Category: Plum

stories of life with a our beautiful grandson

LGBTQ, Jesus and Purple Blankets

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

With curiosity, with anxiety, I read John Pavlovitz’s piece about Christians Making Atheists only to find much truth and plenty to convict my Christian faith in his words. Jesus is my truest best love, the one I know at my core and brings me to every relationship, how could I not want others to experience that grace? I know full well the power of forgiveness, what happens when a church decides to allow a sinner to participate and to serve, the healing that begins when the refreshing waters of new life discussed in sermons are truly shared with those who thirst for a second chance. I am that person who has come alive which has allowed me to make space for others to do so as well, I say yes when asked, grateful to be included and able to use gifts long laying dormant, waiting for my church home to recognize that my offerings, like the widow’s, may be scant but came from the deepest of my soul and could be used for great good. My church I think is open to sinners and saints alike, I am proof. Yet even with the labels I do carry, there are many that find headlines currently that I don’t wear, that maybe make it somewhat easier to accept this sinner.

As a United Methodist congregation, we are facing the challenge of taking a stance regarding LGBTQ as described here.  Our pastor has asked our members to prayerfully begin considering how we are to act on this new information, the opportunity to stand up for our brothers and sisters who love who they love without our censorship. This is a no-brainer for me, I want to open our hearts and minds and doors to those who deserve the level of acceptance and grace that I have experienced. I want everyone to taste and see the deliciousness that I find every time I walk through the doors, the coming home where my brokenness is not hidden but celebrated. How could I keep this only to myself, how could I ever feel better than, above, superior to anyone, that my sin is not as bad? Regardless of where one falls on the “homosexuality is a sin” continuum, it is clear that by sitting on the throne of judgement, we are practicing exclusion and not practicing a walk with Jesus.

My Plum was gone for 2 1/2 weeks, a planned vacation that I raised up as a concern and a joy to my friends and fellow worshipors one Sunday. I asked that they surround his family as they travel and also Chef and I as we were left without the joy-bringer, the giggler who delights and enlivens us. Finally yesterday my little shadow was home and ready to accompany me on errands, a trip to church for several quick meetings and the gathering of extra food in the kitchen to deliver to local non-profits who could use the donations. After a full day of traveling and a late night, he came to me in the now famous picachu pajamas, a bit grubby and carrying his much loved wad of a blanket. As we walked from the car to the church doors, he began to question not his attire, he stands by that choice, but the security blanket he was clutching. I reminded him that our church cares more about our insides than our outsides, that they love us for who we are and not what we look like. I told him friends inside might ask about Purple Blankie but would never mock him. He was immediately at peace, he told me other people outside of church might make fun of him but not our friends at church. Two steps inside, we both met Jesus.

The office staff have a practice of gathering each morning at a set time to share their own joys and concerns and circling up for a moment of prayer. We arrived just at this time, just as all were visible through the big office window as we entered the building. What happened next was so sacred, was so beautiful, so holy that I want to gush with joy at my church. All my family spontaneously raised hands to wave at my boy, tears of celebration of his return met mine through the glass, they welcomed him like the prodigal son. He stood taller, he swaggered a bit, he answered quick questions, he felt loved. My dirty little boy in pajamas entered church and found acceptance and cheers and grace. I could barely speak, how does one talk when Jesus is walking among you?

I want John Pavlovitz to know that my little church out in the cornfield in Indiana is working hard to get it right. I want everyone to know we are so incrediably full of grace that a child who began life such as my Plum did, who has experienced hardship and trauma is being taught that he matters and he is taking that teaching with him everyday. We may have a more difficult challenge reaching some of our older folks who learned that the bible says no more often than yes, but we are striving everyday to undo some harm and find space for sinners and saints and lovers and grumpy people and for those who wear their pj’s during the day. We are all little children inside, carrying a security blanket or teddy bear, wondering if we will be met with love or judgement. Let us remember to cheer the return of all who enter, surely Jesus is waiting to join in the celebration.

 

 

Let the Clock Tick

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella3 Comments

The endless days of summer seem less so when divided up by vacations and ministries and separated into three month blocks and two are already behind us. School starts in just one more month, the rush for pencils and a new backpack, clothes that aren’t stained from mud fights and drips from ice cream cones, shoes to fit feet that grew while exposed to grass and sand and fresh air, it all speeds the clock on the last month until suddenly the noise and chaos are over and quiet has come again. I know from too many years what to expect, this last month is precious. The urgency with I will lay out paints on the porch, build fires in the back, take trips to the zoo and water fountains on campus, sure it is for him but also because I need to wring every last bit out of summer with this child before he becomes a first grader, taking more steps away from the baby I know.

