Category: Plum

stories of life with a our beautiful grandson

Moments of Magic

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef, TravelLeave a comment

A goal was set each day, reservations already in place for our hotel, the number of miles we needed to travel predetermined. Sometimes it was 300, often only 200, many times around 500. Each morning as we packed up the bike again my brother outlined for me the places we would discover and the end city.  He joked often that we had a short day of riding which actually never panned out. Each evening after showers, after dinner, a time was agreed upon for kick stands up in the morning. All these agreements were necessary for group travel, no actual leader. Maybe it was because it was vacation, maybe because grace traveled with us, but I discovered more than amazing new vistas. I learned what patience looks like.

At the pretrip meeting when I was told how to pack, that I really needed lip balm with sunscreen, I was also told that my vote counted just as much as the other three travelers. If I wanted/needed to stop I merely had to say so. If I wanted a picture, needed to eat or use the bathroom, was just ready to stretch my legs, all ok.  I heard this but was so overcome with gratitude to be included that I didn’t want to be a burden thus determined not to ask for stops unless absolutely necessary. I think though the whole 2 weeks I only tapped my brother’s shoulder 3 times, my bladder screaming once and my pelvis another. The third time was when he asked if I was okay and I was frozen in my tank top, the temperature drop and pelting rain creating misery that I would have pushed through had he not inquired. Stop we did though, each time, and I rushed through my fixes only to find everyone else gladly taking a break. Coffee was ordered, bandanas re-wetted, tanks filled up again. Phones were checked, calls made to family back home. No one showed the slightest sign of frustration that I was slowing our progress.

We stopped for the others as well, like the time my brother forgot to pay for his gas. The pump didn’t take his credit card so he went inside to give the cashier his card, she chose not to hold it, turned on the pump for him, said, ” I trust you.” As was habit, he filled up, logged it all in his journal, we readjusted helmets and drinks and rode off.  About 15 miles down the road he realized what had happened, pulled over, explained to our companions the situation. We all returned to the station to find the cashier and manager rewinding security cameras, trying to find the biker who rode off without paying.  “You came back,” she screamed when she turned around at the sound of the bell tinkling as we entered. He apologized profusely, gave his card again. Outside, helmets were donned, drinks readjusted, then the cashier came running out.  She hugged him, said no one ever comes back. We all rode away, knowing we were behind schedule but ahead in creating memories.

We stopped because we needed more sunscreen and my bandana had flown away. My trick of eating M&M’s as we rode not so successful. The little bag I carried in my borrowed Harley pouch had long melted. I peeled the paper open and scrapped the contents along my teeth, under my helmet. I was thrilled no one could see me, certain I appeared crazy desperate and chocolate covered. Remembering the still slightly damp bandana around my neck, I carefully removed that as we flew at 60 plus miles and snuck it under my face shield, cleaned myself up. But what to do with the messy bag? I wrapped it up in the bandana and tucked it under my leg until I could clean it all up at our next stop.  Content with my ingenuity and a belly full of sugar, I went back to watching the scenery.  Back to wiggling and rearranging myself, legs up on the pegs, leaning back, forward, to the side.  Away went my forgotten treasure, my mess, my cooling towel. So we stopped at a Walgreens after our lunch, another delay. There we met Rene.

My brother went in and was greeted by this gorgeous African-American women with long braids and a huge smile. She asked if she could help and then did. He got the sunscreen, new bandana and more M&M’s for me. I waited outside in the shade, stretching my legs just a bit more. Out they both come, excited voices as she exalted over his bike. Apparently she had remarked on his attire, asked about his journey. He invited her to see the bike and she jumped at the chance.  The rest was pure magic, pure joy. He told her to jump on, to grab her phone for a picture. Her shock was quickly overcome, she got on, pictures were taken. Then she hugged him, a real hug.  One of those really tight man you are the best kind of hugs. She told me to take care of him, that he got me a surprise. Then I got a hug as well. The same kind.  Rene knows how to hug. I’m really sorry for littering but wouldn’t have wanted to miss out on that stop for anything.

