You Shouldn't Blog When You're Tired, and I Am Oh, So Tired.

The boys have a children’s Bible storybook called the Jesus Storybook Bible, and for the last two days one or both of them has requested the story of the Holy Spirit coming down at Pentecost.  In a very charming tone, the writer describes the disciples holed up in this room, terrified in a way that you would be if everyone was out to get you, your best friend was gone, and you had no idea how to do what God wanted you to do.  I have never before thought of their fear and confusion in light of my own experience, but perhaps there was at least one disciple curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth and muttering nonsensical things about what might happen if this gift does not show up.  It would make me feel a lot better if I’m not the only one. 

Because seriously.  James asks every few nights if I’ve found a job yet.  I know he thinks I’m just waiting for something to fall into my lap, but I’ve updated and posted my resume for a job I don’t even know exists, I’m networking and sending emails, I’m following up on leads…and nothing.  Aside from deciding that I’ll continue with the writing business regardless of what goes down in the next few months, NOTHING has been decided.  No doors have opened.  I’ve prayed for wisdom in choosing what to pursue, but there isn’t anything to go after.  I feel a lot like those disciples waiting for the gift they were promised: I’m worried and starting to wonder if the gift is ever going to materialize.  I also feel like our other bedtime hero, Noah: building an ark in case of rain that no one has ever experienced.  I just cannot see how God is going to work this out and I’m starting to doubt that I’m on the right road at all.

I’m doing worst-case scenario preparation, and I probably don’t have to tell you that every match on care.com looks like a total dud.  I am constantly trying to turn my emotions back to God, but they are still constantly racing and churning.  I am a doer, and I don’t know what to do or how to find time to do it.  I’m so terribly afraid that I will screw this up, even though I’m pretty sure God told me He is above my screw-ups.  My teaching job is starting to look like the safe option, and at a certain point, I have to go back to it to pay the bills.  Unless God comes through.

I believe.  Please help my unbelief.  

Seven Times

Last night, amid the raging inner storm that has become my constant companion, I remembered a story that is told fairly frequently at our church.  When they were trying to buy the current Oakley site, they knew their bid was low…probably too low, and they followed the lead of Joshua and marched around the property seven times, praying that God would deliver it to them while stumbling over weeds and setting off the automatic doors over and over again.  Lo and behold, all the higher bidders encountered unheard of obstacles and missed the auction, and now we have a thriving urban church.  Well, that thought popped into my head, and I thought I felt a nudging to march around James’ work seven times and pray that God would knock down walls preventing him from reaching his goals for himself and our family.  I went back and forth with that idea, questioning whether that was really God or maybe just sleep deprivation I heard, but in the end I felt that I should go. 

                And so today, I loaded the kiddos into the minivan and we headed to Daddy’s work.  It took a few minutes to find a route that allowed me to actually circle the building.  And yes, I drove.  The Israelites would have driven if they had minivans, too.  I gave the kids a quick recap of the Joshua and Jericho story as we started our journey, and they asked if they could get out and eat dinner with Daddy.  Clearly they understood what we were trying to do.  Trip #1 revealed that the grounds crew was out mowing and clearing the side of the road.  So, great.  Witnesses.  I kept my sunglasses on.  It took exactly four minutes and felt like forty.  I asked God to break down walls and open doors for James.  Eli was very concerned because he did not want the building to fall down with Daddy in it.  I tried to explain the concept of a metaphor.  You can guess how that went.

                Trip #2.  I took my sunglasses off so the grounds crew would think it was perhaps just ANOTHER white Kia minivan.  I asked God to be big.  To provide for us in a way that could only be him.  The back seat crew started to whine.  It all felt very unspiritual.  And ridiculous.  And I was running out of things to say. 

                Trip #3.  Sunglasses back on.  I am quite certain I got several weird looks, and I thought I saw one guy reaching for his phone.  Probably to call the cops.  I concocted a totally false explanation in case we got arrested.  Does lying during a spiritual exercise negate the effectiveness?  The whining in the back seat escalated to include potential starvation and extreme thirst.  Never mind that they had half a bag of pretzels and two glasses of water at their great-grandparents’ house thirty minutes before.  I tried again to remind them of what the Israelites did and why this matters to our family.  And then I asked the Holy Spirit to intercede for me because I flat-out ran out of things to say.  There’s only so many ways you can ask for the same thing. 

                Trip #4.  We were over half way, and thank goodness because the backseat was losing patience.  If nothing else comes of this activity, I have a new appreciation for what the Israelites endured.  You know they had whiners, too…and probably a lot of people talking loudly about what a ridiculous idea this was.  I felt completely and totally ridiculous myself.  I mean, I drove in the same circle SEVEN times and tried not to get caught.  Sunglasses were off this time, by the way. 

                Trip #5.  Caleb wanted to go HOOOOOOME.  Eli was too desperately exhausted to sit up straight in his seat.  I asked God if perhaps I had misunderstood, and if he would accept 4.5 trips instead of seven.  And then we buckled down and did it.

