Category: Plum

stories of life with a our beautiful grandson

Fresh Start

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

It was one of those days that tried so hard to be right but kept being wrong anyway. I was contentedly drinking my coffee chatting with Chef as the beasts sweetly barked in my ear to go outside. For the 11 millionth time I rose to let them out and go sit in the chilly spring sun to supervise my runaway horrible rotten beast as Chef asked again how much the fence was going to cost. With the sinking gut clench that forewarned his buyers remorse was coming, I pointed him in the direction of the folder holding the quote. He began to research alternatives to the fence man who was due to come in just 3 days. Three more days until my dog drama was over and Chef wanted to reevaluate the project, maybe put the fence in himself when he had time (never). The weather inside our home became chilly with storm clouds threatening. The dog decided to defecate in the neighbor’s yard. I looked for a frying pan to gently nudge Chef back into the project. It wasn’t even 9 am.

The church men’s group was scheduled to do a grounds project, Chef asked if I could make some lunch for them. I preferred to stay in my jammies until time for the fancy dinner later in the evening but recognized that was pretty selfish. Also Chef may have a frying pan of his own. I got dressed, went to the store, went to the church, started lunch, only to get a text from Chef  about 15 minutes in saying actually they were done and leaving. Now if you are thinking that I killed my wonderful Chef you would be wrong. He was taking me to a black tie dinner later so I had to keep him alive long enough to wear my fancy dress and have delightful wine. But you would be correct in guessing that I stood in the very church where I worship each week and committed the sin of considering harming him. Remember Jimmy Carter’s honesty when he said adultery is even allowing his thoughts to stray? I am convicted of bad stuff in my church kitchen. Still, I unmade lunch, did the dishes and returned home to my poor beasts who had been cooped up unnecessarily. To discover one of them, I am sure it was Chef’s, had defecated in the house. What a lovely day this was turning out to be.

When Chef called on his way home from the church and began chatting like the day was still wonderful, I educated him on reality. His laughter did not lend authenticity to his apology. I want back to bed. Sometimes a fresh start is the only hope for a day like this. There I stayed until a stink bug swirled and buzzed with helicoptered whirling and chose to land on my pillow. Then his friend joined on the window. Then another. Damnit. Every time I got settled and cozy and warm, up again to remove the disgusting smelly insects that rule hell and my nap time. I wanted some beauty sleep to prepare for my fancy dress because I knew this cinderella generally goes to sleep about the time the ball was starting. I knew that crabby frown lines did not match my dress. I knew I needed an attitude alteration. But c’mon. What else could happen?

The rod holding up our shower curtain fell, I put it back up, hung the curtain back up, it fell again. Twice more. I couldn’t find a tube of lipstick to save my soul. I did find the cap to one in the drawer where Plum has stashed away all bits of makeup I used to have. His war paint. Still, I had a fancy dress and I was going to have real wine and talk to other people and it was going to be great. I had kept my dress secret from Chef, knowing, just knowing he was going to be wowed by this baby. He said I looked nice. Seriously? I sent a horrific selfie to my friend who overlooked my jacked up expression and only noted my amazing dress. She affirmed that I looked quite fancy and that my dress was beautiful and we discussed that I who have never won any awards for filling out a t-shirt, had quite a rack. These are conversations you can mostly only have with a really good girlfriend who understands that you almost killed your husband today and you just want to be dressed up and go out.  I hope you have that kind of friend.

