The Mom Eats Alone

I've said for years that I'm going to write a book with the title of this posting. I don't really know what it will be about. But there are certain things that are true about moms and particularly about moms who are full-time homemakers. One of those truths is that at meal times, we are so busy topping off apple juice, replacing dropped spoons, blowing tiny noses, and snatching fresh napkins, that by the time we sit down to eat, everyone else is finished and gone.

A few months ago, I had a photographer (who also happens to be my sister-in-law. Bonus!) come to my home and photograph our family in the mundane. We didn't do anything special. I intentionally left our house un-vacuumed and un-swept, as it would generally be on that day. I wanted her to capture us as we were. To seal up a capsule of our family in the "now."

When I got the pictures back from her, I was surprised about three different things.

1. I found that I didn't remember much of anything about that day, except that she had come. I didn't remember that it was light at bedtime or that we ate s'mores or that my friend Sara sent us a box FULL of candy from Germany to open that day or even that my brother-in-law and his posse stopped by to drop off hand-me-downs from my aunt.

Part of that is beautiful, because our lives were legitimately captured in the raw. Nothing stuck out to me because none of it was abnormal. But that same beauty holds somber undertones; I know the sun's rising and setting is out of my control, and it's leaving things in an indiscernible blur.

2. I don't smile nearly enough in my daily routine. That needs to change.

3. I was shocked to see how many of the pictures were of myself or of my "office."

Side note: I spend a LOT of time standing in front of the sink or stove. That's where I tape up notes of encouragement so that I see them as much as possible. This helps to remind me of the value of my position, and it safeguards against Routine swallowing me whole. I call this area my office. :)

At first I was annoyed that so many of the photos featured me in some way, because I wanted the shoot to be about our life as a family. But as I continued to scan through them time and again (you know you do it too), my mother-heart awakened to an interesting truth.

The home is like a piece of art. From a distance, people think it's effortless, aesthetically pleasing, and quaint. But if they stepped into it, they would understand that it is crafted from wild vines. Moment by moment, pieces are changing, jutting here or there. The artist's job is to take the mayhem and weave it together into a functional, healthy organism (with minimal shouting). If said artist stepped away for a day or two, she would have a lot of repairing and resetting to do upon her return. Because it's life. And it's live. And it's hard. And it's beautiful.

The pictures depict me cooking dinner, cleaning dinner, helping with homework (which is actually usually Dad's job around here), sweeping floors, managing candy intake, and more. Many of the pictures where I don't physically appear, you can still find remnants of what I've done. Examples of this include ice packs on wounds, water for the toddler's paint, billions of pictures tacked to the walls of my fledgling artist's bedroom, and a basket stocked with fruit that was budgeted and planned to purchase for the family.

Fellow mom, you are vitally important. If someone came to your house to still-shot your day, you would be in half the pictures, and that's a good thing. :)

In my "office," I have a now-dish-water-flecked, dusty card that my church handed out on Mother's Day nearly a decade ago, and I'll end with its message.

"God has called you and gifted you to be the wonderful mother you are. In a special way today may you sense His nearness, rejoice in His love for you, and know the joy you bring to others."

More pictures are coming soon to a Facebook near you!

Eleven

My kids usually sleep with a box fan running to mute outside noise. Yesterday, one of our two fans mysteriously kamikazed a blade. Now when it's switched on, it walks (er, hops) across the room-- loudly.

We're at the tail end of a humidity streak which has blanketed our area with 90+ degree weather for two weeks. Really, we shouldn't have been shocked when our trusty Walmart was sold out of box fans.

So last night, we made the only logical decision. All three of our kids would sleep together in one room. Our room.

Shortly after being tucked in, the oldest came to us, complaining that her 2-year-old sister was babbling on and on, and that "I can't understand anything she's saying." We assured her that this was normal behavior and sent her back to bed.

By the time we got to bed ourselves, one of them had already had "an accident" in his resting place on the floor. So we cleaned him up, laid down a towel, and went to sleep.

Little did we know that those first few hours would be our only hours of rest.

The 2-year-old was awake from roughly 3:30-5:30, playing quietly on her own. During that time, our oldest came to me to complain about her nose hurting (for which I know no remedy) and again later because she had pain in her back (which I'm sure had something to do with sleeping on a concrete basement floor-- just a hunch).