                Trip 6.  Sunglasses back on.  I am sure several people recognized me this time.  I tried to look away and act like I was singing.  Weeping and gnashing of teeth in the back seat.  Prayed the same prayer over and over, and then spent some time being silent.  Noted that my devotional asked me to spend some time being quiet with God, and wondered if being quiet in a car full of screaming kids would count.  Violet pooped.  Loudly.

                Trip 7.  Things improved dramatically because everyone in the car knew this was it.  Plus, I asked the boys to scream at the top of their lungs when we passed seven, because that’s what the Israelites did.  I suspect that there were some young people in the mix that marched around Jericho, and probably like my kiddos, they were screaming their heads off because they.were.so.over.the.marching.  Anyway, the promise of screaming and yelling without consequence improved everyone’s mood.  And just like that, we were done.  War woops, hollering, squealing, and as we turned to head home, Eli said, “Mommy, the building is still standing up.”  I know buddy.  We don’t actually want the building to fall down.  But maybe some walls are coming down that we can’t see…oh, never mind.  Don’t think about walls.  Tell yourself that God is working, and He is for us, not against us.

                So we shall see what happens.  And if nothing else, I will never look at the story of Jericho the same way again.  Poor Joshua.  I hope he had ear plugs.

Words: Therapy for the Cheap

These last few months have been a gift, really.  Since Eli was born, I’ve wanted, with increasing intensity, to stay at home with my babies.  Not because I don’t like to work or want to work, because frankly I’m good at working.  Sometimes it feels like the only thing I’ve done successfully in the last decade.  And I like…really like…my paycheck.  I derive a lot of self-worth from the twice-monthly deposit in the bank account.  Say what you want about me, but I have managed to pay the bills, even if it meant one or even two side jobs.  I like the security of a tenured teaching position, too; I’m a security junkie and I’ve worked a long time to be where I am.

                But.

                I’m not a person who balances all the spinning plates with any kind of grace; I am calmer, more centered, when I can put my best attention toward what matters most.  And I’m an introvert working in an extroverted profession; God help you if you want to get chatty with me right after work.  I want to be left alone.  And balancing life with three kids is hard; just getting everyone fed, dressed, and out the door in the morning is a full-day’s work in itself, and usually a full day’s worth of tears as well.  In my heart, I know that my kids would benefit from a mom who is present to pick them up and drop them off, who is available to have conversations with teachers, who has time and mental energy to help with homework in the evenings.  I hate everything about daycare and after-school care and college student nannies who text on their phones while the kids run wild in the park.  Hate might be an understatement; the thought of putting my kids back into the daycare Eli went to when he was little makes me want to hurl this computer through the window.  But them, of course, I’d have to pay to fix the window and the computer.

                You would think that the opportunity to scale back my work life for a year would instantly calm my spirit, but I haven’t spent my days radiating peace.  If anything, my emotions are even more out of control than before.  Caleb throws constant tantrums these days, and frankly, so do I.  My soul churns in my chest; I can barely remember to take three deep breaths before I scream.  If this semester was a test, I’ve failed it. 

                I’ve been praying about this lately, in part in an attempt to understand Caleb’s emotional explosions and in part to understand what is happening to me, and what I’ve realized is that all of my anger comes down to a lot of fear and a lack of trust.  I have absolutely no control: I am in a situation where I am powerless to make the changes I want to see.  I mean, I can float my resume and network and try to find a work from home job that doesn’t involve selling something, but I cannot make a miracle happen.  I can try to prove to my husband that having me at home is a good thing for our family, that I am worth more than my paycheck, but I keep falling short.  I can try to pay down school loans and car payments if we get money to spare, but we don’t get any money to spare.  I can’t budge a thing.  Everything I can do, I’m doing.  So I am oh, so terrified that come August, we’ll be back to the same old, same old.  Tears just welled up in my eyes when I typed that.  For me, that signifies the death of the dream, and in some ways, the death of my faith.  I stepped out on the water and trusted God to hold me up; if he doesn’t, what does that mean for me?  Did I mess up, or is my faith worthless? 

                It looks like August is going to happen, and probably the daycare I hate, so I feel like I have to make.every.day.matter in the meantime.  And life doesn’t work like that; some days just have to be mundane.  Work just has to be done.  Messes have to be cleaned up.  Discipline has to happen.  And when those moments start to pile up, I feel like I’m wasting this time that I bought with such a great price…and I explode.  Usually Caleb is standing in my way when that happens, because there he is wrestling with the same kinds of big emotions I am, and he’s only three.  If the big emotions are this hard on me, they must be even bigger for him.  And he lacks the vocabulary or the wisdom to process what he feels.  All he wants is probably the same thing I do: to know that his desires are valid, to know that his needs will be met, to know that he is oh, so loved and valued, to know that he is doing good things, to know that he can trust and not be let down. 