Time is a cruel reminder of how little control I have as I mark my calendar, look at anniversaries and wonder about progress. I joked with a friend about how little patience I have, something I surely should have gained now at my age. Rather, I am throwing my hands up, this is now a registered character flaw I cannot fix, must manage and accept. I want everything now. I need resolution, dessert, to lose my extra weight, hotter coffee, a haircut, a nap, all now. Right as the need arises, my mind contorts in confusion when events don’t happen at my speed. Thus slowing down summer, keeping this child safely just a boy and not sending him ever out into a dangerous world of choices filled with drugs and sex and violence, I want it all to stop, an unusual speed setting for me. A contradiction, borne of too much knowledge, too much loss, heartache that steals sleep and brings unexpected tears, I just want us to play more. Then a friend posted about adopting her daughter and I was reminded again of who God is and who I am.

Without sharing too much, she talked about her desire for a child and waiting, waiting, all the while her daughter was being born far away and she would meet her years later. I know this family and the absolute joy in the mothering, the delight she takes in her children. She has talked freely about her agony during her times of infertility. Yet God had a bigger plan all along, her family brings smiles and laughter to our circle and inspires many others to consider the same road. What can I learn from her celebration yesterday? Is God any less aware of the desires of my heart? Isn’t it quite possible that what I am asking for is so small compared to what He is bringing to us?

Faithful waiting, living fully while the clock keeps ticking, continuing to do the next right thing, this is God’s ask of me. Trusting that one day I will write about joyous reconciliations, about bigger loves and wilder outcomes, that is believing that God is in control of the calendar, the world, my heart. So we will make our muddy messes on the front porch, have s’mores in the back, we will paint rocks and maybe some trees with abandon. School will start soon enough, the boy will continue to grow. God protects him more than I ever will be able to, He just wants me to love him today. My job is really quite easy when put that way. Let the clock tick, we have playing to do.

Savor

What I Want vs. What Is Right

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, PlumLeave a comment

I didn’t stay for the entire sermon, too many details and tasks in the kitchen beckoning me out of the sanctuary and into the kitchen. I was chomping at the bit, a luncheon for 40 and then dinner for around 300 to prepare. I was distracted but heard some of the words my pastor was sayings something about wanting to do good but getting tripped up. Yeah, yeah, I thought, that is me as I eased out of a side door and got busy laying out trays of meats, bowls of fruit. The week only got busier and I barely gave it a thought even though I vowed to myself to go back and listen online to the entire sermon. He may have been speaking directly to me as I snuck away, a warning that I was ignoring. Still the Word of God is not be denied and my bumbling through the days with less sleep and more activity caught up with me, my walls of emotional protection slipped and 3 days late, the message hit.

Busyness of meal planning and prep and directing kitchen volunteers and serving all the families who come to dinner before leaving their children at Vacation Bible School was distracting me from missing my Plum who is gone on a 2 1/2 week vacation with mama in an area that is so remote we cannot even speak regularly by phone. We haven’t been away from each other this long in years, not since I was the one gone and then fully occupied as well. It was creeping into my heart each day more and more how sad I was that he was missing this huge life altering event at our church, how deeply he loved it last year. He sang all the songs for weeks, he truly bonded to his friends and the other adults at church. That was the week the church fully became his family, his home. Now he was missing it. While knowing this time was good for him with his family, I wanted him at church too. When they had a good signal and we could truly catch up, I didn’t hear the voice of a child begging to come home to his Gran. Instead, this boy and his mama and sister are in wonderful hands, fishing, swimming, exploring, and bonding with each other in the most meaningful ways. This time will be looked back on as sacred in life of the family, I am sure. I hung up the phone and celebrated the good that was happening and still, STILL, I longed for him to be here at church. I want to do good and then I do wrong.

Flash forward to late in the evening as the director of this years craziness at VBS finally snuck into the kitchen for her plate of food we had set aside for her. I shared with her how much I missed having Plum there and how wonderful his vacation was turning out to be for his family. She said, he is having his own sanctuary. If my huge beast had knocked me to the ground again, I couldn’t have been shocked more. Exactly, yes. That one word preached to me, reminded me that my desires were getting in the way of the God who was handling it all, who sees the whole picture and was caring for the whole life of my sweet little boy. He may not learn the message this year with the other children that God is always with you but he is living it out. I would do well to remember that message myself.

I am not even getting into the Facebook memory from years ago that popped up where I was claiming pride because my son finally owned his stuff, showed humility and gratitude and was ready to accept his consequences. My heart ached as we are so far from that reality, addiction does that, steals our loved ones and turns them into hate-filled selfish blaming monsters. Then a friend who has walked and sobbed and only with the grace of God is still standing through times worse than ours, who is helping on our kitchen crew, with a twinkle in her eye told me her son came for dinner. My tears couldn’t be controlled, I celebrated with her, this tiny achievement for anyone else, something not many would even recognize. She and I know what it means: hope. Hope for him, for my son, for all those lost and not found yet.