Around six o'clock or so, my son accidentally moved (and unplugged) the beloved, precious, sleep-protecting box fan. Faster than a cat out of water, I shot from my bed to fix it and salvage the rest of my girls' potential sleep. But that was pretty much it.

To frost the cake, I was up three times, myself, to use the restroom (sometimes being a hydrated runner has it's downsides).

It wasn't until the kids were up and Rodney was in the shower that either of us thought to wish a groggy "happy anniversary" to the other.

I thought back to our wedding day. About how his pesky little brothers ran over to wake my maid of honor and myself up at the crack of 7 a.m. and how I wanted to gouge their eyes out for doing so.

Today, 7 a.m. is sleeping in! Boy, how our lives have been taken down a completely (and I do mean completely) different road. We are no longer the kids who exchanged vows on our wedding day. Our perspective has grown, and our life experience has gained value one hundred fold. Our lives are rich and full and significantly less self-focused.

It seems fitting, in a "God has a sense of humor" sort of way that our night went so horrendously. It is a reminder of where we have come in just over a decade. We almost didn't make it to year 2, and here we stand at 11. For that, my hat goes off to God-- the great sustainer.

We've known each other now for a majority of our lives. And my favorite part is that this is still just the beginning.

Finding God at garage sales

This weekend my church is hosting a garage sale, and I volunteered to help "price" items. That's maybe not an ideal job for me, because I really don't have the best sense of value. I would never win on The Price is Right. Ever.

My first assignment was to price about a dozen identical leather arm chairs that were lined up in the hallway. With $10-15 in mind, I asked my leader what she thought they should go for. She said that they were high quality chairs that typically sold factory fresh for about $1,000 each.

That sent my value-ometer a little berserk. I know garage sale items should be significantly less than new ones, but where do I make the jump between $10 and $1,000? I thought maybe I could label them at $50 so it would seem like a sacrifice to buy them, but people would still be getting them at a bargain. Then again, if someone came along who didn't know that chairs were actually that awesome, they would stroll past the 95% off deal and continue browsing elsewhere. And my job was to "price to sell." What a dilemma (insert "first world problems" jab here).

I was finally instructed to mark the chairs at $20, so I got to work writing up stickers. Now I don't know if it's because I'm a woman or because I was born an "Ivey" woman, but knowing the gap between what they were worth versus what they were priced sparked an urgency to get one into my possession. I have no need for a chair. I have no space for a chair.

That was yesterday.

This morning, I was awake early and settling in for my quiet time with God. And yes, I was still thinking about the stupid chairs. I reflected on how I had wanted to mark them for at least $50 but couldn't, knowing that garage-salers wouldn't recognize their worth. And this thought came to me:

"When you understand the value, you're willing to pay the price."

Bing! The connection is that God assigns and therefore grasps our value. He paid the same price for you as He did for Mother Theresa and for Adolph Hitler.

Hebrews 12:2 reads, "For the joy set before Him He endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God."

That "joy set before Him" was the relationship He now gets to have with you and with me. Even just the opportunity-- the hope and chance that we would choose Him back, and He could be close to us. We are His joy. His reason for living and dying. He has always seen value in us. I wanted to encourage you to live in the truth that you were eternally paid for at the highest price. And with Him, there's no buyer's remorse.

Put in my place

Today, I have a hotel room to myself for the entire business day. That may sound boring to some of you (especially if you're an extrovert), but to this introverted mother of 3, it spells glorious reprieve.

This prolonged period of silence lends itself well for me to connect deeply with the Father. It somehow allows my heart to unfold and expose itself with freedom and vulnerability more so than when I'm rushing to squeeze my quiet time in between kids' naps and chopping tomatoes for supper.

There's a particular trial I've been enduring for a little while now that I've just had trouble putting to rest. Every day I seek His power to gain victory over this. I have even pursued counsel on the matter, but it seems like I gain minimal ground before sliding back into this rut. I have no doubt that I will ultimately overcome it; it's just taking longer than I'd like.

Because of my extended time this morning, I felt the courage to address the Lord with my "beef" about Him not coming through and just rescuing me. So I said,

"God, I know You want me to listen to You and fight for You, but sometimes that feels like a one-way road."