I could go on forever about the people we met at our stops, those are amazing stories to me. But something I have realized is that I am a bad traveler usually. I rush my Chef. I keep a timetable, I am always ready for the next thing. How many Rene’s have I missed?  Every Sunday I holler up the stairs, “are you ready yet?’  knowing he isn’t but giving the signal it is time to go. Maybe it is easier on vacation, maybe it is easier when there are no children anxiously waiting.  My look is composed of a shower, clean mostly matching clothes and some eyeliner. My Chef takes much more time with his appearance, things match, his hair has product, he smells good. Shoes match shorts, shirts are ironed. He just takes longer. So I rush him. I have felt quite righteous in this rushing, until two weeks of travel when I never got rushed. Even when everyone else was ready and my Plum needed to FaceTime. Even when I decided at the last-minute I really did want/didn’t want my hoodie.

Rushing through to the next thing, hollering about time to leave, washing the dishes while some are still eating, never staying until the end, that’s my thing. I’ve always attributed it to my hyperness but honesty now requires a deeper truth. I avoid people. I am not so comfortable in my skin that I stick around long. That whole being in the moment thing, again. Moments can last longer than I like. The example of my traveling companions was so powerful, so telling. Those moments are where the magic happens. Those moments are where you get the hugs. Those moments lead to M&M’s. I am trying to slow down, to offer that grace now that I am back home. I am trying to remember that our end city is set, our reservations for the night made. We get to have an adventure each day if we chose.

Swaying Freely

On By LisaIn Faith, PlumLeave a comment

I went to the mountains seeking majesty. I found humility instead. Surrounded by the greatness of God I saw how small and I insignificant I am. Gazing down the canyons at cars that look like my Plum’s toys, I lost my sense of importance. My troubles evaporated with the morning fog. I found majesty and myself.

My Plum is an avid rock collector, his window sill is lined with specimens from his travels. He has more stored under his bed, where the real treasures are. How he determines which to take is beyond me, yet we never go anywhere without a new one sliding into my purse ready to join his collection at home. Along this trip, I have watched for rocks that might delight my boy, special sizes, shapes, indications of where I have been. Being on the motorcycle I have to be choosy.

I found some pieces of the mountain that show all the colors, determined to bring back exactly what I was seeing. As I look at the vastness of these rocks raising up to the heavens, it is easy to see one big rock. The tiny slivers I have stored away remind me that God made those mountains out of billions of slivers, billions of colors joined together to create the majestic scene before me.  The red canyon isn’t really just red, but made up of glory in the shape of wildflowers, sage brush, multicolored rock. I am humbled and yet encouraged that my place in this world is necessary to fill out the palette. What if all the tiny greens were removed? The richness would be gone.

I am no more significant than the tiny flower growing on the hillside but God planted that flower. God planted me as well. I hope to embrace my color, to shed my fear of standing up and swaying in the breeze. I found my majesty. I am humbled. I am emboldened.

Ready to Go

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

Sitting on my brother and sister-in-law’s deck, looking at the moon, the heavens for one last morning before we depart for our adventure, I am filled with anticipation. I wonder what the heavens will show me in each state we visit. I am prepared to be amazed at God’s majesty. I need some majesty about now.

I haven’t been blind to the small wonders around me. Life with a 5 year old who shares my love of nature ensures I get hourly doses of God’s creations. “Gran, You are going to delight in this,” is a common phase to pull me from the dishes to see an interesting spider or a newly discovered flower. We take our nature seriously, we inspect our bugs, we hold them,  learn the names of all that we find. We don’t kill things. My Plum looks daily at the plants growing in our little kitchen garden, ones he put in as seeds and knows God really did the work. I see the small miracles everywhere, I still have the eyes of a child to remind me. Yet life as an adult means I have weights and worries that sometimes cloud those eyes. I need some majesty.

I am leaving in just a couple of hours on the back of my brother’s Harley for a two-week trip to Colorado. This leap of faith looks a bit more like chaps and a helmet, sitting for hours, trusting, so much trusting. While my body must stay put, my mind can wander, wonder, absorb. I have much time for thinking, a rarity. I need this time alone to hear my God whisper and roar and show me big stuff. The empty places, carved out with hurt and disappointment, simmering anger and tension, have been cleaned, cauterized, the bleeding has stopped. I am aching now for a new thing. To be filled again with wonder, to feel so close to God nothing can separate us. I need to get to the mountains, to see the stars and the heavens, giving all of me to the One who is waiting.