So I left the sermon early because I was just too busy and God found me anyway, on a Wednesday when I needed to hear that HE is bigger and I am often my own worst enemy. I skipped the offering plate as well, so I offer this now: I am a willful child who keeps doing wrong, even for what I think are the right reasons. Still, I keep showing up and God lights the way. I give all of me, sometimes and most of me more of the time. He works with that and is sorting me out All Of The Time, even when I hang out in the kitchen. I suspect this week was about schooling Gran and not my Plum.  Well played, God, well played.

 

Romans 7:14-16 I can anticipate the response that is coming: “I know that all God’s commands are spiritual, but I’m not. Isn’t this also your experience?” Yes. I’m full of myself—after all, I’ve spent a long time in sin’s prison. What I don’t understand about myself is that I decide one way, but then I act another, doing things I absolutely despise. So if I can’t be trusted to figure out what is best for myself and then do it, it becomes obvious that God’s command is necessary.

17-20 But I need something more! For if I know the law but still can’t keep it, and if the power of sin within me keeps sabotaging my best intentions, I obviously need help! I realize that I don’t have what it takes. I can will it, but I can’t do it. I decide to do good, but I don’t really do it; I decide not to do bad, but then I do it anyway. My decisions, such as they are, don’t result in actions. Something has gone wrong deep within me and gets the better of me every time.

21-23 It happens so regularly that it’s predictable. The moment I decide to do good, sin is there to trip me up. I truly delight in God’s commands, but it’s pretty obvious that not all of me joins in that delight. Parts of me covertly rebel, and just when I least expect it, they take charge.

24 I’ve tried everything and nothing helps. I’m at the end of my rope. Is there no one who can do anything for me? Isn’t that the real question?

25 The answer, thank God, is that Jesus Christ can and does. He acted to set things right in this life of contradictions where I want to serve God with all my heart and mind, but am pulled by the influence of sin to do something totally different. The Message.

Thank you Eugene Peterson, for making the language accessible.

How I ended up in the ER

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef3 Comments

When things go wrong, horribly terribly awry, I can’t stop looking back at the steps that preceded the blow up. I seek the place where I should have gone left instead of right, where just one move could have changed the outcome. So it is that the last few days I have, when awake or as I have drifted off to sleep yet again, wondered how it is that I ended up in the ER so badly banged up.

The quick answer is that I should have said no to the purchase of these huge beasts. The decision almost 2 years ago has led to many queries like this but the joy Plum feels when he lays with his best buddy generally overrides any real desire to rid my home of these creatures. The better intervention would have been actual training for them, something neither Chef nor I have put much effort into, being more free-range parents when it comes to pets. That worked for smaller ones, gentler ones, beasts that didn’t weigh almost as much as me. They grew big too quickly for us to learn we had to adjust our parenting style, become more disciplined and even establish stricter boundaries. Thus we are left with exuberant beasts when anyone appears at our door, especially when Plum is dropped up.  We are trained instead, dogs go outside, Plum comes in and runs to the highest point in the kitchen, climbs up and awaits the delighted excited insane greeting of the beasts.  The barking and jumping only last a couple of minutes and then we all go back to our normal life.  On this fateful day we managed this step just fine.

Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed outside and talked with Mama for so long, extending the time between when the bests spotted the boy and when they actually got to sniff and lick and be petted by him. Apparently it was torture and their desire to see him amped up the adrenaline to levels I hadn’t anticipated. Beasts with super powers are dangerous. I know this now.  Maybe I should have had their treats in my hands, the ones I give to distract from the boy but maybe also to reward their settling behavior. Then I wouldn’t have needed to walk across the room in socks, along the concrete slab floor, to reach the box holding the next phase in the greeting process. Too much excitement, no traction in socks, yes, that could have been handled differently.

Still, I think it all comes down to Picachu pajamas and a bad case of flatulence. My plum held a movie night with his friends at Mama’s house and proudly wanted to tell me the story of clearing the room with his explosive little tush. He was still wearing the one piece zip up pj’s with the hood up, thick winter socks and batman slippers as he recounted the tale. He made sure Mama told it as well.  So we lingered out front as the dogs barked and waited and I wondered how a child could celebrate not that his mother had organized a group event, not the movie he watched, not the popcorn they shared, but what came out of his ass. How is it that this sweet child thinks this is the take-away?