                I have no control over what goes down in the next few months, but I hope that I am standing where God wants me to stand.  I am pursing and honoring as best as I can.  In the meantime, I know I need to try to give Caleb some of what I’m looking for.  With a lot of prayer and a lot of grace, maybe both of us can get to the other side.

Grace for the Journey

Mornings are the bane of my existence.

Eli is in his final weeks of preschool (HOW????) and today was the big pajama-party-slash-pizza-and-ice-cream celebration for the four-year-olds.  We picked out the pajamas on Monday, and he has been counting down ALL WEEK.  Seriously.  Several times a day.  I envisioned cute pictures of him posing with his siblings in his pajamas, all grown-up at five.

In reality, he stayed in bed and whined for half an hour after he woke up, he poked around with breakfast, and at 8:05, when I was hustling Violet and Caleb toward the door, he was still in his underwear.  “Put on your pajamas and your shoes.  Now!” I ordered, before ducking into the bathroom to brush my own teeth.  When I peeked back into the room, Caleb, delighted by the chance to go somewhere in HIS pajamas, was trying to pull on upside down socks.  And Eli….was nowhere to be found.  Because he was hiding in the closet.  Because certainly it seemed like a good time to play hide and seek. (!!!!!)

I forgot all about three deep breaths and the BIG PICTURE and modeling for Caleb what it looks like to control our emotions and I lost my ever-lovin’ mind.  It was spectacularly awful.  Eli, half-dressed in his precious jammies, was sobbing hysterically.  There would be no keepsake pictures today; we would be lucky to get out the door.  I’m not one to assign blame for my children’s actions to myself; certainly Eli was disobedient when he did not get dressed.  But it was my blow-up that I quickly realized had put a cloud over his big day. 

And so, many deep breaths later, the pajama-clad Simons made it to the car.  As I started down the street, heart hurting, Caleb asked, “Mommy, aren’t you going to pray?”

I started the habit of praying through the beginning of our drive when I was working full time, and each morning found me anxious and tense.  It is a habit that I didn’t realize was sinking in with the boys until today.  So I prayed out loud an apology to God.  “I’m sorry for losing my temper, for hurting the hearts of my children, for reacting badly when I should have planned ahead.  Please forgive me and help their hearts.”  Then Caleb said, “It’s my turn to pray!  God, thank you for wearing jammies (laziness for the win!) and for Grandma bringing the car stickers and for the Day One song.  And I pray that we will see construction on the way to school and that we will swing when we get home.”

Then Eli joined in.  “Thank you God for everything I’ve learned this year.  And thank you for pizza at school.”  (That’s boldness right there, thanking God for something that hasn’t even happened yet!)
 

And Caleb interrupted, “Thank you that I pooped this morning.  And thank you God that I am potty trained and Eli is potty trained (Can I get an AMEN?), and thank you for Eli.”

“And thank you for Caleb!”

“It’s MY turn, ELI!”

“But I was thanking God for YOU!”

And then we had a nice little fight, a flimsy explanation about how God can hear all of us at once, and then a favorite song came on the radio and the back seat forgot their differences to sing along. 

Cause I am for you,
I'm not against you.

If you want to know
How far my love can go,
Just how deep, just how wide,
If you want to see
How much you mean to me
Look at my hands, look at my side.
If you could count the times I say you are forgiven
It's more than the drops in the ocean.*

And there was God, not only forgiving me for my anger, but giving me such a privileged glimpse into the tender hearts of my little boys.  Caleb, who rages agains his own emotions so often, has learned how to give thanks.  And he is so grateful...even for things that, well, it never occured to me to be grateful for.  My boys.  They love each other.  They love God.  They love to pray so much that they're willing to fight for their turn.  All in spite of me.

I have been given so much grace.

Grace for the journey.

*Hawk Nelson, "Drops in the Ocean"

Hi, I'm Laura. And I'm Three.

