I Faked It Till I Made It

I remember the day I made the decision to graduate him early. 

He was flying through kindergarten work.  Reading second grade readers fairly well and bored with his workbooks.

I logically told myself if I graduate him early then I can take two years to complete first grade, or a grade later on that he might struggle with. 

Made sense.  Still does.

So I planned.  Met with two beautiful friends who would be graduating their babies with my baby and we planned. 

They would pledge and count by fives and tens and recite Psalm 23 and a poem and answer interview questions and sing and change their tassels and throw up their caps.

I truly enjoyed the planning - even when I was complaining about it.

And the day drew nearer.

Izzy and I took him downtown and she took photos.  I knew what I wanted and argued with her that we did not need balloons.  She had a plan and stood her ground as the photographer and we bought balloons. 

The balloon photos - they are my favorite.

Izzy, you were right.  Forgive me.  But I'll do it again.  Sorry in advance.


Mom bought him a new sportscoat and I searched for the perfect yellow tie and Delia used the blow dryer on his hair.

And the day was here.


And it was a wonderful time with family and friends.  I don't think it could have gone any better.  Happy children and proud parents and love all around.  He spoke clearly and loudly and smiled till his cheeks had to hurt.

And I faked it - that this moment was what I really wanted.  'Cause what I wanted was when he couldn't say popsicle or when he called his milk no-no.

I smiled large and shed tears at the right moment in the slideshow and nodded to all the compliments on his behalf.  But deep down in the pit of my stomach I knew something.  I knew I wasn't sure that this was the right decision.  I wanted to pull him onto my lap and tell everyone I had made a mistake and we could all go home now.  We'd do this again next year - when it would be the right time.

And you know faking it till you make it?  What we mamas do sometimes - when we often want to give up and more often want to hide and we feel the need to scream - but we don't, we just fake it till we make it through that moment?

I faked it and I made it.  And later that night I watched him sleep.  Him lying there in just his briefs cause that's what big boys do and cuddling three blue dogs now, the third with a cap and tassel on.  I realized I had let my mind wander from the beauty of the moment. That I was thinking too much of what there is to lose instead of the abundant joy of what is here now.

Yeah, well, I'll do that again, too.  I apologize to myself in advance.

Louisiana's Best Kept Secret

At first we really didn't think anything about it. All children love animals, do they not?

It's been since she was very young, but I'm not exactly sure how old she was when I first realized how deeply her heart is connected to God's fifth and sixth day creatures.

 It was after the love of rocks.  There were buckets of them spilling over, weighing heavy and always on the floor.  Patience wore thin the day I put handfuls in the garbage.  She was barely four.  She'd never know.

And then she began to look for her rocks.  The rock that looked like the fish was missing.  Mommy, 'ou see me ittle wock that ooks ike . . .

and then another . . .

and then another. 

Big round innocent trusting eyes holding up chubby fingers to show me size. 

I swallowed hard each time and gave her my sympathy and helped her look and

lied.

It was after her love of pink and all things pink.  After the Polly Pockets had been packed up and the stuffed animals began to stay on their shelves.

After Jay Jay the Jet Plane and Bibleman and Squinkies.

But I knew before the day the small dog wandered into our yard and she convinced me to keep him for a few days.  Signs were put up and no one claimed him.  He was healthy and well cared for and I made the mistake of convincing her to let him go. 

He'll find his way home, Izzy.  If not, he'll come back here and we'll do something else.

He ran straight out of her arms and into the street.  Right in front of a car.  I heard the scream and wiped tears for what seemed liked forever and I thought of the rocks I had thrown away and wondered if she would think I had thrown this dog away.

She doesn't.

Over the last couple of years it has become apparent that it is more than a passing phase.

Her brain reads like an encyclopedia of animal knowledge.  

And her heart . . .

is like shelter.

It makes room and houses and cares and is safe refuge for all animals big and small.

We knew we were going the night before, but waited until morning to share - just the trip, not the location. 

Surprises are as fun on the giving end as the receiving end -

don't you think?

It's Louisiana's best kept secret.  An hour east of Baton Rouge and an hour north of New Orleans.  Ten curving miles out in the boondocks down Highway 445 to 40 East.  Past old barns.  Past century old homes falling down around their stories of love and laughter.  He thinks they need to be torn down.  I know they just need life breathed back into them.

Then there it is, one and a half miles on the left.  Right before the sign telling you children are welcome at the Ole Post Office Pizza and Daiquiri.

It hides in the middle of nowhere.