After the dog knocked my legs completely out from under me, after I hit my elbow and tailbone straight onto the concrete floor and then whiplashed my head back as well with a crunch I cannot stop hearing, we ended up in the ER. I know the problem step was those pajamas and his gas attack because he told every nurse and attendant who came through the doors about what happened. Not that I got hurt but that he cleared his friends out of his toy room with his farts. He kept track of the compliments he received on his pajamas versus the ones on his slippers, 4-2, and felt no shame. Nothing. I couldn’t stay awake long enough to address his inappropriate sharing, first from the night before and now with God and everyone. Yes, even God or His representative. Because when our pastor showed up he got the story too.

I have shared before that I have some bodily function hang ups, that I have never felt comfortable using the word fart. My Plum doesn’t feel confined in this way. As I lay on the gurney and hurt like hell everywhere, drifting in and out of sleep, I heard my Pastor come in and ask about what happened. Plum told the most important steps in the chain and I suddenly burst out laughing, clear evidence of traumatic brain injury. My sweet pastor held a conversation with my 6 year old grandson in a triage room about his toots and how proud he was of running his friends out. Right then is when I should have said yes instead of no to the narcotics offered. Another wrong step, clearly.

Nothing is broken, a concussion that will surely heal in time and pajamas that have been removed from the child… yet I am left with the reality that vulnerability just happens. I cannot control all the moving parts and keep up appearances, keep my feet firmly on the ground and always censor the child. If there is ever a time to accept all those prayers coming my way it is now. Prayers for healing yes, but prayers also to be able to face all those who have heard about Picachu pajamas and the commotion that came out of my little Plum.

When my head stops hurting and he returns from his vacation with Mama, I plan to have a serious talk about bodily functions and appropriate venues for discussion. As he loves to tell his favorite beast, “C’mon, now, we are better than that.”  I think I can intervene right there, break the chain of wrong moves. I may not prevent another disaster but at least I can save you all from Plum proudly recounting his story. One step at a time.

Snack

My Cats are Preaching the Gospel

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef1 Comment

Even as I reached for paper towel to pick up the carcass, I knew I should first take a picture. The need to document this death and share with others my horror was great yet the need to remove it all was greater. My phone stayed in my pocket, the crime scene clean up began. First I had to remove the very large robin, I didn’t realize they are so big but holding one up close, in my hands, I was alarmed at the size. The balcony off of my bedroom where I sneak away for a few moments of secluded time, the place my beasts cannot access and my Plum forgets often to look and Chef rarely goes, has one of those cat doors for our two felines who only come home in summer to eat and hide from a storm. And apparently to bring the trophy in from a battle.

I have read that cats bring their kills to owners as a present and also to alert them that the food is not as plentiful as the cat would wish. Knowing I keep food available at all times, I am assuming these dead things keep appearing as gifts to me, ghastly horrible tokens of my furry pet’s affections. As I mop up blood and pull feathers from the cracks of the wood flooring, it does no good to wish they didn’t love me this much or in this way. We are loved how we are loved. Even more than that, I know I have given such terrible gifts to those I love.  Never having delivered a dead rodent or bird or frog, still I know my love is not always translated well, the message I am sending is often not the one received. Many times, I have made a mess of things, leaving the feathers of hope and the blood of trust for someone else to clean up as I sauntered away, sure that love is secure, only to find later that they grabbed their own roll of paper towel and began removing my love from their lives. How can we learn to see the gift given and not the chore it entails? How can we see the joy in the offering and not respond with horror at the sacrifice at our feet? We are loved how we are loved.

The robin made it to the trash bins without the larger beasts intervening, the floor was scrubbed of all the evidence and no feathers could be found. Still, the image of the gift lasts. A bird died for me yesterday, gave up its life so that I might have joy and feel loved. I think I know another story like that. As gruesome as it sounds, I might just have little disciple cats who are teaching me the Gospel again and again, reminding me that there is One who already died for me and has forgiven me. The trick to saving all the birds around my yard may just be for me to deeply accept that message, to understand the full bounty of grace awaiting me. I may never be forgiven by everyone but I am forgiven by the One. I will never be loved by everyone but I am loved by the One. Accepting the hope that comes with each new day may just be life saving for the critters in my yard.

As disgruntled and disgusted as I am by the death and clean up of the bird, I know it was a gift meant for me. I wonder who else offers their best for me and I miss it, the package not quite to my liking. Plum used to pick the flowers I had planted to adorn our yard and in sweaty dirty toddler hands, offer them up to me as a token of his love. So proudly he lifted his gift of bent and broken stems, petals missing, death now imminent for the life I had created. I was in love. I saw beyond the gift into his heart. That one is easy but what about the cranky older man at church who offers a bit of advice on keeping a child quiet during a service? The woman who always washes the dishes after an event but rarely interacts with anyone? What of the congregant who talks too much, forgets to listen, the one you often begin to back away from as you see her approaching? The quiet child who doesn’t pick flowers or act up in church, but reads silently in the corner and begs to be invisible, what is this child offering to us? How do we find the gifts and the love being offered in the midst of the blood and ick and feathers and smelliness and complexity of receiving more than we want or ever asked for? That is where the love really is, in the mess. In the offering of our truest dirtiest selves, when we give what we have, whether it be our skill at capturing a bird or speaking truths or drying the plates.