I slowed down and stopped at "but" (yes, I pray out loud). I did finish the sentence, but mostly based on principle. I wanted to get the words out-- to dig up and release the feelings I had been sweeping under the rug of avoidance.

However, it was simultaneously humorous to hear how ridiculous the sentence actually sounded, escaping my lips. By the end, I was shaking my head and had a giant smile on my face. I sensed no condemnation, but a humble reminder of my smallness.

How short-sighted I can be, to think that I could possibly be carrying the heavier work load in this relationship.

It was just an interesting moment I thought I would share.

Feeling so small, yet so adored

Disclaimer: The blog post you are about to read is a little heavy on nature and other such Jesus-loving, hippie themes.

We are on our way out to Salem, Oregon for a business trip. Last night, after 2 full days of driving, we were about 3 hours from our final destination. We tossed back and forth the idea of pressing through and arriving at midnight or stopping short and “roughing it” in the kind of motel that's spelled with flashing lights and has bullet-proof glass shielding the check-in counter.

Rodney, being the tough, manly leader that he is made the executive decision to stop-- because he didn't want to miss out on the beautiful scenery by passing it all under the cover of darkness. I love that guy :)

I do have to just interject quickly and say that he was right. I'm typing while we're driving, and this is quite possibly the most beautiful view we've had over the past 1,800 miles. There's a tremendous, white-capped river to our right and mountains engulfing everything around us-- like a bowl. Double-stacked trains chugging out of Portland are slithering by between us and the river basin. The sky is clear, and the sun is bright.

Today was simply birthed as amazing.

That first morning out West is always great because that the 2-hour time difference hasn't set in yet. So I “slept in” until 7:00 my time, but was awake with the morning's first blush here at 5 am. I eagerly threw on my running gear and quietly slipped out the door.

Our hotel was nestled beside a smaller river, which made for nice company while running. I found myself surprised at my own surprise, however, when I lifted my head and noticed that I was surrounded with mountains. I knew they were there, of course, but the darkness from the night's drive and habitual Wisconsin programming in my mind's eye rendered me forgetful and caught me completely unaware of the silent towering giants.

I rounded a curve in time to see the sun just cresting the tip of one of these majestic beauties. Without hesitation, I turned around and jogged straight back to my hotel room to find my camera.

During this trek, I discovered an awesome little spot to sit and connect with my Jesus. So I ran to snap the picture that you see at the top of this blog, ditched the rest of my run, and showered so I could meet up with my Love. It felt a little like primping for a morning date :)

I snatched my bag of reading and writing supplies and started my little journey to the meeting place. Unfortunately, by then there was a man working to repair a gazebo very near my spot. Who cares about a gazebo at 6 in the morning? Seriously.

Anyway, I detoured around him, hoping to spot a park bench bathed in sunlight to escape the chilly air. No such luck. But I didn't care; my heart was full. So I sat down on a cold, metal seat and allowed time to take in the river against it's tall, rocky backdrop.

I cracked open my Bible (well, Rodney's Bible, but that's a long story) and discovered broken bits of sweet sunshine dancing through the shade trees onto my pages. It felt like a divine, loving, playful "elbowing" gesture, which swept a smile over my face.

My bookmark directed me to 1 Corinthians 12 which is about believers being part of a body-- one working entity, not unlike the river before me. The passage goes on to explain how He gives us each something different to contribute to that body. I thanked Him for the ways that He uses me, despite my constant weakness and occasional rebellion. I reveled in His patience and His heart for me. Me!

By the time I was done reading, the bench I was seated on was still blanketed in shadows, but a familiar, comforting heat rested on my shoulders. I imagined my Father spreading the branches above me just so-- affectionately knowing the depth of my heart and how it connects with the warmth of the sun.

For a long time I gazed at the river and mountains ahead of me. I thought about how the calloused, rugged hands that molded those unfathomable stone fixtures were the same scarred ones that tenderly crafted my heart and lungs, skin and eyes-- all in a mother's womb.

I am ashamed to think of how I limit Him. That I respect Him in the grandeur, but lose Him in the little things. When I can't sleep or when I'm not immediately rescued from a trial or temptation, I forget that He is everlasting-- the Beginning and the End. He is radiant. He is just.

I felt that I could die and be no closer to Him than I was right then. This world really isn't my home. Someday, this morning's moments won't be an excerpt or a memory, but my living, breathing, waking, eternal life. For He makes everything glorious!