My sweet Caleb has me at my wit's end.  All the time.
He has such a strong personality, such strong opinions, and such a need for control, and he can't see anything outside of himself right now.  When I'm trying to get him to put on shoes for the zoo, he throws a tantrum because he wants to go outside RIGHT NOW.  I'm sure if I could catch him in a sane moment, he would say that hands down the zoo is better than the back yard, but if he is thinking "back yard", getting him refocused is darn near impossible.
As much as he frustrates me, I am so much like him right now.  He doesn't know how to trust me.  Never once has he gone hungry, or suffered hurt, or gone without anything he needed, and in fact, he gets to have boatloads of fun on a daily basis...but he still can't take a deep breath and let me be in control for a moment.  Because you never know.  Mom might forget to make dinner. Or she might keep him inside all day on a beautiful day.  Stranger things have happened.  I try to explain to him why I'm doing what I'm doing, why what I have for him is better than what he thinks he wants, but he can't stop screaming to listen.
And folks, that's me to the core.  One of my adjunct classes was canceled due to low enrollment, so boom, $800 a month just gone.  We were barely scraping by before; we need that money.  If I can settle down and listen, I can acknowledge the relief I felt.  Relief because I feel called to do other things; my heart lies in pursing this writing business and playing with my kids.  I didn't want to lose all that summer time with them.  And now I have it back.  If I really listen, I think I hear God saying, "You won't need that money.  Don't fret.  Enjoy the gift I've given you."  And that's amazing, except that I know our budget and how much we bring in and how much we (don't) have in savings anymore.  And nothing seems to be budging at James' job.  And there's no way a little side business of freelance writing is going to close that gap in a month.  And we don't have people in our lives who can help us right now.  And I am so stinking tired of struggling EVERY MONTH and going without clothes that fit and things that work.  And I destroyed the grill trying to do a creative Mother's Day project with the kids, and we use it ALL THE TIME.  All these things run through my mind, and my soul is downcast within me.
I hear God speaking to me in Bible verses...the ones decorating my house.  "Be strong and courageous.  Do not be terrified or discouraged, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go."  Eli quoted that to me on Sunday when I told him I was discouraged.  "And the Lord looked at them and said, 'With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.'"  That one hangs on my bathroom wall.  "She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future."  I had that made for Violet.  Maybe it was for me.  I'm going to need that strength and dignity, because three kids and five years of financial insecurity have left me with about three days worth of clothing that fits.  Every song on the radio tells me that He keeps his promises, that he is for me and not against me, that he delights in me.  And on Sunday, the speaker offered the perspective of  his mother when she recieved a terminal diagnosis.  "Thank you Jesus, because now they won't be able to take credit when You heal me."  Well, thank you Jesus, because we certainly won't be able to take credit when you provide.
God, please help me model to Caleb what it looks like to really trust.  Please give me joy in the journey, please constantly affirm that I am taking the right steps, please show me how to pray, please show me what steps to take so that I use my time wisely, please work in James' heart so that we are in agreement, and please provide for us.  You are asking me to give up something really big, something I worked really hard for.  Please assure me that what you have for me is even better.
I know my kids will only be little once;  I don't want to leave them fifty hours a week.  I don't think God wants me to...but sometimes it would be nice to have specifics.

Mommy/Child

I made a commitment to myself that I would use this time off join the mommy community group at church.  I know I need community, even if my introverted self would rather hide at home with my kids on Tuesday mornings.  So after a week of quarantine while the plague charged through our household, I bundled the kids up, yelled at Eli two or three times because he STILL wasn't putting his clothes on like I asked, put the car in drive, and headed up the road.  I got almost all the way out of our neighborhood when I remembered the bags of hand-me-down clothes I promised to another mom.  I wanted those clothes out of my family room, so I turned around.

Cue the weeping and gnashing of teeth from the backseat.  Mind you, minutes earlier, they were whining because they didn't want to go to adventure club; they wanted to stay home and hang out by the refrigerator while refusing the eat the food I provided.  But now that we were turning around?  IT.WAS.THE.END.OF.THE.WORLD.

"Eli, we are just going home to get something Mommy forgot.  We are still going to Adventure Club.  We'll just be a little late...and let's face it, you ought to be used to being late."

"Oooooooh.  I'm NEVER going to go to Adventure Club.  I don't GET to go to Adventure Club anymore."

??????

Am I the only person that hears what I say?

And then, that still small voice pipes in.  "Are you really any different?"

"I promised to provide for you when to took this step of faith.  I gave you peace and confidence.  I plopped this little adjunct job right in your lap.  I gave you an unexpected Christmas bonus.  I told you that I know you...I know the things that matter to you...and I promised to provide them.  And now, six weeks in, you've had to dip into your savings and you are freaking out.  You are already deciding you have to go back to full-time work in August.  You are FREAKING out.  You are doubting.  And I am telling you I've got this."

And that is the truth.  This little adjunct job doesn't quite free up my time the way I need it to.  I need more flexibility to do drop-offs and pick-ups next year.  I need to find a way to not need childcare.  I am so burnt out on teaching I can barely muster the strength to go.  There's a lot of loose and fraying ends.  It feels like we are turning around and racing back to where we were.

There's also this thing called my temper.  Parenting is hard, especially when the parenting involves two squirrely little boys.  I feel like I'm always angry.  Like I'm always yelling.  Like I'm always stressed.  This wasn't what I envisioned, and I feel like I'm failing.

The house is still messy.  We still sometimes eat crap.  James doesn't value what I do; heck, he doesn't even see what I do.  He gives me to-do lists when he goes to work; I guess he thinks I don't know the toilet needs to be cleaned.  Maybe he also thinks I don't know who peed all over it.

It doesn't feel like this is working.  It feels like I should turn the car around and cry because God didn't take care of me like He takes care of everyone else.  Except that it doesn't.  There's a little glimmer on the horizon, a little nudging that says I can trust.  That I need to focus on learning to parent and let God take care of the bottom line.

Maybe learning to parent means realizing I'm being parented too.  And I'm not much different from the little boys that tear my house apart and then climb on top of me while I'm trying to clean it up.  "I love you, Mama."  I love you two, little ones.  God will help us all grow up.