Friends, I am on the look out for love today. I am on a mission to see the ugly terrible gifts that others are trying to give me, reminders that not everything comes wrapped in bows or shiny paper. Love is hard to see, true sacrifice looks like taking time to hear beyond the words, into the message. The fact is our Savior died, an excruciating horrible death and I am still learning to accept that gift. Like any new skill, it takes practice, repetition, conscious effort. Before I can fully accept His love and grace, I must first begin to accept that very same offering of those around me. I wonder if you have room in your heart today for the terrible gifts that I bring as well? Our loves and graces just might save  the world. Please God let me learn this before my disciple cats feel the need for another sermon.

July 4th Deals

Blessings Faith and Responsibility

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef2 Comments

Carrying the remains of the popcorn, two drinks, the blanket we rightly thought was necessary given air conditioning that is always a bit too high when wearing shorts, and holding my Plum’s hand as we crossed the street away from the movie theater and the matinee we watched during a rainy morning, I distractedly dug into my purse for the car keys. Years ago my daughter attached a lanyard so that wherever I reached within the dark confines of the big bags I prefer I would be sure to snag a bit of the keys. But this time, digging, searching, reaching, I was coming up empty. That sick feeling of knowing I had locked the keys in the car was just beginning as we reached it, I hadn’t even looked inside the windows where I usually (yes, I have done this often) find the keys on the seat mocking me. Instead, I found my keys waiting on the ground, right next to the car. In the parking lot of the movie theater. Where many people pass. My car with my laptop sitting on the front seat. Is there a more inviting scene for a thief? Yet two hours after I dropped them, my car and laptop and keys waited safely for our return. Plum stated quite matter of factly as he climbed into his car seat, “Well Gran, you worship God so He protects You.”

The excuses of stowing the blanket, arranging the drinks, securing the bucket of popcorn gave me time to consider my answer. The easy one is yes, yes aren’t we blessed. Maybe even a reminder that angels watch out for fools like me. Still I know that had I come back and the car had been gone through my own negligence, my God would not have failed to protect me. Is Plum too young to begin understanding that the God we are teaching him to trust and love doesn’t prevent bad things from happening? He believes in Santa Claus and we are awaiting the first visit from the Tooth Fairy even as we read about the magical exploits of another little boy and his friends. His pure and innocent and immediate trust, his FAITH, felt too sacred to destroy in that moment and yet gave me pause. How do we teach free will and personal responsibility that intersects with knowing a God from whom all good things come? My quick answer was yes we are blessed and gran wasn’t careful and also grandpa is going to kill me. All quite true but not enough. Something was calling me to dig deeper.

His friend arrived on my porch without him, announcing she was his slave and needed to retrieve something for him, take some toy back to the play site down the street. I wanted to race upstairs and grab one of my t-shirts from the Women’s March and throw it over her head, pull it onto her body before sending her on her way but instead just sent her back with the admonishment that she is no slave for any man. I may have frightened her with my ardor, she clearly preferred her master to the one who was freeing her. Later as they played together at our house, the slave play began again as my sweet kind wonderful little grandson ordered her to come here, go there, get this and she complied. Child’s play maybe but as damaging in my mind as if he were hitting her, as if she were calling him stupid or breaking his toys. I again said no slave play but I couldn’t figure out how to put it in terms that 6 and 7 year olds would care about, would understand.

What I am sure of is that we are entering the years where concepts matter, where teaching the “whys” is now our job. All of the easy stuff is done, he can walk and talk and cut his own food. More and more he is interacting with others who will help shape his future, the days of establishing his foundation are running out. Getting it right the first time because often the second time only comes up years later or so subtly with a tween or teenager that we miss the real opportunity. Right now things are still clear, the questions he asks are to me, the play still happens in front of me, he still listens for my answers and expects his friends to as well. This is the time for impact, even as I thought we were entering a freer time, I realize now our job went from physical demands to the truly tougher mental game.

During bath, when he is trapped and most receptive, I talked to him about boys and power and the almost first female president and the slaves in the bible. I reminded him of all the women in his life who love and nurture him and work twice as hard to have any real power. We talked about blessings and protection and our job to be blessings to others and how bad things happen because we aren’t careful, like when we get so distracted racing in to the movie on time that we drop our keys. Is God still God on a bad day? Is God still God to the slaves or only the free?