I know I can find Him here, I am beyond blessed to find Him here. He is present in friends who reach out, in food delivered, walks taken with Janet. I know I carry Him with me because He carries me. Still, this trip is about more than a crazy adventure at age 52. In the going, I am also leaving behind my Chef. This is his time alone, time to find and reflect, to shout out his agony when no one can hear. Time for him to search his soul, find himself amidst the rubble. He is strong but has forgotten that. He is a child of God but is unsure what that means for him. He is worthy but hasn’t absorbed that fully. I will be praying fervently that his time alone sheds light on God’s grace, brings him into a deeper closer relationship as well. He will be responsible for the 5 year old while I am gone. He will have the choice to seek God in the small miracles around Him and delight in those. Sometimes a spider is just a spider, we have a choice. He needs the eyes of a child to begin filling up with the small joys around him while I am ready for majesty.

Please pray for our safety but more importantly, pray that our hearts are open to what God brings to us during this adventure. Flowers or mountains, God will be seen if we choose to look. The road may get rough but surely the view is worth it.

Finding a New Way

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

One of the bridges that connect our two communities was deemed unsafe. I have traveled that bridge for over 30 years, crossing from our side of town to the bigger city section for real shopping, dining, employment and most importantly, usually to collect my Plum. Our side holds the university and ethnic dining, a true bedroom community, relying on the larger city for most of our needs.  Of course the university is one of the major employers in the area so just as many on the other side travel the bridges to come this way. Three bridges unite us, hold us without complaint, as we travel back and forth carrying groceries, families, pets to the vet. Until one was no longer safe.

Our state department of transportation took over the task of fixing this bridge. We learned it had already been fixed before but was sinking into the river, the supports weren’t holding. The bridge was closed, work began. Watching this effort from afar, the slow progress fascinating if not a bit unnerving. I remember stories of bridges that have collapsed, terrible events where lives were lost just in the traveling of a road always trusted. I had always counted on this bridge, the one they were dismantling. The one now left with pieces of concrete, no barriers.  Without thought I drove those I love most daily onto this span, trusting we would never fall, believing that someone who knows more than me would surely keep us safe. I am guessing the good people in Minneapolis believed the same until that horrible day in 2007 when 13 were killed, another 145 injured when their trust collapsed. Work began, our bridge was taken apart, piece by piece. Finally there was little left to do but explode what was left, completely destroy any remnants. We saw footage of this history-making event, I was sickened by the loss even as I knew it was necessary. Clouds of dust filled the air, particles of our past. Clearing out the old was complete, the true rebuilding could begin.

For months traffic has been a nightmare, groaning and anger fill conversations and letters to the editor. Appointments are missed, being late is almost expected. I wonder once the bridge is reopened, how long before it is taken for granted again. How short will our memories of this season of suffering, of inconvenience be? Have we stopped to pray for the men and women creating our new roadway, our new path? Our impatience to get where we want clouds our memories of all who have helped pave our way.

The thing about not using this bridge though is that I have discovered some new routes. I drive alternate roads, trickier less direct streets only to find areas of town I had forgotten existed or never seen. Beautiful neighborhoods, a donut shop, street art. I am seeing the other side of town, forced into a new perspective. Shaken out of my routine, exploring my city with fresh, attentive eyes.

We have had some bridges explode in our life these last couple of years. Bridges that we kept patching and adding supports but really were deemed unsafe. We cannot continue to travel over the same roads, ignoring the realities of addiction, of emotional abuse, of the conflict between faith and work.  We have grown weary with the blasting of our bridges. Even though we knew the dangers, these were our bridges, we kept taking the risks. Explode they have, though, dust clouds of our lives covering us, choking us, until it settles at our feet. Some days we sit in the ashes like Job, as Pastor Chris reminded us, other days I get out the hose and wash it all away. I am most impatient often for the rebuilding, I seek out alternative routes that lead me not to my expected destination but somewhere new. During our rebuilding we are blessed to be discovering some new routes, new communities of friends who are supporting us as surely as the trusses going up across the river. The phone calls, emails, texts build us up each day as we construct our new lives. We stop often and pray for those who are building these bridges for us, bridges that may lead us to different places, with new perspectives. Once a new donut shop is discovered, it really cannot be dismissed just because a faster route is completed, our deepened faith cannot be shrugged off once all the pieces are realigned. We are changed, we understand the risks, the dangers of relying on just one path. We recognize it is foolish to forget the bridge isn’t really what holds us up, ever.

