angry that something so STUPID has eaten up so much of my mental and emotional energy.

I love the people I love because of their character. Their personalities. Their kindness, warmth, intelligence, gentleness, humour, compassion.  Never once have I thought about them "um, you're okay and everything, but I'd really love you if you only lost fifty pounds." Because when it comes to other people's true beauty, I very easily realize they are a soul, within a body.

But I get it mixed up for myself every damn day.

I haven't blogged in a long time, and I kind of feel like this is too personal to share, but I also want to hold up the mirror in case there is someone else who is doing the same thing to their precious self. 

You don't deserve a constant diet of hatred. 
No matter what size you are.

So maybe I won't worry so much about putting down the chips, and I'll worry a little more about putting down the criticism.  Maybe I won't worry about the size of my clothes as much as the size of my compassion. And maybe someday I'll get to the point where I'm as surprised as Patrick when someone mentions worrying about their weight.

Because that's the person I'd really love to see in the mirror.

Boom (Vava's Method)

"I ate a rock once. And here I am, still alive. Boom."  She dropped her line matter-of-factly and then spun off across the beach in a swirl of celebration.

After I stopped laughing, my heart purred a bit.

She's got it, you know. She hasn't yet forgotten the secret that all babies know: that celebrating our own victories is the way to win.

Pascal recently mastered the 2-feet jump.  He claps every time.

And me? I'm over here comparing myself like crazy, mentally standing beside one of you after another, and almost always coming up short.

It's a doozy for the old mental health.

But Vava's method?

"I ate a rock once. And here I am, still alive. Boom."

Yeah. I can do that. I can victory-dance over my own small successes.

I got sucked through a dam once.  And here I am, still alive. Boom.

I lost a baby. And here I am, still alive. Boom.

I take care of four kids every day. And here I am, still alive. Boom.

And here we are, still alive.

Boom.

First Spring in Smiths Falls

And it's spring,
so we put on our boots and go squelching through the backyard, out the gate, into the woods
A big little boy on my right,
A small little boy on my left.

A blue jay startles and swoops up overhead.
A rabbit leaps over a tiny stream, and tries to hide its enormous softness
behind a few bare branches.
Robins squeak and flirt and hop.
"Hi!" Pascal calls, waving eagerly, "hi!"
And there is nothing in the world to match the wonder on his face.

Through the bare branches, I can see a run-down hotel.
A yard full of boats, still wearing their winter covers.
The grass is still brown, still lying down from the weight of recent snow.
The rumble of traffic echoes across the river.
We are solidly in the center of town
and, yes - here, in the smallish and ugly backside of things,
Spring is bursting beautiful to life.

So far we've seen a turtle,
Maybe twenty snails, and one school of fish.
Geese overhead, and mourning doves on the telephone wire;
Robins, jays, grackles, crows.
Bunnies playing a fierce game of tag.
Dogs, on leashes.
And a raccoon, twenty-five feet in the air, clinging to a bare tree.

We spend the morning throwing rocks into the river
(one of those activities that grows more absorbing the longer you do it)
And at noon we scramble half-wild up the bank
Noses dripping and hair a-frizz, ravenous for lunch;
Startling pedestrians, who haven't yet succumbed
To the sweet messy earthy song
Of spring.

Ancient Hebrew Soldiers, on Parenting

I don't often look up from these short minutes.

Wake time runs into
Breakfast time runs into
Bus time runs into
Cleaning time runs into
Playtime runs into
Snack time runs into
Reading time runs into
Playtime runs into
Lunchtime runs into
Naptime runs into
Bus time runs into
Snack time runs into
Playtime runs into
Homework time runs into
Chores time runs into
Suppertime runs into
Bath time runs into
Cozing time runs into
Bedtime runs into
Cleaning time runs into
TV time runs into
Packing lunchbox time runs into
Bedtime runs into
Wake time.

And the liminal space is filled with diapers and dirty socks and Band-Aids and making sure to connect with each little soul on the deep and happy and true place where they live and washing hands with soap please.
And diapers.

The days are mashed together like a package of stuck liquorice and I just pry off
one
piece
after
another
after
another.

So when I read today in the book of Joshua about tribes building an altar to remind their children's children about the covenant between them, it made me look twice.
In the middle of their journey home from war, they thought about their children's children.
And they stopped.
And they built a monument to remind the future generation of their story.

It might seem like this to them, they thought, we must make sure they know it was like that.

Their bigger story was important to them.
Their multi generational story mattered.

And tonight when Kachi threw up and threw off suppertime at the end of a challenging day, my stuck-liquorice heart threatened to wring its hands at the delay.  But the long view whispered of bigger things and I'm not on a sprint here. I don't get medals for serving supper at precisely 6.

They built their monument in the middle of their journey. On their way. They stopped.

There are children's children to think of.

And I want those kids to be raised by gentle hands and tender hearts. By happy parents who know and are known. By parents who make room and practice patience and go slow.

By parents who weren't rushed and sighed at when they were sick.

(Hideously obvious now that I'm writing it! But when I've got the short view, I'm just thinking of the next thing, instead of the important thing.)

And I found that the long view is a good view in the middle of these short minutes.

PS bedtime was late, but awesome. Complete with slow cuddles and belly laughs and Kachi thanking God for mama.

Seven

Sam is almost seven. Seven!

I've always been daunted by seven. One of my favourite authors says a person's character is more or less set by age seven.

I don't feel at all like I've done enough or prayed enough or led by example enough to build in him a strong character in these brief and precious years.

And every now and then I worry a bit. He doesn't like to talk about his feelings, he'd rather learn from watching another kid than listening to an adult, and does he really know, deep down in his soul, how much I love him?

Yesterday, his friend, E, came over to play.  At lunchtime, Patrick asked him if he plays any sports.
E said, "hockey and sockey."
Having heard E struggle with the "er" sound before, I knew he meant soccer.
Patrick, not noticing my frantic eyebrow-signals, asked, "is sockey an indoor hockey game?"

E squirmed, unsure of what to say.

And Sam spoke up matter-of-factly, "E has trouble with saying "er." He plays soccer."

And the conversation rolled on.

I was so proud of my boy.
So proud.

He was kind and forthright. He didn't tease, and didn't ignore the confusion, but he set it right and moved on.

I love my Sam.

Through

My two best friends in the whole entire world moved away this week.

My heart is sore and tired and afraid.

Life has been so good with them close. They love so comfortably, so easily. They don't demand or expect. They help. They laugh. They give.

They're fun and kind and without a single shred of pretension.

They're amazing.

And now they're gone.

And the yawning emptiness they leave behind makes my heart tremble.

I know I'm a wimp. I just can't picture  life without them.

In church this morning, we were reminded not to be afraid.

Not because our troubles are small.
Not because they don't matter.

No, Jesus never trivializes our pain, our fear.  But He tells us not to fear because He is with us. He does not leave us. He walks with us, all the way through it.

I needed that today. 
And maybe you need it too - the reminder that whatever you're going through, whatever makes your heart ache, whatever leaves you in tears - He is with you.

All the way through.