My charming little blue-eyed boy at first tried to hedge and say they took turns being slaves but then admitted he had never been anything but the master. He knows this little girl will do anything he asks and he is learning about his charisma. His father has that strong streak as well and hasn’t always used it for the Kingdom. I think I just thought he would, I don’t remember telling him outright how he could hurt women if he didn’t.  Our God of second chances who does send angels to guard car keys left on the pavement also gives us an opportunity to get it right sometimes. Plum and I are learning about faith and personal responsibility together. Only time will tell how right we get it, but God will still be God and with each sunrise we get another chance to get it right.

As he drifted off to sleep, he asked me why girls only have boy’s last names. Why can’t boys take girl’s names too. Yes, my sweet, I said, that is an excellent question. Let’s talk about that tomorrow. With that his breathing became regular and I knew I had laid another brick in his foundation. God is still God and sends the angels to protect and guide us as we take responsibility for our choices. I will be calling on those angels when  I have to admit to Chef that I almost allowed the car to be stolen.

 

She Told Me the Truth

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum4 Comments

Over and over I was eviscerated by the little girl across the street. I thought she was just precocious, quite intelligent and maybe lacking the social graces that tell you not to point out to your elders when they look foolish. I gave her many opportunities to practice this skill, she continued her ways nevertheless. She was never completely rude merely pointed out the obvious in the midst of some drama that was generally preventable, exactly what you want to hear when chasing a dog through the neighborhood in your nightgown, say. Finally though she grew older and busier and has left me alone. Then yesterday happened, a new little girl entered my orbit who pointed out that I was wearing the same clothes as the day before.

This girl lives in a home where food is not always certain, I feed her every time I feed Plum. Her clothes are often a bit raggedy and her hair is always tangled. Still she smiles and giggles unceasingly, she savors joy like the huge bubbles we create together on the front lawn. So why was she criticizing me? Or was she? Once my defensiveness settled and I gave her back her popsicle (the one I angrily snatched away in my mind) I knew first that she was right and also that even though she didn’t know my whole story of a short night and a struggle to get a shower and that she was holding up my day because Plum wanted to ride bikes with her and I couldn’t leave them out on the street alone… well, I knew she is a truth teller. Just like the other little girl, she is a truth teller.

At some point, girls stop telling the truth each other, they begin to hedge on the question, “Does this make me look fat?” What these two little girls lack maybe in finesse, they cannot be faulted in their honesty. I hope they hold on to the ability to share truths with other women as they age. I am blessed with a couple of friends who maybe were these little girls, friends who tell me with honesty when I have messed up or stepped outside the boundaries. I wish I could say I respond more appropriately than trying to snatch popsicles back, my defensiveness crosses ages and I don’t hear feedback well. In fact, it often takes me a good amount of time to let it soak in, to allow the truth of the message to reach the real part of me. The stronger my relationship with the teller though, the less time it generally takes. Some truths though are still rumbling around, searching for a home, I hear the words and work to separate my emotion in the hearing to get to the glorious nugget that is meant only for me. Owning those nuggets means getting truly comfortable shedding another layer of protection I thought I had, the part that kept folks at bay. Can others really see me that clearly? Like the proverbial ostrich, if I keep my head buried, maybe we can both ignore just how naked and exposed I am.

One truth teller told me that writing about my political views was hurting people, that it had hurt her. Thousands of justifications rose up in me like the activist I am, I was prepared to battle and protest and yet the word hurt was slowing me down. This conversation has been bugging me for a while, a time spent trying to connect what I feel so strongly in my soul that goes in seemingly divergent directions. Attending the writing conference, I heard a seminar speaker tell me the same truth and I sank lower in my chair. It wasn’t that I needed another voice to say it for it to be true, more that my soul had been readied during a week of worship and gentle prodding to hear it again.

To this end, I am prepared to make a promise. I will no longer write on this blog about my political leanings, you needn’t fear that one day you will open it and find an angry rant about anything more divisive than our beasts or where the laundry goes. I know this blog is not the format for my activism or protests about anything other than sticky fingers on my keyboard. Will you give me another chance to seek the truth and share the truth as I see it and to share along the way when truth tellers find me? I promise not to break your trust.

Note of caution, do not read my twitter account, a girl has to have an outlet. I may have something in common with the little girls of my neighborhood after all. Shall we all seek some truth today, how ever small? Dare we listen to those who bravely tell us our clothes don’t match or we have a bit of spinach on our teeth or we are screwing up our marriage or we are not being kind to our children or our car is a mess? Listening to each other might just be the most radical activism of our day.

By the way, I love your smile and am so grateful you stopped by. That is the truth.