 

They look like they are coming, two by two. 

 And then some.

And they are everywhere.

She didn't speak at first.  I thought maybe I was wrong and this was not such a big deal.

It's not Africa, baby.  Maybe not a real safari.  But we can pretend, can't we?

She didn't say a word.  We drove down the curving dirt path to our waiting jeep.

Then she rolled down her window and breathed deep and there it was.  That big beautiful smile. 

Daddy, I didn't know there was a place like this here.

Yeah - he always gets the credit.  He doesn't throw away rocks or kill dogs.

 Some surprises are better on the giving end,

don't you think?

I confessed a couple of years ago about the rocks. 

Thought she'd think it was funny.

She didn't.

Good-bye, Preschool Hall

I gently tried to explain to Max that he would stay in his five year old Sunday school class. Yes, you graduated K5 early, but at church you will stay kindergarten. You'll stay with your friends.

He is so excited that this Sunday he will move upstairs, to the five year old class, out of the preschool hall.

At least one of us is . . .



To hold that first one when she was five just once more. That would be bliss.

To think with my brain and not so much my heart . . . that would be bliss.

I'm not logical or methodical. I'm emotional and chaotic.

And that used to be good enough.



Sunday I'll hold his hand and climb the stairs and feel Gregg's hand on my back and know that Max is beautiful and growing and in love with me still.

I'll watch him grin big and go in like he owns the world and try not to think too hard.

I could parent for hundreds of years and still not want to say good-bye to the preschool hall. 

Good-bye, preschool hall.

Hello, children's wing.

And time taking flight - be gentle with me, please.

When the Need Doesn't Matter

The worries of my world strike hard at four in the morning.  My mind drifts in this direction I yank back hard and turn my pillow to the cool side.  It grows warm and I sit up, stretch my feet that are yelling and give up.

I stand by her door but do not open it.  It's old and loud.  My hand finds that old pane and I utter, please, Father.

And that first child that is flying high has me whispering her own plea to above.  May her sugar be where it should be may she do as she should do and will you please, Father, make me a little better at this letting go. Where do I let go to?   And this new hold is not as easy as the first.

I lie back down and find him in the dark.  It has been too long and there is too much to do and not enough time and all that has held us apart or kept us apart is lost at four in the morning with his arms wrapped tight and I hear the breath I love you.  When he speaks it like a whisper breath and not a closing of a call or an exit out the door and I breathe it in like the gift it is.

I pull the covers up over his little body and wonder how she sleeps in that position and think about my day.

Today I will load the car and forget the camera or the bottle or the small flag he will wave and have to go back in and rush to not run late. 

Today I will stand on the side of the highway for a man I did not know but wish I had.  When he answered her 911 call and stayed by her side and told her it would be okay I should have taken the time to find him and thank him. I wonder how this event in her life will shape her.  He came and protected and comforted and now he was cruelly taken away and shouldn't she be too young for this?

 

I stand at the window looking out and think about the man that took this officer's life.  How does a person get to a place like that?  Did he not have someone to pull the covers up over him or pray hand on his door?  Did he not have someone to find in the dark?  Did he turn his back and say no over and over until his heart was hard?

This is the only highway I have ever known and each mile has memory and today I take my children and stand in respect and wonder how do you thank enough and why my highway?

Someone said there had to be a first, even in our little city, but why did there have to be?  I think of his child and his wife and who will whisper those words like breath and that's enough thinking and I notice my windows need washing and I turn away as the paperboy drives by and I wonder why don't I drink coffee?

Then - there it is.  What I have grown to expect and need and appreciate and adore.  The rush of comfort and peace and promise.

It always comes.  No matter the time the sun setting or rising no matter the question or the need.

It always comes.

Just Because

If something happened to the man I love I would ask three questions . . .

Who will reach the stuff in the top cabinet for me?

Who will every time give me the first bite - the still hot soft it's his favorite part too first bite - of his dipcone?

Who will roast me the perfect marshmallow?

These things done for me over twenty-four years now.  Never complaining, and only a few times hesitating on the dipped cone - only to give in.

And I'm in the middle of this little post, just a little silliness to always remind my girls how good their Daddy is to me in the little things, when my phone rings.

He is calling.

He had worked the sound booth at our church for the funeral of a just one year old baby girl.

Strangers to us.

But is anyone really a stranger in the family of God?

I hear it in his voice, how hard his morning had been, before he speaks what he had texted me an hour earlier -

That was too hard.

