One Thousand Gifts . . . All At Once

Some of you are looking for words.  I have words - lots of words - but these last few months they have all been between my Father and me.

It was just a normal day back in April when I moved in and out of awareness, hearing Izzy's words to 911, but only being able to talk to God.  And isn't He all we need?  We talked about her little heart and how brave she sounded.  The lack of fear and the assurance that all those that I love would be taken care of is too expansive to merely put into words on this screen.

Salvation brings many kinds of peace.

These last few months I have latched onto that peace and calmness and assurance even tighter as I have hung on to faith in His plans. 

And I've mostly done it quietly. 

So many have prayed.  Words like mass and pre-cancerous cells seem to make us call upon Him more often and louder and more desperate?

I'm really not brave.  Maybe that's why I have been silent on this little space of words?

So that you wouldn't see?

Thoughts of a beautiful heaven and home with Jesus struggling with the thoughts that I don't want to go there yet. I don't want to be sick and hurting. I don't want that struggle.

I don't think my work is done and those I love still need me but who am I to question the All-Knowing?  The giver and taker of life.

And moments of struggles and desperate prayers and cries of fear and the unknown clashed with this steady peace that is hard to explain. 

Clashing like cleansing waves on rough rocks for they don't belong to a child of the Almighty King.

But it is a child that I am.  A child with moments of more fear than faith?  But more peace than worry.

And can I tell you of a miracle? 

Softball size and thickening of the lining and most assuredly pre-cancer are just words. 

This is behind me now and they were just words. 

I recoup from this surgery and find myself forgetting to remember to thank.  Life is already in the way of my remembering His comfort and promise of peace and healing.

And His delivering.

So I stop and thank.

What is Important

There are many things I have done wrong in this world. 

Many people I have hurt and many bad decisions.

And for those I am sorry.

But I have done what is important right.

I have raised four heart beautiful, kind, loving children who love their Jesus.

Children who love their mama.  Children who make me proud.

And I am loving a man.  A good kind man who has given to me what all women want.  The heart of a man.

I'm not sure what I will find out today.  But whatever it is, it is small in comparison.

One Thousand Gifts . . .

It was my first Mother's Day.  1989.  Married less than a year with my stomach swollen around the growing love inside me. 

Months before I had been sick, trouble holding even water down.  With headaches that made me tug at my hair to ease the pain.  He would leave mornings for work with me in the bathroom and he would come home evenings with me still on the floor of the bathroom, curled up in its corner of that first apartment of ours.

But she fluttered and moved and I surrendered to a love like no other.

And on that first Mother's Day he brought me a camera.  I remember the kiss.

There have been flowers and cards and food and little teabags in envelopes and gifts and breakfast in bed and a t-shirt with my first baby's handprints and hugs and kisses.

And three other surrenders.

And this year there was this.

A chocolate cake with fudge filling and buttercream icing.  Made by you know who, with the fondant  painted by Izzy.  Real flowers on top - my favorite, tulips - in my favorite color.

Two handmade cards worth Hallmark's stock and more.

I know my children well.  And right back at me they know me equally well. 

They know what satisfies not only my sweet tooth - but my heart as well.

My gratitude list continues . . .

a day to celebrate mothers

tulips

handprints

singing prayers

rechargeable flashlights

"dadde, today I was a genpleman when I open door for Mommy"

planning with friends

kids laughing in the pool

a friend's tea

a sister's visit

banners

opaque projectors

the cool side of the pillow

my mama

"roses on my shoulder, slippers on my feet . . ."

My list, #'s 650-665.

No Title Necessary

It's too quiet in the house so I can't sleep.  I have four children and only one is home.  Even the middle of the night can feel off balance.

So, I did this one time before here, and I'm gonna do it again.

Because one day when only one bed in this home is occupied I want to read this and remember when times were better - or at least more interesting.

When I picked up tonight before bed this is what was on my living room floor.

three toy story martians

one chicken feather

three marbles

hot glue gun strands

one water gun and one bubble gun

wet dog ball

cake crumbs

Izzy's robe

Max's polar bear slippers

one pillow pet

one google eye

a one-eyed bald no arms orange puppet

lots of little cut up paper pieces - an attempt to make an eye

pile of sand?

extension cord

pirate hat

his dirty socks

spiderman

and lastly . . .

one cocoa puff - which I gingerly poked at 'cause it easily could have been poop - dog or human four year old boy

and you thought when I blogged again I'd say something deep and meaningful.  something profound and intelligent.  something actually worth reading.

fooled 'ya.