First stop was a pub so Chef could get a beer and watch the game. Really.  That happened. But we did get to the event and I looked fancy in my dress and we had wonderful food and delish wine and I met new people. Cinderella made it to the ball and didn’t spill anything or trip even once. It was fun and refreshing. Then we came home, Chef let the cats out and went to bed. I really wanted to discuss calmly with Chef how delighted I was with his pet care so I daintily stomped up the stairs to our bedroom to find him snoring. My Prince Charming.  Back downstairs, back outside,  in all my finery, calling cats and beasts and wondering how we survived such a crazy day. The answer is, some days you just have to keep starting over, all the way up until you let it go and accept that a new day is coming. Somedays you have to reach out to others to help push that reset button, to help you find you own beauty. Chef just wasn’t feeling the party. He was focused inward, his own thoughts and concerns clouding his view. It is unfortunate but sometimes that just happens. One day does not a marriage make. Dressing up is not really me anyway. Play acting, pretending to be what I am not. This cinderella is much more recognizable in pajama pants and thick socks. A day of miscommunication and grand expectations was finally over. To be fair, I am certain there are plenty of days that I miss all the cues that Chef gives me, all the subtle and not so much, hints that this is kinda a big deal, and I just don’t see it. More often than not I am looking inward. Thank God for fresh starts and new days.

Today is already starting better. We have enjoyed our coffee together and rehashed the night. All the pets are where they are supposed to be. It is early, yes, but I have a good feeling about today. Also, anyone need a really fancy dress?

 

Why God?

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

The first question tiny humans ask is “why” beginning at about age 3 with a vengeance. Even when the real question is how or what or who, they ask why. Parenting websites are full of advice on ways to handle the incessant questioning, I remembering conquering this stage with some redirection and answering the question I thought my children were actually asking. Still, isn’t it interesting that the question we ask first is the one we continue to ask of our God most throughout our lives?  We rarely get the answer we want, yet we keep asking.

Why, God, did the fridge go out just as we were stating to get our bills caught up? Why Why why did our loved ones have to die so soon, before we were ready to let them go? Why do our children take that first drink, that first hit off of a pipe? Why won’t our kids answer our emails, texts, accept our apologies? Why is there such anger, hatred, divisiveness in our world? Why did my husband have his job taken away just after we bought a car, when we finally were starting to see some financial security? The questions go on and on, I am sure you have many of your own. In times of great pain and hardship and worry, the questions come faster and louder. Our faith holds us up as we shout our queries to the heavens. Why, God?

Anne Lamott says the opposite of faith is not doubt, it is certainty. Asking why doesn’t mean we have little faith, it means we are human. It means we just don’t understand what we are to do next, how we are to cope. Like the 3 year old, our real question may be how. How do I go on? How do I survive this disaster and not fall into a pit of despair? Maybe the question is what. What is expected of me as a Christian in the face of this unthinkable pain? What am I to do when people are mean and I want take a time-out from Jesus walking and just punch them or lash out or tell the truth about them while they are sharing my secrets? Maybe the real ask is when. When is enough enough, when will my sorrow have reached the breaking point? When will real change come and I no longer have to be fearful? I wonder sometimes if the question isn’t who. Who are you God. During our most hurt and afraid times, we seek out the face of the One we need, like the child who wants mom even when mom just sent her to time-out. We want to see God, want comfort when we feel alone and scared and worried that we are in this messed up world making big choices all by ourselves. Ultimately, the question is can God handle our questioning? I think He welcomes them.

I remember when my kids first started asking their “whys.”  When Plum’s began I was more than ready. The curiously about their world, the readiness to explore and discover meant we were about to have many conversations. It meant I was going to be challenged to be present, to give them my outmost attention. My words were going to count with them, I had a chance to make an impact, right then.  Until the day we stopped talking, both of my children still came to me to help explain their worlds. Plum asks me questions everyday. I relish my role as information guru. Just last night mama called with a question as she and Plum were reading a book about space and Plum wonder where Heaven was in relation to outer space. Mama wanted to get the words right, thought maybe they better call in some back up. On speaker phone, I asked questions myself. “Plum, where is God?” Heaven.  “Where else?”  Everywhere.  “Who made the sun, the stars, the moon, outer space?”  God.  Okay Gran, I get it, Heaven is where God is and heaven is everywhere. Goodbye. He quickly hung up, satisfied with his own answer, settling the query himself.