One incredible blessing when we received our great shock two weeks ago (has it been three now?) has been the texts and phone calls from our son. This young man, filled with anger and alcohol, who left our home to establish his own, setting fire to all behind him. The thing about love between mothers and sons is, at least my Arrow and I, when life hits us hard, we come back together. He was horrified at the news, his indignation at the unjustness once again joined with ours rather than against us. Over these weeks he has reached out, shown concern, offered assistance. I volunteered his totes full of household goods, he accepted. We are constructing our bridge, maybe a suspension one, but we are both willing to cross it with hearts ready for gentle steps toward a new relationship. It will never be the old one, that is good. It wasn’t safe for any of us to travel.

I keep waiting for the same reaching out from my daughter, the silence all the more painful in this time of family crisis. I have extended every invitation I know to make that connection again, I can’t find a way to her. My impatience to reach her must sound to the heavens like all the commuters groans during rush hour, for all these months of reconstruction. I have been groaning for too long now. God is in charge of this bridge, like all of them. I am not meant to cross just yet, it is still unsafe.  I imagine He thinks much work remains on my side, even after the explosion. Surely the work on her side is great as well. In the meantime, I mourn the loss of that easy route but celebrate our discoveries.  We are blessed, we found a new donut shop, we have friends to help us cross the waters. We will travel safely, slowly, securely again one day. Today we have some rebuilding to do.

We Made Room For God

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

I hate clutter. I abhor piles of papers, countertops with anything more than the necessities. I get anxious when beds are unmade, when dishes sit too long in the sink. I control my world by keeping stuff where it goes. I can frequently be heard telling the family, “Trash goes in the trashcan.” I follow the rule of least times touching something, thus it is easier to put it away rather than create another pile. Some in this household may whisper that I can be a little hard to live with, like when I have thrown away wallets and plane tickets, picked up a glass someone was still drinking from. I get that I go overboard some days, days when my world is feeling unsettled and I need to be in charge. At one point when I was particularly stressed, all of my closets were cleaned and the attic held totes with a color coded system. While my inner demons battled, I maintained completed control over my territory.

My Chef has a different system. He drinks from a cup, sets it down, wanders away, the cup is lost to him for days. He is never really finished with the newspaper. Tools and gloves and buckets, parts of projects sit where they were last used, ready for the next time he gets a chance to begin again. It may be months, it may be never. He hasn’t seen the top of his dresser for 15 years. Clearly his system drives me insane.

Thus we began to clean the garage. The dumping ground of all the items that I don’t want in the house. The place where totes for kids go, kids who were moving out and needed dishes and silverware but then left without the positive transition, left without the totes. The garage holds all the items for Goodwill, bags of clothing and outgrown toys. Lamps that don’t work or no long fit the decor, chairs and bar stools that are broken or just ugly. Cords, so many cords, for electronics we surely no longer own. Planters, jugs of weed killer, gallons of paint all found their way onto the garage floor in the haphazard system that worked for no-one, the garage we all avoided except to open the door and add more discarded but not yet trash remnants of our lives. Until yesterday.

We faced the monster, we worked through our different systems. I determined everything was trash, my Chef found actual storage spots for the things he couldn’t part with. In the process though, we took a walk through our shared history. We found old pieces of tile from flooring makeovers, we found mugs from trips long ago. “Where was this door originally?” “Does Plum still fit into this chair?”  Old shirts commemorating high school sports and college associations reminded my Chef of better days. There were treasures to be found in that garage, we just had to dig deeply enough.