And He Was Gone

I rose from the bed and stumbled into the kitchen to drown my first bottle of water.

I crinkled up and sniffed - my nose smelled something beginning to be bad.

I know this in my I've smelled things before that begin and end bad kind of way.  Only a mama kind of way.

My nose is an expert.  Age may be claiming some of my sense of hearing and seeing, but my nose is compensating.

It smelled bad, I poked my head in a room and sniffed.  I decided the birdcage needed cleaning and dragged her out of bed to do it now.

It wasn't the birdcage, but I'm afraid you won't believe me if I tell you what it was.

Now turned into an hour later and I sat that cage - with the bird still in it - on the front porch.

Sandra and Emily came and friends and webkinz occupied my girl's time and I continued to sniff and wonder why is it still lingering in the house?

Time right now for the cleaning I announced in my best Don't You Dare Put This Off Another Minute mama's voice.

Do you ever think that there are times that you should not have to spell everything out to then discover that you should have not only spelled it out but yelled it out?

And there he flew.  The beautiful cockatoo that had his need for a wing clipping put off just one day too late.

Into the wild blue yonder.  And he was gone.

Few days later Sandra called to say that there had been a woodpecker in her bedroom that morning.  Brought in by the cat.  The fire department came and rescued it, took pictures, and released it back into its home. 

Maybe my bird and her bird have met up, exchanged horror stories, and mated for life.  One can hope.

And the smell?  Pig's blood.  Discovered only after it got past really bad.

Don't ask, cause . . .

That's all I have to say about that.  Name that movie.

A Blessing That Conquers Even A Mother

I think of my girl, the first one I carried. The first one who took my heart with her when she left my womb. And I have never gotten it back, and know I never will. 

I replaced it with another and that one got taken too . . .

Who said we only get one?  Not a mother.

I think of Juvenille Diabetes. Words spoken twelve years ago almost to this day in what was to be the merry month of May. Spoken to me in private. Spoken gently and softly so they could sink in. But they never have. I have to wonder why? She was at the doctor the other day, too old for me to go with her?

Now when I think of her I almost always think of him.  They go hand and hand.  They love each other and are beginning to make plans.  Where did the little girl with the ribbon tied around her head go?

Where did the little red-headed boy holding the lunchbox go?

 Pray with me for a mama's heart?  For thinking of him brings thoughts of another.

Papers have come and we will be seeing him off to another place like another world much too soon.  I know Tammy's plans and dreams for him did not include this.  When would fear for your child be a dream you hang your wishes on?

But what is fear?  Is it a lack of trust or faith?  Or, is it just simply consequences of a fallen world?

Is it possible to not fear for your child? 

We do not have to be involved in a physical war for us to be involved in a war.

So he will fight one and his mama will fight another.

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places. Ephesians 6:12

Wicked spirits oppose faith and love. They try to trick us or force us to an unbelief - an unbelief that is not possible because we do believe.

But there must be a fight for sin seeps from our pores.

Paul is not speaking of a wrestle of body.  But as Jacob fought, a wrestle of the soul.  And we struggle for a blessing -

I will not let go until you bless me . . .
Genesis 32

and we struggle with God and with men and we overcome.  And we limp.

And with this belief that is our shield and armour we will trust even our womb's dearest gifts to the Kingdom of the Son.

And yes, I wait for the numbers of sugar that is not sweet and yes, I ask too many questions and I hover and yes, I try to take back my role as the womb nester. 

And yes, she will jump each time the phone rings and yes, she will watch the news and read the paper with heart eyes that want to turn away.  But yes, she can't.

Yes, we can wrestle and like Jacob we can win a blessing.  And as it conquered a brother afraid and gave a new name,  it can conquer even a mother.  

One Thousand Gifts . . .

This gratitude post is more than a month old.  I never hit the publish button because it felt very mine, very much mine alone. 

 Sometimes we speak of things and lose it?  Or is that silly?

Even though I know I can't lose his love, sometimes I still travel down roads of past and know I don't deserve it.

It's still dark outside.  Morning is just beginning to stream down.

He's already up.

He comes back and lies down next to me.  Right in the little space on my left with the large expanse of king empty on my right. 