I know that teaching our children to ask the real questions and learn to find the answers for themselves is one of the most rewarding parts of parenting. Is it any less so for God? Maybe He gets a little weary of our asking in times of trouble, “Why me, God?”, when there are so many who are hurting more deeply.  But like a patient parent, He shows up to listen and guides us to the answers. Not always the ones we want, maybe a little redirection is in order, but still, we get the answer we need. So as I rise each morning and ask God how much longer, I find something else to do while I wait. I find a woman who needs help filling out the paperwork to go visit her son her prison and then needs a ride to get there. I find that a friend recently diagnosed with cancer, a friend who has graced my door with meals so many times over the years, could use the efforts of my cooking ability today. I mumble how much longer and then I get busy writing up a newsletter article or agreeing to be an usher. God redirects my whining and moaning into worthwhile activity and I forget that I was asking a question. I remember that the world is also hurting and I have something to help heal a small piece of it.  I figure out where God is and then I go see some of HIs people.

Why God? Why do You keep loving us when we make such a mess of things? Why do You stay so faithful when we stray? Why do You show such forgiveness when we just don’t?  Really those are the why questions that matter. The only answer is grace.  Let us all practice answering with extra grace whatever is asked of us. Those annoying angry bitter hurtful questions may just be hiding a real ask for comfort and grace. Can’t we offer that light today? Maybe figuring out where God is and showing up there, that will bring us all closer to the answers.

 

Rediscovering Fruit

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

Our countertop is littered with fruit when Plum is here. Fresh strawberries are his favorite so along with the bowl of apples, they are a constant.  Most often juicy oranges and just getting ripe bananas are added as Chef stops at the store on his way home when he knows Plum is waiting, selecting also purple grapes and a couple of kiwi. We have way too much fruit when Plum is here, his stays are shorter but our fruit purchasing hasn’t caught up to that. Chef doesn’t eat it, I stopped years ago when money was tight and I was saving all the fruit for the kids. I noticed recently that I only eat it on vacation or when we are dining out, when it is presented as an option someone else is offering. Even though I have lush fruit on my counter, I don’t indulge. I look at it longingly but something within me stops my hand from reaching for grapes, doesn’t allow a clementine to grace my plate, I rarely taste an apple unless finishing one Plum has left behind. In truth I love fruit as much as he does. This sacrifice is no longer necessary and may really be cutting me off from essential goodness. Last night on my way home I bought fruit for me. I felt wicked, naughty, self-indulgent. It tasted so delightful.

As moms we sacrifice much for our children, we begin the act of parenting by giving way to our very own personhood, allowing chemistry and biology to alter us. We feel ill, we are stretched from the inside out, we wobble, we become the carrier of another. It is almost a given that we get lost in the process, that everything we do becomes centered on the life we are growing. Once the baby is shed from us, the long process of losing them to the world begins, our womb and personhood take many months and maybe years to recover. Still we are charged with nurturing the new life, fully dependent on us to become a real person, so we focus on them. Our bodies, our persons never fully regain equal standing. We are a role much more than a woman. Thus, the fruit goes to the kids when money is tight and I have to learn again to eat it. I have to grasp after all these years that something so basic as the gifts of the harvests are meant for me as well.

I watch Plum eat his strawberries, his eyes shine. Juice from the clementines streaks down his arms. He is joyous. We soak up his joy like the napkin collecting the sticky sweetness on his chin, aware he is getting this goodness. Last night I bought both of those, for me, knowing Plum wouldn’t be back for a couple of days. Surely there will be plenty left when he returns, but I tasted the gorgeous strawberries, felt the sunshine of the seasonal light my soul. I added a sweet ripe banana, the soft slices the perfect accompaniment to my dinner. I knew the exuberance of eating well, the richness of the earth. Aren’t these the very symbols Paul uses to describe what the Holy Spirit offers us? I have to wonder how cutting myself off from the real fruits has allowed me to wall my soul from the gifts the Spirit brings? Certainly those gifts are the byproduct of trusting so deeply in God’s plan, allowing Him to be the gardener in my life. What if bad jobs are weeds being pulled, what if unhealthy relationships are plucked away like bad seeds? What if long seasons of quiet are preparing my soul soil for a great planting, a rich harvest to come?  Knowing God is in charge of the gardening, that my Fruits come from not too much self-sacrifice any more than over-indulgence, I am beginning to wonder where I might notice more goodness, more gentleness, more peace, more faithfulness. I am a joy and love noticer, but not so much with forbearance and maybe I have some self-control work to do. Like strolling through the fruit section of the store and only finding apples, I have been availing myself of too little fruit.

