belly up – a school night

It’s that time of night again. Where worlds collide and people hide and tears are shed and secrets finally told…Yep, school night & bedtime at our house. And this seasoned bedtime black belt is about to get caught off guard -

There had been lots of thumping and giggling and elephants running up the stairs. Nothing new around here. There are possibly too many whispers but I choose to ignore this early warning sign – big mistake. The youngest three have more time to be crazy as it’s not bath night, so we end up running later than expected (meaning no time for any impending disasters). I call them all down for the pjs-toothbrush-potty routine. In comes child number three looking guilty and mischievous at the same time:

Mom, I gotta a problem.

Yes…what is it?

I can’t get this face off.

Honey, what are you talking about?

My 9-year-old  lifts her shirt to expose a large brown circle around her bellybutton, its two brown eyes staring back at me. She pinches her belly and makes it smile. Then youngest son comes in with no shirt and a big toothy mouth on HIS belly. “She did it!” he says. THEN I am informed youngest daughter has an even bigger bellybutton monster on her tum. Apparently, they have a whole play worked out upstairs. They’re supposed to be a delivery of wild animals sent to our farm…well, I not going to argue THAT part of the story…and the faces are the animals, and they squeeze into this box and…

Sigh. Upon inspection and some mild interrogation, I determine that my art box had been raided and PERMANENT pens used in this creative exercise. It was actually a black marker, but they had managed to wear it down to brown with baby wipes and lots of rubbing. We try just about everything I can think of  to remove those marks. Nothing’s working and the clock is ticking and the bellies are just turning red.

What’s a mother to do? I put all six little faces to bed. Only one child has gym in the morning and she plans on wearing an undershirt to hide her face. Thankfully the youngest two should remain fully clothed for the day. I’m crossing my fingers that I don’t get a note from the teacher.

They will all be taking a VERY long soak in the bathtub tomorrow.

A no-thank-you helping of God, please. Hold the dressing.

As we prepare for this holiday season, I am reminded in many ways of this memory and this post…

I am sitting at the dining room table. It is enormous from a child’s-eye perspective. My feet dangle off the edge of the chair as I try not to slip from the pile of cushions holding me up to my place. It is dinner time at Grandmomma’s house. The grown-ups are talking and laughing and passing the rolls as Granddaddy plates the meat. I’m busy playing with my napkin ring while the dishes of deliciousness are handed one to another around the table.

Mashed potatoes? Yes, please.

Gravy? Yes, please.

Butter beans and corn? Yes, please.

Apple sauce? Yum! Please.

But then I spy a certain dish making its way toward me. I start to squirm because I don’t like it. I do not actually know what it is, but I am sure I do not want it. I want to let the strangeness pass me by – to no avail. My uncle tries to serve me. My aunt tries to bribe me. My mother tries to reason with me. I am suspicious and I am stubborn. And then Grandmomma steps in with a spoon…

You may have a no-thank-you helping. This is Grandmomma speak for you WILL eat this right now and it is going to be OK.

Yes, please. This is child speak for I don’t want to but I know I have to and I really want dessert.

It doesn’t look good. It is colorful (orange) and strange (sticky) and weird (sticks and circle shapes). Grandmomma puts a singular serving spoon of it on my plate. The understanding regarding this measurement is simple: eat all of this and you will get to have some peach cobbler with ice cream. I take a deep breath and stick in a tiny piece of orangeness. It’s gone before I have even tasted it. I take another bite, this time with my eyes open and my senses turned on. This dish really isn’t as bad as it looks. By the time I finish my serving, I have been converted. No one will ever have to convince me that this stuff is good again. Candied yams are my new favorite!

So what is the moral of this story from my childhood?

“Taste and see that the Lord is good.” Psalm 34:8

We Christians are so good at being picky. We choose one flavor, one version, one part over another. There seems to be no room for another dish at our table. God never changes ( James 1:17 ) but He is infinite! We can never come to the end of things to discover, learn, see, feel experience in Him and of Him. The Bible tells us to be wise and childlike. Don’t heap a serving of poison on your plate. Equally, don’t let a new thing (or an old one you’ve never heard of) pass by. You may well discover something wonderful!