And I sit in the living room of an eighty year old legend.  Such a remarkable woman that even our legislative takes the time to wish her a happy birthday.  And I'm telling her about someone who really likes my Gregg, and she interrupts me to say - Who doesn't?

And for a moment I think about cracking a joke - but I feel a flush of pride and say, I know - everyone does, don't they?

So, happy There-really-isn't-anything-special-about-this-day day, darlin'.

Except that I share it with you.

Love you,

Rie

ABC's According to Max

Max, your entire pizza is sitting on my bed with only one bite eaten.

I know.  It not Koger band and I don't ike it.

What is Koger band?

Koger band.

What is Koger band?

Ou know, Mommy - Koger band.

No, I don't know.  What is Koger Band?

Sisi, tell Mommy what is Koger band.

Lots of whispering.

Lots of grinning.

It is what ou buy in Koger and it is a band.

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQ    STUVWXYZ - the ABC's according to Max.

My Prayers Answered, the Final Gift of Four

You know when you want to climb mountains and shout from 'em?  When you feel like you should take your shoes off because the ground beneath feels holy?   When it's so sweet it feels like a dream but it's better because it's the wonderful wonder of reality?

And what is real in all of life is what you know in moments like these.

The beautiful gift of four. One and then another and then another and then another. And all so undeserved.

But isn't each gift?

And I've messed up so many things and done so many things wrong.

And isn't that why this is the biggest wonder of all?

That in spite of me I would joy in the grace that is the joy of a lifetime in the lives of each of my children.

Would it sound silly to say that it was the biggest smile I've ever seen on his face?  Because it was, you know?  The biggest smile.  Spring of 2012.  February 26.

Bigger than when he took that first step and we all had silly goofy grins of pride on our face - and he knew it was him.  Bigger than the time when Gideon coming was only one day away - or no days away.  Bigger than seeing the footprints Santa left behind or getting ten more minutes before bed or me saying yes to the second oatmeal pie.

He couldn't stop smiling.

And he said he felt funny inside and touched his stomach.  Smiling.

He ran to me, Mommy, I said my payers by mysel tonight.

Then again, ten minutes later.  He jumps up beside me.

Mommy, I asked Jesus to live in my heart.  I asked Jesus to make me a Chistian.  I told Him I love him best.

I mute the TV and pull him to my lap and he feels greater because he is and I know because of the beautiful gift of three before.  

And there is the smile.  He was almost shining and maybe he was?  That smile was large and he twinkled and I saw it.  Jesus in my son.

He can't answer all the questions correctly.  He's only five.  He doesn't completely understand the devil.  He only partly understands sin.  He doesn't understand death or hell.  There will have to be more later -

But he does understand the cross. 

Do you believe Jesus died on the cross?

Yeah, so I don't have to.

What happened after He died?

He wose.

When?

Thee days later.

Where is Jesus now?

And this is the part.  If I forget it all this is the part I want to remember.  This is the glorious part that becomes my greatest gift - my final gift of four answered prayers.

The smile is still there.  I silently think his cheeks must be hurting.

In me, Mommy.

I hug him tight.  Yeah.  But where does Jesus live now, after he rose?

And he looks at me, smiling.  He stares at me as if I am the one who doesn't understand.

He lifts his hand and points one little finger.  Right at the middle of his heart.

In meeeee, Mommy. 

And he laughs as if to say, silly mommy.

But who possibly loves more on this earth than a mother?  Who else understands the things they don't understand themselves?  Who else sees the possibilities of their future more than a mother?  Who more than a mother hurts more when they hurt?

Who else worries more that they might turn away?

And isn't a mother pregnant for a lifetime?

And when their flutters turned to kicks that turned to pain that you knew of but had no idea of, each time forgotten fresh, in each blessing turn of gift life you whisper and plead and need to know they will be safe in the life past this one.  That He will grant what you will never be able to.  That He will give the real life.

This you pray.  Even when they only flutter. 

And here I witnessed the last, as I witnessed the three before. 

The first who wanted to lie with me in the dark and whisper it soft.  As if it was so beautiful the moment might break.  Gentle with small hand in mine and a great confidence.  And beautiful it was.  And my heart swam for in this moment I realized the greatest gift of grace is the gift of life to her.

The second who didn't understand why she had to ask for what she knew was already there.  Hadn't He always been there?  She couldn't remember Him not.  He could have easily been her first word.  The help of a dear pastor to fill in her blanks.  Her taking my hand and stepping out.