With each bite of the clementine I will have for breakfast, I am asking God to show my His fruits and where I might find more peace. I am going to add an apple in to my lunch, another quest for goodness. Dare I have more strawberries as an afternoon snack? I may have swung too far the other way but my oh my, years of sacrifice have lead me to this: once I taste the fruits of the Spirit, I really want more.

22-23 But what happens when we live God’s way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard—things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity. We develop a willingness to stick with things, a sense of compassion in the heart, and a conviction that a basic holiness permeates things and people. We find ourselves involved in loyal commitments, not needing to force our way in life, able to marshal and direct our energies wisely.  Galatians 5:22-23 Message 

22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 23 gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. Galatians 5:22-23 NIV

Lifetimes

On By LisaIn Faith, Mom, PlumLeave a comment

Something stirs in my Plum’s heart, I never know when to expect it, he begins to cry over the loss of our pets from 2 and 3 years ago. Significant because he is only 6, I often wonder how much he really remembers. Yet a sadness overcomes him, he becomes almost inconsolable. The loss is deep, the yearning is mournful. It matters not that we have new beasts who push past me to lay atop him, providing comfort with heavy fur. Warm dog breath finally eases his pain as we rock and talk about lifetimes, about natural order and about heaven. We agree that it still just hurts when those you love are gone.

He doesn’t remember that one of the dogs he is mourning used to bark all the damn time, insisting as only a border collie can do, that we play with her. He doesn’t remember that we had to monitor her all the time so she didn’t herd him in his little walker. He doesn’t remember that I had to nurse her the last two years of her life, forcing her to eat as I watched clumps grow around her midsection. He only knows he misses her. God only knows why.

He doesn’t remember that our other dog, the best rescue ever that we saved from Hurricane Katrina watery parasites and brought home to love, was so strong he could knock my Plum over. We had to keep an eye on that one as well, Plum was just toddling and could easily be toppled. He doesn’t remember that he used to flinch from the loud battles they all used to have. He only knows he misses him, God only knows why.

He surely doesn’t remember the last loss, our sweet sweet rescue who was so protective of me she used to bare her teeth and nip a bit when others came too close. She nipped at him a couple of times and also nestled up so closely when he was feeling, well, any strong emotion. He had to battle with her to get to me many times, he didn’t like her on his bed but there she slept, watching over him, worrying about his doorway when he wasn’t here. He only knows that he misses her, God only knows why.

Plum only remembers how soft their fur was, how much he loved that they loved him. He listens to stories about their better days, their finer qualities and takes those in as his own memories. So sometimes he weeps, we comfort him. I understand his selective memory. That is how our hearts heal from brokenness, we smooth over the rough places of hurt with stories of laughter and silliness, we focus on the good times and loosen the damaged patches from our soul storage. We begin to remember with grace. This is how I have dealt with the loss of my own mother, 5 years ago today.

With each passing year, it becomes harder to remember the difficulties in our relationship,   there were plenty. The big things don’t ever go away maybe but their weight, their importance diminishes as more sweet memories and deep longing replace them, smooth out the hurts. Distance allows me to see her as a person aside from her role, to see that her own  needs weren’t met, see her own challenges in life, and wonder how she ever managed to love at all. I especially have become so much more aware of the ways that I hurt her, the times I let her down, distanced myself from her. I look back at our relationship with fresh eyes and a sore soul and know that we just both did the best we could, we were both so broken, so badly damaged. So somedays I find myself weeping for my mother, a strange sight indeed to anyone who knows what a complicated path we took. Those tears smooth out more bad places, wash away more painful memories so that my soul fills with snapshots of those times we laughed and we shopped and we shared recipes.