How We Got Here

It started with a 5 am phone call.  I didn’t answer because my sleep-deprived brain assumed the Cincinnati area code meant PotteryBarn calling, yet again, to tell me about their friends and family 20% off sale.  Disoriented, I tossed the phone to the side of the bed where my husband usually slept, glanced at the baby to be sure she was breathing, and curled up into a ball of sleep.  When my alarm woke me an hour and a half later, I was surprised to see both a voicemail and a text.  I was even more surprised when the phone began to ring again.  My husband was beginning to stir in his baby-and-noise-free sleep zone in our playroom, when our babysitter’s husband told me, “Pam is in the hospital.  She is throwing up blood.” 

The magnitude of the situation took some time to settle in.  I was on maternity leave; I didn’t need her to watch my older kids that day.  It was just a convenience…the type of convenience a working mom gets to have because she sells her soul and her energy to someone other than her children.  Several days later, it hit home.  The dear friend who had watched my kids for five years would not be doing so anymore.  I had two weeks to find a place for all three kids…a place where they’d be cared for, where they’d learn manners, where I would feel comfortable leaving them.  And a place I could afford. 

I panicked.  I posted of facebook.  I broke the unfortunate news to my husband.  We brainstormed.  We thought for a time that Pam would be able to watch the kids after all.  On day 2, it became apparent that she couldn’t.  “These are our children,” I told my husband at some point.  “We can’t just make a quick choice and hope for the best.”  Desperate, I worked out an arrangement that put them with various grandparents.  Three days and one snow day in, it was clear that wouldn’t work.  I spent copious amounts of time trying to figure out how to have the hard conversations with my husband, and substantially less time actually speaking to him.  I begged friends for leads and followed them up: no space, too many kids, too much money.  I begged for prayer on facebook and from every neighbor I saw during trick or treat.  (“Trick or treat.  Do you happen to know anyone who watches children?”)  Then there was a message from the friend who gave us Pam.  “Have you tried applying at Cincinnati State?”  Then, “They need ed foundations teachers in English.”  “The decision to stay at home with my kids was the best one I’ve made in my life.” 

I knew I couldn’t stay at home with my kids; we barely got by.  I made more money.  I certainly didn’t trust my husband to be kind or generous with me.  I couldn’t give up my job.  But there were no other options, just the nudging that I needed to do what was right for my kids, not my wallet.  Eli needs more down time than full-day kindergarten will allow.  Caleb feels displaced by the baby; he needs his mommy to cuddle and rock him again.  Violet needs to be enjoyed.  The boys miss Pam; present for their entire lives, she is suddenly gone.  I need to slow down.  Stop yelling.  Trust.

Still, it was a decision I didn’t feel I could make.  Not without my husband’s endorsement, and that was unlikely to come.  He grew up without much, with parents who squandered the money they did get on sporting equipment and junk from the thrift store.  He didn’t want his kids to grow up eating spam.  He wanted to take the occasional vacation.  He didn’t want the responsibility for financing it all.  I didn’t want to give him that responsibility. 

I got the job at Cincinnati State.  I tried to stall.  “Can I have just another week to make my decision?”  I was fortunate to be in a place where I could take leave without giving up my job completely.  We had about $5000 in savings.  Not much for a family of five, but it was all we’d been able to save.  “God, if you really want me to do this, you’ve got to get James on my side,” I prayed.  “I cannot make a decision like this without his blessing.”  I dropped the kids off at their temporary sitter and went to work.  Around noon, I got an email from the HR director at Cincinnati State.  Because of my experience as a dual credit instructor, I would get $50/more per credit hour.  It brought my monthly total to what I said we needed.  Of course, I estimated way too low, but there it was.  Thirty minutes later I got an unsolicited text from my husband.  “Let’s do it.” 

So here we are.  God gave me what I’ve wanted for years, but with a price: complete trust in Him.  I have to trust that He’ll make up the difference between what we make and what we need to get by.  Trust that He’ll provide a workable solution for the one day a week that I still need a sitter.  Trust that if He wants me to stay in this role (and I hope He does), He’ll provide a schedule that allows me to do school drop-offs and pick-ups while still helping support my family.  Trust that He can heal a rocky marriage.  Trust that He’ll honor our desire to be debt free, even when we have nothing free to pay off debt.  Trust that He’ll bless my husband’s ability to generate income.  Trust that He knows little family “adventures” are vital to the way we function.  Trust that He’s given us big dreams for our family for a reason…that He can fulfill those dreams if we honor what He asks us to do.  And trust that I can be a good mother.  That he can teach me to nurture our children’s souls and not just their stomachs. 