The Beautiful Mundane

I have a photographer coming over this afternoon to shoot a "story telling" session in my home. This means that she will be capturing our lives exactly as they are. No posing, no make-up, no matching outfits.

I cringe a little, because my house isn't exactly pristine: stacks of papers are awaiting their home in the filing cabinet, dishes are dirty, and my son needs a haircut. But, well, that's kind of a highlight for this type of thing. This is my life as a mom. Gritty. Messy. Real.

All morning, I've been resisting the urge to "fix" the surface things in my world so that we can look better. But one of the core pillars of my heart is "authenticity." So I can embrace this. Deep breaths. Messy is okay. Imperfection is o--kay.

Actually, the more I think about that, the more excited I feel. I've been looking around my home and falling in love with the ordinary things about my life. There are literally a dozen toothbrushes in my bathroom (if you don't know, we own our home with another family). My daughter has about nine art projects lying on our counter (so they can dry. . . 3 days ago). Naked baby dolls are scattered everywhere. My fridge has a billion kiddish magnets stuck to it.

Today, the usual annoyances are being brought into a new light of appreciation for the speeding moments I'm living in. I can't cook without someone hanging on my leg. I can't go to the bathroom without an audience (or tears behind the closed door). If I want to shower alone, I need to be awake before 6 a.m.

I had a baby just yesterday, and she's turning 7 in August. The cliche is true: "The days are long, but the time is short." That baby brought some looooong days.

Twenty years will go by in the blink of an eye, and this time of toddler, first-grader, and all-boy will be a vague memory. No more catching worms, running in the sprinkler, digging up the yard with toy tractors, riding bikes down the hill, or chubby fistfuls of Play-Doh at my table. Miscellaneous still shots of random moments would be all we had.

But after tonight, I will have a capsule of exactly how things look right now including bed time routines, the faces around our dinner table, and the fights over homework.

This "every day" deal really is a beautiful thing. And it's passing me by like a careless breeze.

Day By Day

I went for a run this morning. The last time I did that, I was in my second trimester, it was after completing a half marathon, and. . . it was nearly 3 years ago. Needless to say, taking the 2-mile loop was biting off a little more than I could chew. Or. . . run?

Anyway, once I was finished and hacked the film from my lungs, I felt great. I was doing the right thing for my body, I could feel that weird mix of pain and awesomeness that only comes from exercising, and it just felt good to be "back in the saddle." But the strangest thing happened.

When I squeezed into my [shrinking] jeans, they were still hard to zip. That can't be right. I worked hard on my run, sweating and burning calories. I ate a healthy breakfast. I drank a glass of water. I should be thinner!!!

Yes, I realize how illogical that argument is. But it doesn't change my feeling that I should see immediate change.

Maybe this is over-thinking things, but I considered how this relates to the Christian life. Sometimes I'll have an awesome time in the presence of God and feel like I can overcome any obstacle. I can be like Jesus. But within hours (or. . . often just minutes) of this motivating time, I am back to yelling at my kids, being short with my husband, and complaining about insignificant things.

I have heard people use the term "exercise" when it comes to using their faith. I'm not sure I had ever thought of it before in the way of using repetition to build one's self up. One of Webster's many definitions for the word exercise is:

"something performed or practiced in order to develop, improve, or display a specific capability or skill."

I think it's just a good reminder that we need to get alone and meet daily with the Lord. We cannot understand & know Him, deepen our faith, or love people better if we aren't breaking away from culture and tapping into His life.

Maybe prayer is awkward for you. Do it anyway. The more you do anything, the more comfortable and efficient you will be. I can't think of anything this doesn't apply to: administering insulin shots, riding a bike, playing an instrument. Geeze, you should see me play the guitar right now. It is awkward, indeed. And in these beginning stages, it is even painful. I do not enjoy the process of learning to play. But I look forward to being able to play.

I dream about the day I can sit down and crank out chords like anyone else. But more than that, I eagerly await the moment when the relationship I'm working toward with Jesus is complete. When I can look Him in the eyes as daughter and Father, closely knit, having been bonded for so many years.

And until then, I want to be so enraptured with Him that it pours into my daily interactions. But that is a process. And I'm working on it. Every day.