We celebrate Thanksgiving as a family here in Scotland, and I make my Grandmomma’s candied yams every year. Some let the dish pass them by. Others would empty the bowl given half the chance! I’m happy to share what I know to be good, and bring it to the table with a serving spoon in hand.

Grandmomma’s Candied Yams

The marking of Fall in a household with five kids…a list

                                                             

  Despite the following truths,

  I really do enjoy this beautiful time of year.

  Here is what to expect  should you decide

  to “drop by” our farmhouse in the moors of       Scotland -                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

1) leaf piles inside doorways and under (I didn’t open it!) velux windows

2) building sand in the shower stall & beach heads in the bathtub

3) pink fairy glitter down the hall & under the piano (due to school panto dress rehearsals)

4) welly boot toe prints up the wall by the back door

5) indoor animal herding (cats, piglets, turkeys, pheasants) due to high winds or children who are, in fact, being raised in a barn

6) a wet clothing convention in the laundry room

7) hay in the hairbrush and in the toilet bowl??

8)  smoking candle wicks (I didn’t blow it!) and wax spatters fanning out across tables and chairs

9) hot chocolate polka-dots on floors, clothing & faces

10) migrating blankets, throws, pillows & babies to whichever bed/room is the warmest   (overnight guest, you have been warned!)

How I got my Dad or…Diddy? yes, he did.

My father is thousands of miles away from me today. 

I cannot be there with him so I am taking a moment in time to tell the world – however many might be reading - what he means to me. I wrote this a couple of years ago, but it has stood the test of time and distance and honors the man who I call “Daddy”.

I got my Dad when I was five. Mom and I had been on our own for about four years. People told her she should stay single but God had other ideas. They had been friends in high school, neighbors in fact – setting each other up on double dates. Can you believe that? Well, fresh out of a divorce, with his foo-man-choo mustache (stroll on seventies) Dad calls mom while he’s in town visiting his parents. It happened practically overnight – about three months actually – engaged to be MARRIED. I am sure people were screaming in every direction “too soon!”   “are you crazy?”   ”She’s a Jesus freak!”   ”He smokes?!”   “she’s got a KID?!”

Just about then my Dad did get cold feet. Understandable. But an amazing thing happened. God stepped in.

We were all at my grandparent’s house. Dad had come over to see my mom that morning. A little girl comes down for breakfast. Dad bends down to give me a hug and that’s when I look straight at him to say…

“God told me you’re going to be my new daddy.”

Off I go to my cheerios. Dad’s heart is settled as my mom’s eyeballs pop out in amazement. There’s not a lot left to question after something like that. Is God COOL or what?

We all got married. I do look at it that way. Their anniversary is OUR anniversary too. We became a family. My Dad jokes that he missed the “messy” parts by getting me after potty training. But I think that’s being generous. He got a kid with another family that he was always gracious to, even when things looked like a soap opera. And he NEVER said an ill word about my other father. It takes a real man of integrity and determination to sow honor in uncertain ground.

There were water fights and road trips, spankings, stories and Star Trek. He let me put makeup on him and I learned how to ride a bike, a horse and eventually, white knuckles and all, drive a car. There were dates to the movies and ice cream, too. Dad was rather stoic when boys came on the scene. He was careful to make sure I was safe. I have always been safe and secure with my Dad. He has a gift that way and shares it with the people around him.

My Dad is a solid rock, a firm footing of love and discipline. Perfect?  no. Patient? yes.  He has stuck by me through thick and thin, providing a home and a hug whenever needed. My Dad took the high road when I went head long into rebellion. He risked total rejection the day he held up a mirror before me so that I would face my sin. But he kept his arms and the door open even then. And I am so very thankful.

Dad funded me through college, put up with my late nights and painting paraphernalia everywhere, rescued me when there was car trouble, moved me out and then moved me back in for my final year of university and my last year at home. One summer day I came back from Scotland, in love and engaged. I went up to my room to unpack. There was my wedding dress, hanging on the back of my bedroom door. My Daddy went out and bought it for me without saying a word. That’s my Dad.