As the sun began to sink, our pile of trash grew, out trunks were full for the trip to Goodwill. Our garage was cleaner, organized, emptied of most of the unnecessary. My Chef  was tired, the good kind of tired that comes from work and tough decisions. With each item he placed in the trash bag, he let go of some weight. The burden of stuff, the yoke of clutter destroys his sense of control as well but the voices from childhood telling him to always keep the box, to save the papers get in the way. He is also used to having a staff clean up behind him, he is accustomed to being the leader, the boss, who directs others, not the guy who cleans up at the end.  It has been a really long time since he was that guy. Skills not used get rusty, like the broken hammer head we discovered in a puddle of water. Yesterday he got to be that guy, cleaning up his mess, getting honest about what to keep, what to discard. Maybe it wasn’t just about the garage. Throwing away pieces of the past is a leap of faith, making room for a tomorrow you can’t see yet. Empty boxes hold old promises, the stale air of what once was. Holding on so tightly to broken cords chains us to a place of fear, a state of worry. Letting go of all the stuff was letting God be in control, trusting God with our tomorrows. We made room, we cleaned up our mess, we got ready for our next phase.

We took our trip to Goodwill, came home and made a fire of the old doors and unneeded boxes. We drink wine and beer, celebrated our success and looked to the future. I expect an Olympic medal for our efforts, some sort of trophy or letter from the President.  Our garage can actually hold two cars. More importantly, my Chef is holding his head a little higher. A huge task completed, a job well done. When you have a broken heart, sometimes you just need a disastrous garage to help with the healing.  It was a good day.  If he starts to sink, no worries, I still have the attic. God surely wants some room there as well.

Grandma’s Time Out

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

When my Plum gets mad at his best friends, the dogs who follow his every step, he strikes out.  They get under foot, they trip him, nibble at his toes or ears, most times he giggles. Sometimes though if they have interrupted his progress, halted his mission, his anger takes over and the fists come out. No matter how many times his little butt has landed in the chair for some quiet reflection, this behavior continues. If I am close by, I step in the middle and he begins laughing as he tries to charge the mutts and I block, a new game begun. His anger evaporates as quickly as it came, my sweet boy back. Try as I might though, I can’t seem to quell that urge of his to do damage in the moment. This peace loving hippie grandma battles with the influence of testosterone, video games, and exuberant pups. After the anger comes the reconciliation, the best part where he kisses his boys, apologizes, invites them to play. The dogs are oblivious to the whole affair, their rough play with each other eliciting more wounds than he could ever. They enjoy his cuddles and make up time, ready for the next round of romping. The lesson is important still, one day he will be big enough to hurt someone in his path, he could do real damage if he strikes out at one who has blocked his way.

We talk about accountability. We wonder if the dogs did it on purpose or was it an accident.  We question what his role in the bang up could have been.  Was he trying to rush past? Had he been playing rough and then changed his mind, how were they to know he was done? He works through his part, his choices for next time. There is always a next time with three rowdy boys. I pray the repetition will take, that my sweet boy will learn to control his impulses and grow in personal accountability.  He is only 5. We have time. But if I am to be fully honest, the last 24 hours have brought my own battle with anger and the yearning to strike out. I have never been one for violence, I experience anger as depression generally, turned inward for my own suffering. Yet discovering the source of betrayal for my Chef has incensed me.  A fire is burning, my fists are clenched. I am ready to punch.

Watching my Chef hurt, seeing the pain, brings out my protectiveness, that mothering need I have.  I always go for the underdog. I believe in justice, still, even after too many times of being treated unfairly. This situation is absolutely wrong, I want to fight back, an eye for an eye. Forward progress has halted. Or has it?  I can’t deny the beauty of friends calling, supporting, reminding him of his worth. He is finding out that he has value not because of what he gave but who he is. What a gift! He could have missed that, never known that. Dark times are ahead yet those are the exact ones that bring us to the light.  The hours he is spending with his Plum, the giggles, the play, these are presents. While we may have been robbed of much, what remains is joy, hope, real community, time for self-discovery.