I firmly believe I was obedient to God when I turned in my parental leave letter.  And I firmly believe God takes care of those who walk in his paths.  I know I struggle with trust…with believing that God wants to bless us.  (I tend to expect the opposite.)  So I’ve fastened my seatbelt and I’m holding on for dear life.  Here we go…

Making Space

Nine bags of baby boy clothes found a new home today.  A peculiar lump forms in my throat when I think of them piled up in a new house, keeping a new baby warm and comfortable.  But the boys that wore them here are babies no more; those newborn onesies might fit on their left feet.  It is time to make space...space in the storage unit, space in the closets, space in my heart.
There's something about clearing out clutter that lightens my spirit.  I'm know that sentiment isn't unique to me; I've read the articles that link a crowded closet to a thicker waistline and a troubled heart.  I also know that there's a time to save and a time to cherish the things we collect along the way.  Still, when you can't walk through the storage room, it is time to grab the machete and start cutting things down.
Last night, with all those baby clothes in bags, I rested well.  Today, when I cleared out a pantry shelf and a kitchen cabinet, I exhaled.  There is space where there was chaos.  There's even room for something new, for something we might actually need.  The things I no longer use have found a home where they will be used, and I am traveling a little bit lighter, open to new things.
I wonder if more than my house operates this way.  Over time, my life becomes crowded with commitments, obligations, and time wasters.  (Hi Facebook.  I love you anyway.)  I accumulate a schedule that smothers the peaceful moments right out of my life.  I want to do All The Things because All The Things are good...but they aren't all good for me.  Maybe the purge taking place in our storage room (read: scariest place on the planet) is symbolic of the purge taking place in my life.  What do I really need?  What really deserves the best part of my time and energy?  What served a significant purpose and now needs to be handed on to someone else?  How can I live lighter, so that I can sink into storytime with the boys without mentally organizing my to-do list?  So that I can rock the baby a little longer without checking my phone?  So that I have the energy to go for a jog, or kick up my heels and dance.  (Wait.  I can't dance.  I can let go of whatever I want and that is not going to change.)  If stuff sits piled up long enough, it begins to fall apart...or attract brown recluse spiders.  What is piling up in my life and poisoning me?
And you know, all that space I'm freeing up is space that God can fill with blessings.  My dear friend is preparing to adopt, and she and her husband cleared out a space that was once an office.  They made space for that baby, space for the blessing that God can give them.  I want to have space in my life.  I want to make wise choices, to decide carefully which responsibilities I take on, so that I have quiet moments to spend at His feet, choosing what is better.
I don't really know how this will look...I just know it is time to clear out some junk.

God is in the Baby Clothes

Ten bags.
Five storage bins.
Today, I decided to accept the inevitable and pass the boys' clothes on to families who can use them.  We have been tremendously blessed with almost a year's worth of clothing for Violet: so much that I can count the outfits I've purchased for her on one hand.  I wanted to do the same for other families, and everything the boys wore in the first two years of their lives was quickly claimed.
I sorted through the clothes as the boys played with their train set, pausing occasionally to scold them as they scattered the piles I'd just sorted.  So many emotions cling to those tiny onesies; it is hard to believe that Eli wore the striped monkey shirt and brown pants, but I can still picture him decked out, with his brown dress shoes and his tiny belly pooching over the waistband.  He fell asleep on his changing table in that outfit, his tiny fists clenched above his head.  I took a picture because it was the first time he fell asleep without a battle...and it didn't happen again for a long time.  There's the tank top onesies; I loved how they showed his little guns...er...fat rolls.  Those were heady days, the early months of parenting.  I truly didn't believe I'd survive.  I existed in a sleep-deprived haze of fear and driving perfection; I wish I'd known then what I know now.  But what do I know now?
There's three tiny newborn baseball outfits.  Eli wore them, then Caleb for a few days.  I have a picture of Caleb sleeping in the red one, his old-man face scrunched up into a pout.  Caleb was the polar opposite of his brother: sleepy, dreamy, easy.  I savored parenting: Eli had reached a fun age, and Caleb was a dream baby.  Life was scary: a new house, a lost job, an unkown future.  But we named Caleb for the spy who saw the potential in the promised land, not the size of the giants.  He believed in his God and he was not afraid.
And we were taken care of, far more than we could have imagined.
This time around, this third time, parenting is challenging again.  I'm used to the daily toll of diapers and laundry and spit-up, though I'm still more tired than I remember being before.  The boys, however, have hit the stage where I am disciplining them.  Constantly.  For everything.  If they're playing, they're destroying something.  If they're eating, they're making a mess.  Or complaining.  If they want me, the want me loudly, over and over again.  I can't quite find my rhythm.  I feel like I'm spinning out of control; my temper surely is.  I pray constantly now: for the courage to breathe in and out, to hug instead of spank, to stop and slow down and pay attention to the most important work I will do.  I have to believe that eventually I will get it.  That God will create rhythms, just like He did when Eli was a baby.  That God will provide for us financially, just like He did when Caleb was born.  That God will bond us together as a family, that He will show me how to teach these children to value their siblings.
The thing about parenting is that it has taught me so much that I previously could not understand about God.  It is no accident, I believe, that He gives us the image of Him as a father.  When my boys throw tantrums because I'm not giving them their way immediately, they don't see the good gifts I am preparing to give them.  They don't trust that I have them covered...that I have already prepared a way.  And I love them anyway.  Sometimes I'm even patient with them.  Our God is a heavenly father, and I can see Him parenting me the same way.  When I connect with God as a father, I can understand the love He has for me.  Sometimes I can even begin to trust the father God.  Because daddies take care of their babies.  They delight in what gives them joy.  And my God delights in me.