We had what seemed like the wedding of the century. I think the movie “Father of the Bride” would cover it. I’m not sure how long it took my folks to recover, but what a time we all had!   Thanks again, Dad.   I left home, but I took my family with me. That kind of love has deep roots. It was hard for me, but I think harder for them. The phone bills! The plane tickets! The postage!

Then came grandkids, and there was Dad ready and willing to embrace all that he had avoided first time round. He was there to call when I was at my wit’s end with a brilliant and stubborn 2 year old, a sassy 3 year old or a son that needed dogs, “guns”, fishing rods etc..

Coming back was not always easy. You change, grow, opinions differ, personalities can start to rub. But these things ease with time, love and good communication. Dad has been patient with his adult child. We’ve grown but not apart. We are first and foremost daughter and father. But to my joy and in my favor, we are also good friends. I respect his opinion and seek out his advice. He listens when I need to talk and laughs at all my stories. And he loves me just the way I am. God gives amazing gifts.

Happy Father’s Day Diddy!

bravery is for wimps

It’s been over a year since he died.

Dad, Papa, Dominick, teacher…friend. The list of who he was and who he still is in our lives is much longer than those five words, but they say enough. “Time flies when you’re having fun” and even when you are simply living life. With five kids the days are long but the months disappear. There does not seem to be much time for reflection. Or maybe it is truer to say that there are some things I choose not to reflect on because it means my world may come crashing in and I need to keep going.  I’ve had lots of practice in the art of moving on. It does not get any easier but I have deemed it necessary. This sort of reasoning does not belong to children.

Our world came crashing in last night. It was late and inconvenient. I was doing the school laundry, picking through the socks and tights when my almost twelve-year-old son came through door and leaned in on my shoulder.

He wept for his Papa.

It was heart-felt and heart wrenching. There were few words I could offer as I embraced my man-child. He cried. I did not. I chose to be brave and put those feelings to the side for the sake of my son. I could not go there with him and comfort him at the same time.  He is old enough to know what he has lost this side of heaven. His knowing may be the hardest part of the grief for me. But I am also proud of him, proud that he is unashamed to cry – that his desire to express the sadness outweighs the urge to suppress it.

“God blesses those who mourn, for they will be comforted. God blesses those who are humble, for they will inherit the whole earth.” Matthew 5:4-5

Sometimes, writing gives me the opportunity to express what I have not released any other way. I am thankful for this gift. It seems I am not the only one. My desktop sidebar has a small virtual notepad. There on the bright yellow square, one of our little girls typed this :

 

“I miss Papa. I miss playing games, him”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I miss him, too.

 

 

cupcake wars: the 9-year-old’s version

This past week I made an accidental discovery that has proved to be life-changing for our family TV dynamic.

I found a food channel that shows “Cupcake Wars” almost non-stop. From the teenager to the preschooler, all five of our kids come into complete agreement and (almost) total silence while watching this show. Who’d have guessed? It must be my Southern gene pool shining through. I do come from a family of serious bakers. My recipe collection contains pies, cobblers, stacks of cakes, candies and more cookies than I can count. So really, it should have come as no surprise when my 9-year-old daughter handed me a two page baking diagram for 72 cupcakes in 6 different flavors with color combinations and decorating designs.

I managed to convince her and her younger sister (chief cupcake assistant) that we would have to wait until 1) they’d done their chores and 2) mommy checked what ingredients were actually in the house. That lasted until the following morning. At 7:58 am “everything” was all ready for the cupcake making. Dressed in the proper attire with hands washed, my two young girls were ready for business. They even made a display unit for their creations! I was able to whittle the options down to 3 cupcake flavors ( chef’s preferences are in italics):

"Mmmm, smells lemony!" - the chef

lemon-glazed yellow cake topped with lemon zest buttercream icing in the green cups,

"If you're out of coffee in the morning, you can just eat one of these!" - the chef

chocolate-chip coffee cake iced with mocha buttercream in the blue cups,

"There's a surprise inside! tee-hee" - the chef

 and whipped-cream filled chocolate sponge topped with a fondant flower in the pink cups.

"I want to eat them all. (!) I mean, one of each PLEASE " - the chef

Just about all 48 cupcakes were consumed trying to determine which one was the winner. (We had friends and family over to set up for the church barbecue) In the end, the judges could not decide so it was a three-way tie for first place. Hooray!

we're the professional judges here

broken at the red light

I am unaware and unavailable.