Meddle
Commit

Our Deepest Desires

On By LisaIn Faith, PlumLeave a comment

He rises early, about two cups of coffee after me, trying to sneak into my office but the guns, blankets and other necessary props he selects along before moving to the stairs falling, crashing and excited tails of beasts hitting the walls alert me that my quiet time is over. I keep working as if I have heard nothing, holding on to the last moments before breakfast and transformers and endless chatter propel me into grandma time. His sleepy body finds me, edges closer until he is on my lap, scooting my chair way from the desk the computer all the things that separate him from me. Wrapped in a blanket, he snuggles for a moment as I breathe in the scent of his dreams and he cranes to read the words on my laptop. My tiny office now filled with two large dogs and a boy who is moving every day away from the baby who once only filled my arms.

The first day of summer, the longest day of the year, was truly too long for him. Battling his inner clock, he wants to stay up as late as the other kids he hears playing while he takes a bath, while we are reading another chapter of Harry Potter, while he drifts of to sleep. Those children are no where to be found in those early hours each morning after he wakes, he listens instead to the birds as we refill the feeders and seek out the names of each one that flies through our trees. He collects mulberries from the tree beside the house, purple stained hands evidence of his snacking between meals. I am his early morning playmate, while the others sleep. But last night I let him stay up to catch the fireflies, the bugs of summer he has been anticipating like the last day of school.

We noticed them at least two hours before dusk, before they began to light up as they flew around the low branches and under the bushes. Rejoicing, I thought our early bedtime was secured, I watched as he caught and released, only after a chat with each one. He thanked the bug for letting him catch it, he promised to be gentle, he sent it back out into the wilderness. But even with all of his kindness, they didn’t light up. We found popsicles, a large old blanket for the porch, we began to read our nightly chapter, we discovered with Harry a mirror that shows your deepest desires. I knew mine at that moment was a child in bed, a glass of wine and another chapter to read in my own book. His was finding the ability to stay awake just awhile longer.

Those other kids, the one who stay up until the sky begins to darken, rode bikes to our yard, bringing their noise and energy and disrupting our snuggling. His swagger was back, he stopped cuddling with me, fueled by sugared icy treats, his goal to find the lightening bugs was restored. Soon the jar was filled as the bugs gave into nature, an entire family of bugs glowing within sweaty hands and crawling away only to be nabbed again by children who named them all “Carl.” Catch 10 more Carls, I said, and then we are going in for the night. Children who can read and add and ride their own bikes no longer can count to 10, another 30 minutes before we reach the magic number as I lazily watch them race across the yard, jump to get the ones just out of reach, all using the last bit of energy of spring to usher in summer.

Our longest day is over, he is sleeping late today. More and more I know he will learn to sleep in and care not to snuggle with me in the early morns. Grandmas know how quickly one moves from catching fireflies to lighting up our own nights, from rising early  and grabbing toys along the way to sleeping until noon and secreting away our most prized treasures. The seasons come whether we celebrate them or even notice. Timing is everything. As he sneaks down the stairs carrying leftover visions from sleep and the beginning ideas of adventures for the day, I type one more sentence and thank God for the interruption, the true desire of my heart, this child who still climbs onto my lap.

Fathering Day

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

As a woman, I have vast experience with mothering and childcare and babies and nurturing. I get when to dip in and when to butt out, even though my history is littered with mistakes on both of those accounts, I still basically understand the role of mother. My own mom and I were close and distant and conflicted and loving and generally a somewhat normal mother-daughter team. We weathered horrors and we sought shelter when we became those horrors. Through it all I either learned to do what she did or eradicate her behaviors from my repertoire. Alternatively, the “dad thing” has really always been a mystery to me.

Given the abuse at the hands of my father, I learned not to trust men, not to become vulnerable with males. Is it any wonder that when my children appeared I protected them from the danger in our own home, their father? But what if he wasn’t dangerous? I couldn’t comprehend the difference even though intellectually I knew he was never the monster that my own father was. Later after a divorce and remarriage, I was even more unable or unwilling to make room for Chef to have free rein with my most cherished gifts. Excluded from decision making, from special conversations, allowed in but only to the edges, I didn’t nurture that relationship, build in true dad trust. It is often only in the looking back that we can really see, isn’t it?

My faith walk has followed the same rocky stumbling path, how much easier would it have been to trust a God who was referred to as “Mother?” A Father God who loved and forgave and nurtured, was and probably is a bit beyond my comprehension, the language at the beginning of the sentence clouding all that comes after. The wonderful book by William P. Young, “The Shack” while critiqued by many, opened my eyes to choosing the form that God will take in order to reach me, to not frighten me. A God that would become a woman to draw me close and gain my trust, a mama God. I found my way in to the beginning of relationship. Harder yet though to trust the earthly men who cross my path, the one who lives in my home. I see that God is offering me opportunities to take what I have learned about mama God and offer up some grace to the man I have condemned wrongly unwittingly merely because of his gender.