Gratitude

Thankfully...
I took the back roads home because there was a wreck on I-75, so when my tire blew out, I wasn't barreling down the highway at 55 mph.  (Or maybe faster.  But the speed limit is 55, so I'm sticking to my story.)
When my tire blew out, an aging biker dude named Bobby was right behind me.
Bobby is a pro at changing tires...and at locating spare tires hidden in impossible places under passenger seats.
He was wearing a gold wedding ring with his black leather jacket and hat, which made me feel like I could trust him.  Actually, I really had no other choice.  I was stranded in the 'hood in rush hour traffic.  I was so scared that I honestly forgot cars had spare tires; I was trying to think who I could call to take me home.  I had decided on the police.  Because Cincinnati cops having nothing else going on.
Bobby agreed with me that every girl should know how to change a tire, and took the extra time to show me how to find everything, jack up the car, and put the lug nuts back on a spare.
Not one, not two, but three trains went by on the elevated tracks above us, which put Eli and Caleb over the moon.
My federal tax return showed up in my account today, so there was money to cover the new tire.  Not that I wanted to spend it that way, but it was there.
The tire that blew was the one that needed to be replaced in a few months anyway, and not the one that could wait until summer.
There is an IHOP right next to the tire store, so I didn't have to wait in a tiny waiting area with two hungry boys while screaming at them not to touch the display tires.
The IHOP waitress was probably the kindest, most helpful server I've ever had.  She told me she misses her own kids, ages 7 and 9, while she's at work.  God, please bless her with more time with her children.  She was so good to mine.
Violet waited until we were almost done eating to blow out her diaper.  Which is good, because all my diapers were in the van...next door...at the "fix-a-wheel store."
We are all home safe and sound, and all my boys really know is that they got to go to the "fix-a-wheel store" (that is seriously what they call it) and IHOP.
My boys got a good lesson in what it means to serve others, and they promise me that when they are grown, they will stop and change tires for mommies and kids who need help.

Gratitude.  Truly.

Kissing Cheeks

Miracle: I made it to the moms community group today.  Last week, I backed out of my driveway and hit a Duke Energy truck...needless to say, we stayed home and waited for the police report.  For some reason, getting our pokey butts to church at 9:30 on a Tuesday morning is the hardest thing I do all week.  I can't really explain why.
So anyway, the speaker was talking about worship and gratitude (I think?  I was late.), and she mentioned that she was learning to be intentional during her most mundane tasks.  Specifically, she talked about lathering soap through her daughter's hair and praying thanks for her daughter as she worked.  What a life-changing act of worship, for both mommy and daughter.  And so I started thinking.  How would Caleb's tantrums be different if I prayed thanks for his warrior spirit as I hold him in time out?  How would his responses change if I thanked God for his life as I served him his food.  How would Eli view work if I praised God for his life as I zipped up his pajamas instead of rushing through the ritual toward rest. How would Violet's life (and mine) change if I breathed thanks for her sweet baby cheeks as I rock her for hours on end through our suddenly sleepless nights.  And this.  How could God change my heart toward James if I thanked Him for my husband while I packed his lunch instead of cursing the work he requires?  If I praised God for his passions while I fold and put away his running clothes?  What would that do in our marriage?  I complain a lot about the lack of gratitude in this house.  What if that lack starts with me?
I was rocking Violet to sleep as I rolled all these thoughts around in my brain, and instinctively I leaned down and kissed her cheek.  There is something so rainbows and pixie dust about brushing my lips on my baby's cool cheeks, and Violet's pudgy little cheeks beg for it every time I glance her way.  So I kissed, and my not-yet-asleep daughter chortled, a gurgly laugh that bubbled up from the depths of her soul.  So I kissed again.  Another chortle.  She could not contain her delight in her mother.  She.Just.Loves.Me. When I put her down, her tiny fingers grasp mine and try to pull me back to her.  When I hold her, she tries to gobble up every bare piece of skin...if my fingers taste good, my arm must be even better.  As I kissed and she giggled (and seriously, who can stop in that situation?), Psalm 34:8 came to mind.  "Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in Him."  Do I love my Lord so much that I just can't get enough?  That I call for him when I wake?  That I constantly strive for more of his touch?  More of him?  Do I giggle when He kisses me, or do I fail to even notice?  Maybe my act of worship, of love, is noticing the gifts He gives.  Tasting his goodness.  Letting his joy bubble up in my heart. Running to Him instead of away.
In the King James Version, Psalm 34:8 says "Blessed is the man who trusteth in him."
Maybe trust is the way that I need to love my God.