He holds me and I cry.  I sit up I lie down I sit up I lie down and I ramble and I worry. 

He lets me and tells me the same words he has said over and over lately, It's gonna be alright, Rie.

He listens and then prays what I need.

And all my thousand gifts I'm listing beside us on the nightstand. 

But him I can't list.  I can't count this kind of love.  I can't give it a number or a place.

Because it just is, and I'll never understand why me.

My gratitude list continues . . .

friends to watch him at the park

small iv needles

resurrection eggs

ticked off mornings with no backlash

loving texts and emails

once again bringing extra chairs in

forgiveness and forgiving

Craig's reminder - in small things or great

a daughter's servant heart

My list, #'s 641-649.

We Are Perfectly Safe

My oldest is no longer a child.  She has past those years and entered adulthood with only a few passing storms. 

Some that left her daddy and me feeling like we were standing in the storm alone, but they passed and left rainbows in their wake.

We are at a family reunion.  She's with the adults now and is telling of her life.  How school is going, how her love life is, where she is working . . .

This one.  Where she is working.  She tells of the alternative school and the discipline problems that get her students sent there.  I'm listening and there is nothing new.  I even say . . .

 "Last week one of the students punched her in the stomach." 

I feel a little sick as the words come out, words that sound foreign.  Words that don't belong . . . 

But like Lisa we are stripping worry away.  So I straighten my back and tell myself it is okay.

Then she begins to tell of things I didn't know.  Like the child 

One Thousand Gifts . . .

I'm spread out, three Bibles around me when I remember the toast under the broiler.

And weeks now my mind has been one track and I'm seeing my selfish ways.

I'm open to the book of James and I read . . .

And those who have reason to be thankful should continually be singing praises to the Lord.  James 5:13

It's a rugged and sometimes painful kind of Christian living this book of James reveals.  James was realistic and brave, crystal clear in meaning when he wrote.  Words of God.  Letters from God.  Written then to guide me now.  Chastise me now?  Yes.

I'd like to avoid the impact of James at times, his gutsy writing that reaches in and sees me real pulls out my messes and brings them to surface. I'm feeling like I'm holding my breath so I don't sink.  I'd rather stay on top and keep my messes below - hidden where they belong.

But I need to breathe.

I throw away the toast and start over.  So how can I wonder why about this small thing or these large things or anything else when God tells James to tell me that I must sing with praises?

Then I close my eyes and let God tell me Himself.

And

My gratitude list continues . . .

burnt toast

paint on the walls

spray paint on the hands

tears and his I sorry

second chances as I sigh and start gratitude over, and over, and over . . .

dirty faces

winter clothes packed away

dinner out when I'm too tired

free downloads

muscle relaxers

hearing Izzy read to Max

lunch with Donna

easy conversation

an empty dishwasher

finding all the mates to the socks washed

a lemon dream at two in the morning

fur lined boots and eighty degrees and he doesn't care and I smile knowing this will make my list

cell screen that lights up 'Janice'

My list, #'s 622-640.

One Thousand Gifts . . .

A man has made at least a start on discovering the meaning of human life when he plants shade trees under which he knows full well he will never sit.  D. Elton Trueblood

Growth and time. 

I was twelve years old the day I came home to find my daddy planting a tree in the center of our back yard.  Little small tree.  My young mind could not then comprehend the time it takes to produce a huge sprawling tree.  Years would have seemed like a lifetime to me then.

I don't remember, but I'm pretty sure I asked him how long it would be till I could climb it.  How long till it was tall enough and strong enough to support my weight.  If I could have awoken the next morning to an overnight transformation of that tree I would have missed much.

I now live with my family in the house I grew up in.  And look at what my children get in that old tree.

And like that tree I have grown and matured.  But I learn every day that I have far still to go . . . 

They are like trees planted by streams of water, which yield their fruit in its season, and their leaves do not wither. In all that they do, they prosper.  Psalm 1:3

My gratitude list continues . . .

treehouses and rock walls

ziplines and helmets

running into friends at the store

birthday invitations

t-ball practice

empty mason jars

chocolate chip cake

bug spray

notes from my children

catching him with a can of spray paint

old photographs

painted faces

tulips

melted ice cream

stained glass

open discussion

tears for Jesus

the Jonah class

My list, #'s 603-621.