Music up, sunglasses on, driving to a schedule and preoccupied with a to-do list, my only distraction is a red light that has brought me to a momentary stop.

In a split second I am blindsided, knocked completely off my track. I am not wrecked by any vehicle. No, it is something far more powerful than that. I am struck by a person – hit by a human condition.

He’s just come out from the train station and is walking my way.

Weaving and off-balance,  this young guy holds out his arms as if he is on some tangled tightrope. Thinking he’s drunk or high, I feel the urge to lock my door. But as I watch from the corner of my eye I see he’s mentally or physically challenged. My heart takes a hit as the sting of my misjudgment sinks in. Others are probably  making that same wrong assumption. Hit number two. My heart starts to pound and ache as I see his awkwardness being exposed in such a public place. He gets enough balance to make his way down the hill past my car. He turns his face away from the road, avoiding the looks as best he can. Hit number three. My heart splits to see that his search for dignity is on the opposite side of me.

The light changes, but I struggle to find a gear to move on.

Tears run as the wheels roll. Pulling up to the next red light, I try to hold it together for the audience waiting at the bus stop. I can’t. My pain is exposed for all the world to see and there is nothing I can do to explain my circumstance. I am at the mercy of their judgement call.

“God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” 1 Samuel 16:7

God caught me out at a traffic light and put a stop to my apathy and presumption. High or disabled, disturbed or lost & forgotten, that man was once someone’s little boy. My mother’s heart and his heavenly Father’s heart breaks for him to be whole. Sometimes, we need to be wrecked for the sake of another.

a journey back to canvas

“It is so fine yet so terrible to stand in front of a blank canvas.”  Cezanne

So here I stand. After years of continental drift, I have returned to a part of me that is home and foreign soil in the same footprint. I am not sure what I have lost or gained or grown in my time away, but I finally have the faith (and fear) to pick up my brush again with serious intent. I’ve never written about my artist’s heart until now. The language is difficult to put into words, but I will try.

Talent you have or you don’t. Skill you learn, use or lose. But a gift is something that has been given for a purpose, even if that purpose is solely between the recipient and the giver. The talent I had was recognized early on. I was encouraged to pursue art and I trained for a sharp skill set. But no one seemed to understand, least of all me, that I desperately needed to be taught how to steward the gift I had been given.

My heart has been full of colour and sound and words since I was a little girl. Always drawing, always singing, little poems written down here and there…that was me. I am still me. But for a long time much seemed lost or muffled or hidden away. I didn’t know how to treasure the gift. I didn’t realize that it is supposed to have a place of honour in my life. I slowly closed a door inside myself and sealed it with excuses. The barriers were reinforced by time and doubt and dust. But I was not forgotten and the very thing I thought to be lost was held in place by the Giver. To quote a precious encourager -

“It (the gift) was still growing while it slept.”

 

So now I find myself on a returning path to places I have not yet been.  I see colours within myself and colours beyond my mortal reach. How can I express this? I am on a journey to find out. Why? Because these gifts are not momentary or seasonal or merely convenient. They are meant to be a continual expression in and through and throughout our lives.

I need a drink.

I am deeply asleep. the kind of sleep that comes after a week of being  a taxi/secretary/counsellor/singer/decorator/cook/maid/nurse/teacher to all who need these services. I am so asleep that the alarm clock couldn’t reach me if it were my pillow. I am gone.

Somewhere in the house, a little girl has woken up from that same kind of sleep. She is unaware of time or the lack of daylight or the risk factor involved in waking a grumpy momma bear.  She cares not about dark stairwells or creaky floors. Fear is not optional. It has no power to stop her. Quietly, purposefully, with singleness of thought, she walks right into our bedroom and stands by the bed. How long? As long as it takes.

Somewhere, in the absolute depths of my slumber, I am interrupted. There is a pull on my consciousness that cannot be ignored. Something is near me. I take a deep breath and pry open one eye to the darkness. Two eyes greet me. I try not to jump on the ceiling, completely startled out of my pajamas. This child is standing right by my side, staring at me – willing me to wake up – waiting for me to move.