The third with the crowd in the living room.  Family all around.  Rare moments of all together and she pulls me to her room.  She cannot wait.  She wants to do it now.  And in the quiet of a room, shared wall with love loud seeping in, she bows and prays.

And now this fourth gift.  He so unexpected, who I love wild and strong and in that way a mama loves only a son, he takes a knee alone.  Warrior.  Joining an army of the King.  Running to me to tell and feeling funny inside and smiling huge on the outside.

What is such grace as this my Father grants?  Proof that His love is not only greater than my sins but called to these four in spite of me.  Where I failed He triumphed and loved more and spoke softer but louder and called deeper and gave all to the ones that I would give all to

but the thing I cannot give that is His alone is the only gift there is.

When He Shows Off His Smarts

He's out on the porch playing with a neighbor little girl.

This cup was made in China, he says.

Ohhhhh, she says, clearly impressed.

China is far far away.  It is in Texas, my son says.

Well, maybe not in Texas, but in Spanish, he continues.

Ohhhhh, she says.

We yell from inside - Max, where is China?

In that place that speaks Spanish, he yells back.

Ohhhhhh - we say.

That's it, baby boy.  You impress those girls.  They really go for the brainy guys.

the day that represents the day

I receive the text on my way home from church Wednesday night.

Are you alright?

I text back yes and share that this week does this to me every year.  This holy of weeks that shames me into admittance that so few of my days in a year are spent hurting over the pain my Savior endured.  And is there a word deeper than pain?

Admittance that my lack of faithfulness brought Him to a cross and even still that cross I so often forget and what love could be stronger to bear that cross knowing I would still lack faithfulness to even remember? 

I attend service of darkness and sing and pray and watch the blowing out of candles and feel tears slide.  I wipe my face and for a moment wonder if I can stifle sobs I feel coming.  And the pain from earlier in my day mixes with grief and reminder of grace and I feel threatened to lose control.  Then with the final Amen I exit quickly and quietly and prayer is answered when I make it to my car before the crushing weight of all this wins and I break.

I listen to the story of K. and there is a clock inside spinning backwards remembering and I know only by grace.  And I wonder - where is K's grace?

Some small sound wakes me to a morning still dark.  I avoid the clock and pull covers up over my head. But there is no rescue of sleep because here it is -  the day that represents the day.

Good Friday.  Pious.  Holy.

If I had been there would I have seen my name written in the stripes on his back?  RIE carved in letters so deep that only God's love can erase.  Not time or shame or sorry but only love.

Would I have seen my face in the angry sneering crowd?  My mouth turning Hosana to crucify?

And my answer screams yes and I push myself deeper under the covers.  I remember last night I closed my eyes to the day that He prayed for another way and accepted the way of the cross.  How could I have rested when He prayed drops of blood?

Then he returned to the disciples and found them asleep. He said to Peter, "Couldn't you watch with me even one hour?" 

Matthew 26:40

I rested in sleep because of the crack of whip moving faster than the speed of sound and nails pounding crushing small bones and heart breaking looking through space and time -   my face.  RIE.

Just make it through today, just make it through today I repeat over and over.  And then morning will break again just get through today, I pray.  And what will I do from noon until three?  I will wash dishes and clean house and shop for a birthday gift and remember to remember.

Only by grace did I realize early enough in my life, before it was maybe too late?  Never for love, but maybe for redemption?  And on this holy day I wonder again Where is K's grace? Help her, Lord, to find her gift of grace.

And I long to go home and look into His face.  I want to touch the scars and fall at His feet and sob unstifled I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry.

I must await my heavenly home but not my seeing His face because He wakes with me and rises with me and rests with me and loves me a cross much.  Today the day that represents the day I will remember agony and thank often and wait for new morning to break.

When Your Chatterbox Is Speechless . . .

I'm carrying folded laundry room to room. 

This new baby nephew sits in room with Max. 

Baby love is whining. 

Max, you need to talk to him.  Give me ten minutes to finish this and I'll come get him.

And in sweet sing song I hear . . .

Heeeyyyyy, what you do today?

Pause.

Heeeyyyyy, what you do today?

Pause.

And then a long drawn out - 

Uhhhhhh . . .

Pause.

Heeeyyyyy, what you do today?

Pause.

And then the sound only a little boy can make when he imitates vomiting.

Pause.

And then again . . .

Heeeyyyyy, what you do today?

So, he may be Max the Great and The Maxinator and superhero The Maxman,

but . . .

he's no conversationalist, not a gabber, not a chatterbox.

But sweet baby nephew - he made not another sound.