All Good Things

Caleb loves Hotwheels and Caleb loves semitrucks.  On a forbidden run to Target, I discovered a Hotwheels semi that holds 40 little cars.  I can picture Caleb's response to this toy.  He is not subtle with his emotions, and he would be overjoyed.  Overjoyed.  I want to buy it for him.  I want to make his tormented three-year-old, newly-middle-child heart happy.  But I want to be a responsible parent and a responsible steward of our money.
If the parent analogy for God holds true, then He views us the same way.  He sees the things that will make our heart happy, and He wants to give them to us.  But he wants to do it in a way that will bless and grow us, not just turn our focus to ourselves.
I feel like I'm stuck waiting.  I had a meeting with a friend about freelance writing, and all the leads turned out to be dead ends.  I just can't figure out anything that will give me the flexibility to be with the kids and fill in the gap in our bills.  I'm feeling pressured to make a decision about my old job, and sometimes I want to throw up my hands, toss the kids in daycare, and go back to work.  Because it is all I know as an adult.  Because there's security there.  Because in many ways, it seems like the responsible thing to do.
And yet.
I really felt that God was leading me to the place I am now.  That He was asking me to step away and focus on my family.  I've forgotten those strong feelings now, and I'm trying to rely on what knew then.
I'm in this place of tension.  Nothing is settled.  There's no clear path.  I should be way more of a wreck than I am.  There's a sort of excitement, or expectation in the tension.  Not that I want to stay here any longer than I have to, but I feel like God is working.
My greatest fear is that He'll let me down.

A Trust Experiment

Sometimes I like to flex the kiddos' trust muscles, so today I came home from work and ordered them into the car.
"Mommy, where are we going?"  "Mommy, why did you pack water?"  "Mommy, why do I need shoes?"  I could have told them the truth.  That on a day like today, when the temperature hits 75 degrees, and the sun is bright and the grass is green and the flowers are blooming, it is time to welcome summer with a trip to the Dari Bar.  Instead, I asked Eli, "Do you trust me?"
Long pause.
"Yes?"
Five minutes later, "Mommy, did you bring food?"
"No."
"BUT MOMMY!!!!!!  WE DON'T WANT WATER AND NO FOOD!!!!"
And a little voice whispered into my soul, "Haven't you asked me the same things?  Haven't you cried out to me that you want to stay home but you don't want to be poor?  That you fear I called you to this path with no plans to provide for you?  That you can't see any open doors, so you assume there won't be one? You assume that I don't care about you, about the desires I've placed in you? You think I've forgotten?  That I've overlooked the important?" 
Of course.  The Israelites did the same thing when God rescued them from Egypt. "... and also the sons of Israel wept again and said, "Who will give us meat to eat? "We remember the fish which we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers and the melons and the leeks and the onions and the garlic, but now our appetite is gone…" (Numbers 11:4-5)  God just rescued them from SLAVERY, and they were freaking out about manna.  
Just a few chapters later, they are breaking down again because the promised land seems a little scary. "And they told him, “We came to the land to which you sent us. It flows with milk and honey, and this is its fruit.  However, the people who dwell in the land are strong, and the cities are fortified and very large. And besides, we saw the descendants of Anak there. " (Numbers 13:27-28)  

Maybe if I teach my son to trust me, he'll find it easier to trust God.  Maybe I will too.

"Do you trust me?"  I asked Eli again.

"....Yes."  

"Do I do good things for you?"

"...Yes."

And then we pulled into the Dari Bar.

As he finished his ice cream, chocolate and vanilla swirl with sprinkles and a candy face, I asked him, "Aren't you glad you trusted me?"

With a big chocolate and sprinkle grin, he said, "Yes."

"Or what man is there among you who, when his son asks for a loaf, will give him a stone? 10"Or if he asks for a fish, he will not give him a snake, will he? 11"If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him!"  (Matthew 7:9-11)

And Then.

Today's bedtime story was And Then it's Spring by Julie Fogliano.  (Actually, if we're honest, it was one of many books I was coerced into reading to little children who had no intention of really going to sleep when I finished.  But I digress.)
I'd never read it before, but it starts in a brown world, post-winter, and the little boy plants a seed.  And at first he is hopeful, but as weeks go by and nothing happens, he grows considerably less so.  Then there's a page that shows us a cross section of the brown...and underneath the top layer, ants and worms are building tunnels and those little seeds have turned green and started growing magnificent roots.  But the boy can't see that, of course.  All he sees is "still brown."  Until one day it isn't.
I can't help but think this book was given to me today.  Yes, my boys like the looking at the worms and finding the dog, but I just kept looking at those roots.  Those roots!  Underground, invisible, but so strong and significant!  What is growing in the dirt in my life?  In my career?  In our finances?  In our marriage?  In my kiddos hearts?  What do I need to protect?  And be patient for?  It still feels like winter, but sometimes spring happens overnight.
Here's to hoping for soon.