I have to unclench my fists. I remind myself several times a day, sometimes putting my larger butt in the chair for quiet reflection, that I don’t need to teach everyone about accountability. I don’t need to fight battles that God will oversee. I could do some real damage, create pain that no amount of cuddles would ease. That is not me. Praise God that my better angels are shouting in my ears, reminding me of the glory raining down on us, the true path laid out before us. I am not looking back, at least for the next five minutes. The temptation rises but I am not 5 years old. I have already learned this lesson. I don’t need to protect my Chef. He isn’t the underdog. He is a child of God, one created with purpose.

Today I’ll don some tie-dye, sing Kumbaya, use my fire for s’mores. Today I will remember that anger can hurt when we lash out at others. Today is a fresh chance for me to remember the lessons I teach and praise God for his tireless pursuit of a grandma who sometimes forgets she isn’t in charge everyone.

Donuts and Grace

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

It all started when I cupped my hand around my Lego creation, denying my Plum access to the choice block he decided he needed. We had been building for at least 45 minutes, competing to see who could create the best flying machine.  Word to the wise, Plum always wins because he poaches the best pieces from his competitors.  As an only child he gets away with this most of the time, especially with his grandma.  Sometimes I push back a little, make him tackle me a bit.  The ensuing tickle fest is just part of the routine. This time though something was different.  When I didn’t let him have access to the wing piece or the special gem, maybe the little piece of dynamite, I really can’t remember, he curled up in a ball and told me he hated me.  Twice.  I’m sure this must have happened with my own two, but not the words I wanted to hear from my grandson. Not after a really hard week. Not before coffee.

I pulled back a bit, told him that is a really big word that we don’t use in our home, that it hurts people. “Fine, I’m sorry.” But he wasn’t, not yet.  I left him to grandpa, went to get some air, distance, and the healer of all things, donuts, at the store close by. I was gone only five minutes, maybe ten. When I returned, thoughts cleared and feelings in check, perspective in place, I found a crumpled little boy destroyed by the idea that he had hurt me. We talked about love instead of hate. We remembered that nothing he could ever do would stop my love, that my love goes with him everywhere. He knew that. We talked about anger, words coming out of our mouth that we don’t mean, our responsibility to fix it. We talked about forgiveness. We hugged much, he cried on my lap. He offered me all of his Lego pieces. We chose to eat donuts instead.

Later as we entered his room, he told me, “This is where I said it.” The scar, the memories were fresh for him. I told him I had already thrown it all away, I didn’t know what he was talking about. The relief on his face as he realized we could do this, I would do this for him,  was surely worth any pain I had felt initially. He decided to throw it away too.  Once later in the day the memories must have snuck up on him as he told me he was still throwing it away, didn’t even remember anymore. I told him I didn’t either.

What if we all gave each other such grace? What if there was so much love and trust, knowing anger was rooted in hunger, tiredness, fear, that we could see beyond hurtful words to the child within? What if we agreed to a fresh start and just ate donuts together? Forgiveness is like that, throwing away what has come before, choosing not to remember the pain, focusing on the joys. This is a tough political season, many angry words are hurled, hate is spewed like it is a patriotic duty. Divisions are created between groups deciding whose lives matter. Violence is erupting with ever frequency throughout the world, close to home. Somehow those messages seeped into the language of a sweet five year old whose empathic nature knows no limits. Maybe it is just age appropriate. Maybe it is just the ugliness of the world around.  But in this home, we will practice grace, one incident at a time. We will forgive and forget, we will hug and eat donuts and share Lego.  Maybe that is enough to change the world, one child at a time. I will start with my Plum, anew each day, and keep the donuts handy.

A Song of Faith

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

My Plum attended Vacation Bible School for the first time this past week, finally old enough for the age requirement. He rejoiced each day in the activities, the singing, the discoveries. He made new friends, connected with adults in our congregation and grew even more comfortable in the space. On the last evening, all the children performed the songs for families, up on the stage, a most beautiful sight. 100 kids singing dancing making joyful noise to Jesus. My Plum was front and center and giving it all he had. For the first song.  The second song got a little less, the third saw his face close to crumpling into tears.  I approached a leader, asked them to maybe pull him back a bit, they did, he asked to come to my lap. His joyful noise was done.