Who’s there?

It’s me, Arwen.

What does the clock say?

4…1…2.

What is it?

I’m hungry. And I need a drink.

???

That’s it. There is no fire or storm or bad dream. It’s a simple case of hunger and thirst. I stumble out of my warm bed and take her by the hand. Down we go toward the kitchen. I flip light switches as Arwen fairly dances by my side. One folded peanut butter & strawberry jam sandwich and cup of water later, Arwen is ready to start her day. I, less so.  But something in this moment has caught my attention. I shake out the cobwebs and start the coffee maker. What’s bothering me? The answer slowly dawns over my second cup of caffeine. My little girl has revealed a great truth without telling me a thing:

It’s time to wake up.

This child awoke to her need and went to find the one person who could fill her. I would not say no. Nothing stood in her way as she purposely drew near and waited. Now I am compelled to ask myself some questions:

 Am I awake to my own need for God?

“Awake sleeper and arise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.” Eph 5:14

Do I know how hungry and thirsty I really am?

“Wake up, and strengthen the things that remain, which were about to die; for I have not found your deeds completed in the sight of my God.” Rev 3:2

Am I going to the right source to be filled?

Jesus puts it like this: “I am the bread of life; he who comes to me will not hunger and he who believes in me will never thirst  - Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they will be satisfied.”  John 6:35,  Matt 5:6. My child was willing to get uncomfortable, out of her bed and into the wee cold hours of the morning. She was willing to come right up in my space and wait for me to respond, confident that I would eventually answer. How much more do we need to wake up out of complacency and go to the only One who can truly meet our desperate need?  He will not say no.

Thank you, child. This momma needed your perspective.

A no-thank-you helping of God, please. Hold the dressing.

I am sitting at the dining room table. It is enormous from a child’s-eye perspective. My feet dangle off the edge of the chair as I try not to slip from the pile of cushions holding me up to my place. It is dinner time at Grandmomma’s house. The grown-ups are talking and laughing and passing the rolls as Granddaddy plates the meat. I’m busy playing with my napkin ring while the dishes of deliciousness are handed one to another around the table.

Mashed potatoes?  Yes, please.

Gravy? Yes, please.

 Butter beans and corn? Yes, please.

Apple sauce? Yum! Please.

But then I spy a certain dish making its way toward me. I start to squirm because I don’t like it. I do not actually know what it is, but I am sure I do not want it. I want to let the strangeness pass me by – to no avail. My uncle tries to serve me. My aunt tries to bribe me. My mother tries to reason with me. I am suspicious and I am stubborn. And then Grandmomma steps in with a spoon…

You may have a no-thank-you helping.  This is Grandmomma speak for you WILL eat this right now and it is going to be OK.

Yes, please.  This is child speak for I don’t want to but I know I have to and I really want dessert.

It doesn’t look good. It is colorful (orange) and strange (sticky) and weird (sticks and circle shapes). Grandmomma puts a singular serving spoon of it on my plate. The understanding regarding this measurement is simple: eat all of this and you will get to have some peach cobbler with ice cream. I take a deep breath and stick in a tiny piece of orangeness. It’s gone before I have even tasted it. I take another bite, this time with my eyes open and my senses turned on. This dish really isn’t as bad as it looks. By the time I finish my serving, I have been converted. No one will ever have to convince me that this stuff is good again. Candied yams are my new favorite!

So what is the moral of this story from my childhood?

“Taste and see that the Lord is good.” Psalm 34:8

We Christians are so good at being picky. We choose one flavor, one version, one part over another. There seems to be no room for another dish at our table. God never changes ( James 1:17 ) but He is infinite! We can never come to the end of things to discover, learn, see, feel experience in Him and of Him. The Bible tells us to be wise and childlike. Don’t heap a serving of poison on your plate. Equally, don’t let a new thing (or an old one you’ve never heard of) pass by.  You may well discover something wonderful!

We celebrate Thanksgiving as a family here in Scotland, and I make my Grandmomma’s candied yams every year. Some let the dish pass them by. Others would empty the bowl given half the chance! I’m happy to share what I know to be good, and bring it to the table with a serving spoon in hand.

Grandmomma's Candied Yams