The children are long gone, I cannot re-parent them, no do-overs will be forthcoming. Yet a special little boy appears in our home about every other day, has toys and a bed and clothes and a full life within these walls. I have another chance with this child to enforce listening to Chef, to follow what grandpa says. I have more chances to ask questions myself and to include him in the decision making. I have been given the grace to try out some trust and see if the horrors of childhood will be repeated or if that is where they will stay, just memories. Fully knowing that Plum requires no protection from Chef, I watch their relationship and know that I robbed my children of this gift. Plum leans on gramps, he lays on him, he has to be touching him all the time. They battle and laugh and learn and Chef pushes him to keep going when he wants to stop too easily. Chef has been the father to this child when no one else was showing up for the job. His performance has been outstanding.  As mama has taken over any need for my own mothering with this child and I am more and more just gran, I know that plum and Chef  will always have that deeper connection.

Father’s Day rolls around each year with the duty to honor those who have parented us. With each passing year I am better able to honor my own Father, who has not given up on me and is teaching me to honor the father in my midst. I might still have a shaky image of God as masculine, not entirely female either, sexually ambiguous is currently working for me. Progress, maybe, but the real growth is the trusting, the leaning. Like my Plum at bedtime when he wants his gramps to snuggle and I walk out of the room with confidence, we are all getting closer. Happy Father’s day to the One who lets me lean in, get close, who tells me not to quit. Happy Father’s day to the man who lives this out with our Plum. You make a great dad.

Lucky

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum2 Comments

Bringing the two clovers like trophies, I thought he would celebrate how wonderful, how amazing I am. It is difficult to impress him these days, this child who prefers back-flipping on the trampoline and concocting ever more intricate battles with powers that always overcome mine. Impressing a 6 year old who is racing into boyhood and has little time to notice nature with me or wonder about the relationship between vinegar and baking soda is quickly becoming beyond my reach. Thus the two 4-leaf clovers I spotted on the way down the hill, a particular gift of mine, this finding of luck in the midst of grass, surely I thought, surely, this will bring wonderment back onto his face. With no shame I admit I wanted him to for even just that moment between bounces and flips to think I had done something special.

He stopped long enough to look at one, rejected them at first and then took only one as if we were going to battle the clovers, my God why does everything have to be your guy against my guy these days? He asked if they really bring good luck. Hedging a bit, still holding out hope for my superior ranking in his eyes, I blathered on about how lucky it is to find them and that we will watch to see how our day goes. Never satisfied with my first answer, with my blathering, he asked how can they bring good luck, what about God? My instinct to grab my special clover back, push him on his smart little bottom for a “playful” bounce and retreat back onto the porch must have come from just too many skirmishes where I lose to his higher powered bot. Really, he wanted to bring God into my moment of cool? Mic dropped by a 6 year old.

His clover was tossed to the edge of the trampoline, the leaves curling drying in the sun. He already knew that our specialness doesn’t come from how many leaves we have or how high we can jump or really which powers we create in the battle. It all always comes back to God. I brought him a gift to show him how important I still was, looking for affirmation that I fit into his expanding world, he gave it to me, as unexpectedly and lasting as only a child who carries his faith more firmly than the treasured rocks that always fill his pockets or the blanket he clutches as he drifts off to sleep. My worth is not bound in my ability to spot what is unique in a clover pile, if I never find another 4 leafer, if I never find a means to impress this child with Pinterest science experiments, the work is already complete. How is it that I cannot remember this but go looking for luck in the grass?

Later as he curled up under blankets next to me, indulging in screen time racing monster trucks and whooping with each bashing and crashing, he took a moment away just long enough to announce, “Gran, you are so nice.” I hadn’t brought him anything, I wasn’t doing anything. Nice wasn’t the descriptor I had been aiming for but when I received this gift, I knew I had my trophy. My moment in the sun had arrived, empty-handed and offering only me, this child took notice and affirmed that I was enough. Not flashy or carrying extras to make me stand out, I was just enough right there on the couch with him.I want to share the messages of God to this child, instead he more often speaks them to me: “Stop trying so hard, I already see you. ”

In the end, my day was lucky, the kind of luck that comes when your faith is firmly rooted in the One who made the clovers and the One who whispers in the voice of little boys. One day those reminders that I am enough may sink in so deeply that I will stop striving for affirmation or trophies or winning with extra powers. Until that day, I am lucky enough to have this child around to remind me. “Yes, Plum, God made the clovers. Our blessings come from Him. Isn’t that nice?”