We thought he was tired. We thought the long week of late nights had caught up with him. Later he told his mama that someone in the audience was looking at him weirdly, made him think they were laughing at him.  He lost his nerve. He forgot he was singing for Jesus and became self-conscious, remembered just that he was singing. He sought out the security of grandma’s lap, a place where he always knows exactly who he is.

On Sunday all the children gave a repeat performance and Plum said, “For the seventeenth time, no, I am not going up there.” Instead, he wanted to go up to the front, on the floor, again on my lap, to watch his friends. He wanted to be as close as he could without risking actually touching the stage, supporting his friends without giving up his security. We sat on the floor, his purple blankie on his lap, and rocked to the music. It was enough.

I am convinced that whoever was looking at him that evening, whoever he locked eyes with, meant no harm.  I feel sure there was no judgment. How could there be at this amazing child glorifying God? Yet his feelings, his perception say otherwise and were enough to shut him down. As we struggle through some hard times ahead and I look back at other challenging times, I empathize with his feelings of being judged. Feeling vulnerable, exposed, convinced strangers are thinking the worst. How many times was I wrong, how many times did I unnecessarily retreat? I didn’t trust God enough to stand up, sing my song. Finally, I have and it has changed my world. I found my voice and sing a new song each day, no longer repeating old verses, afraid of the light landing on me.

We are facing a crisis, a shifting foundation, a forced look at identity. My Chef feels truly  exposed, vulnerable. Yet we have responsibilities to our church family, tasks and committees that require our presence. God is so smart, to be sure we have to get back up on the stage still. This one though comes with that supportive lap, those loving arms that provide the security we desperately seek to keep singing.  Our voices mingle with friends who will carry ours as it gets weak, when we lose the words, forget the moves. We are so blessed to know we are covered in grace, we are loved, we are included and valued for who we are and not just what we do.  Even if we chose to sit out a song or two, I feel confident we will be sitting with friends. That is just who this church is. Plum will grow to know that in his years ahead of Vacation Bible School. He still sings the songs for us, the message is the same. He knows he wants to follow Jesus.  He knows Jesus gives him power, light in the darkness, hope, courage. I am content to have him on my lap, singing to me songs of faith. He tells me Jesus gives us direction. He is a very smart little 5 year old and I am choosing to believe him. We will not retreat this time, we will keep singing.

Protecting Plum

On By LisaIn Faith, PlumLeave a comment

We put the new playset on the far edge of the of the property, perfect viewing from the kitchen window as I do the dishes or the dining room table if we are finishing up dinner and the restless 5 year old has already left. The added advantage of that placement was supposed to be that it was out of reach of the dogs with their zapping collars. I envisioned kids swinging, climbing, sliding freely, laughter filling the air. Instead I hear non-stop barking as the Golden is frustrated that he can’t get close enough to his boy.

Our Golden has chosen this child, deemed it his job in life to protect him. I am slightly insulted, a clear unsatisfactory evaluation of my efforts to date. Late to the scene, like some rescuing hero swooping in, he gives me no credit for my own acts of grandmotherly heroism. I have said no to this child. I have put him to bed at a reasonable time, I give him fruit and vegetables. I even make him brush his teeth. Really, shouldn’t I have the hero’s cape? Instead I get pushed aside by a fluffy-eared tail wagger who snarls when I push the child on the swing, elicting loud giggles. My screams are for Plum’s benefit, I promise I am not hurting the child, rather, pretending he is about to kick me as he goes up to the moon.

Mack has chosen to ignore the warning beeps in his collar, wearing down the battery, in order to get closer.  He now sits right under or in front of the swing. If our Lab comes close just to bring me a ball to throw, Mack jumps up and runs him off. He has established that Plum is his territory, the rest of us need to go through him. He is driving me crazy, Plum is in heaven, singing his “Macky” song, rewarding the relationship. I have been cast aside, relegated to fetching snacks.

A daily battle reigns in my household: I crave order and quiet, I get noise and dirt. I want time to reflect, to consider. I get 4 clothing changes a day, poop scooping, constant wiping of mud from walls and floors and light switches and windows. One turned back and I find the sink has been filled with all the soap in the bottle and the fighter guys are getting a bath, while still fighting, splashing water all over the floor. More towels to sop up this mess and he disappears to create a new one. Maybe the dog is right to question my abilities.  Many days I just feel too old for this.

Then my Plum climbs onto my lap, snuggles under my robe, craving skin to skin contact. He tells me he loves me, he chatters away. Mack can’t get between us, nothing can. These moments come less and less, my Plum swings higher and higher. Accepting that I won’t always be around to protect him is a tough concept. Remembering that God sends fluffy-eared dogs and angels to nudge me a bit out of the way, to give my boy room to soar and others a chance to watch over, gives me peace. Maybe this dog is a gift to me as well, a chance to sit for a minute, while they explore, chase, race. I am thankful for all of it, knowing time will take the little boy away, turn him into an adolescent who has no desire to snuggle and tell his gran he loves her.  The dog will surely get all of the secrets then, the chatters and hugs. I will still fetch snacks. I will have hours and hours to reflect. I wonder though if the dog will ever stop barking?

Happy Everyday

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

“Happy Anniversary” he said to me when he got up, coffee in hand, joining Plum and I on the porch. My reply got lost in the dog’s delighted greeting of their master, as though they hadn’t slept by his side all night. Plum had the keys to Chef’s new car, ready to explore and take a ride. Our day began, as usual, with our relationship, 16 years of marriage, 4 years together before that, struggling to find a moment alone.

A quick kiss, a hug, then I headed to the shower, to get ready for work, finishing payroll then off to a meeting at church. I made it home in time for my Chef to race out the door for his day at work.  Another quick kiss, a hug, amidst the dogs and boy who clamored for my attention this time.

While Chef was working, in between snacks, water and mud play, spilled milk in the refrigerator, swinging my Plum up to the moon on his new playset, building ultimate Lego blaster machines, washing dogs and the boy, I worked on my gift to Chef.  Several months ago, when we had a rough talk, he mentioned that there were no pictures of us anymore around the house. Pictures of our adventures, pictures celebrating our times together. Among all the other things I took away that day, this comment really hit me. When had I removed all those? Why? Certainly I had pictures of our Plum up, and I knew I had removed pictures of our Stella, finally just unable to see her smiling face daily and still look forward.  Somewhere along the way, I had stopped rejoicing in us, in our shared history, our relationship.  Those pictures are reminders of how far we have come, of better days, of who we are. My gift to Chef for our anniversary was fixing this, amidst the chaos of our home.

I had great plans originally, Pinterest lured me in, plastering one whole wall with photos.  It looks amazing on my boards, I have saved several images.  I contacted Janet just to check some execution issues, given my history with Pinterest. She said no. There were longer pauses, some evaluative questions, a bit of thoughtful wondering. Really she was saying, you are crazy, get rid of Pinterest, you know this will end in disaster. Her gentle prodding in another direction led to my new plan, one way better suited to my talents and household. I dream big, she keeps my feet a bit closer to the ground, yet helps me reach out. The reworked idea turned out awesome.

After much battling with iPhoto, a trip to the Mac helper guys, I was able to access old pics, so many memories. I sent pictures off to be printed, worried I wouldn’t have enough to fill the huge poster frames I had purchased. So many times together, stored away, forgotten.  I could have filled an entire wall. My Chef was so right. As I tried to pare down what to include, I relived those times, my joy meter rising amidst the third change of clothes, the muddy tracks through my kitchen.

I am usually asleep when Chef gets home, this night I willed myself to stay up, in spite of disrupted sleep the night before with Plum who needed milk and comforting and wanted to chat at midnight. I met him at the door, got my greeting in after the pups and then led him through the gallery of our happy days.  He drank in each picture, he laughed, he delighted.  It was good.

Our hard talk brought me to a new place, a trusting place of listening to my Chef, to what he needs.  On this day of our anniversary, we looked back together.  We lived out our crazy schedule together.  Fortunately we had a weekend away just a few days ago and another coming up.  This day, the actual day, didn’t need to have a special dinner out.  It was filled with our real life, in pictures and hurried kisses.  Thank you Chef for reminding me to look at where we have been, who we are together. Happy Everyday Together, here’s to so many more.