When Plum is crying, I ask him what he would like to do with his long lost pets if he had just one more chance with them. He often says he wants to play with them or give them a hug. So then we do that with the ones who are near and we go outside and speak to the clouds. We claim our aches and send them up to the sky and then we rejoice with the barking yapping beasts who are close by. The breath of God dries our cheeks and sends fresh joys in the rushing chasing ball carrying beasts who long for our attention. The same is true for me, as I consider what one more thing I would want from my mom. At one point it would have been affirmation of all my hurts, that I was right she was wrong. Later it might have been that she really did love me. The long road of healing now shows I need neither of those last conversations, I know she was as right as she could be and she always loved me as best she could. Today I would only want to tell her that I am sorry. But just like every other conversation I wanted to have, she already knows that. All I really want is one last time to snuggle up and share some comfort. Healing for us both, all we ever both sought. My soul is making progress in the mom compartment. So I speak my yearning to God and cuddle with the one who is here, my Plum who really just wants to dance today. So we dance. And I know my mom is rejoicing at our silliness.

We all know that death strikes too suddenly, too often with no warning. Sometimes we have the chance to say our goodbyes but still healing takes much longer. Lifetimes, everything has a lifetime, I teach my Plum. I don’t teach him hurts have lifetimes. We are practicing giving those up to the clouds as they come, in the hopes that his little soul may become the generation to grow up less scabbed and scarred, more trusting and open. Still, he cries and I comfort. Today I leak out some sorrow of my own, unexpected feelings of loss for a mother who left us 5 years ago and still is missed. And today we dance and throw balls for beasts and snuggle up just a bit closer. Soul healing means making some new memories and letting the old fly away with grace.

I remember you mom, as the woman you were and the woman I wanted you to be and all the love that fell somewhere in between. Look at Plum, hasn’t he grown? His love for our beasts surely melts your heart. I feel your smile so deep in my soul it is pushing water out of my eyes. Let’s go dance.

Knock Knock

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

I think transitioning from mother to mother-in-law to grandmother is an overlooked challenge for women. The process of planning a wedding or showers should warn us that we are moving into new territory yet the busyness of it all keeps us from realizing that our role is changing. Really changing. Sure we hear the jokes but think they only apply to others. Then we find ourselves the fodder for comedians, aching wrong turns and missteps that leave us wondering what happened and how did my child change overnight into this other? We used to talk, we used to be close, what happened!! Then a baby comes along and mostly all is forgiven because now they have given us this, a fresh start. Only, wait, what the hell, now we don’t even get that? They want to keep that one too? We scratch our heads and wonder when it will be our turn to love and cradle and cuddle, knowing this babe is just the thing to fill up the whole our child left. Any memories of struggling to establish our own family under the watchful gaze of our own mother-in-law with her fingers itching ever closer to our brand new babe are lost in the flush of the placenta, the smell of baby wipes and the sight of little toes.

Ay ya ya, is it any wonder newly weds and mother-in-laws struggle so?  No one tells us how to do it, how to breathe through the contractions of the new little family, to trust that a new birth of bigger more openness with happen. Like a pregnant mama at 36 weeks, we want it now. We grow tired of waiting. We are ready to push. We hear everyone tell us that resting right now, at this critical point is what is most important. Rest now, because soon you will be called into action. Allow that family to grow and your chance will come. Oh waiting is horrible. Transitions just really suck. We forget that our choices now during the transition set the stage for how the birth of the new family will be experienced by all.

The knock on our Wednesday evening small group classroom signaled more than just an interruption to our group. It was more than just a notice to let me know my Plum wasn’t feeling well enough to last the evening with his friends. It was a warning that life was going to get rough for several days, that more interruptions were coming, that my schedule and timeline were not my own. One moment we were adults talking around a table, knock knock, suddenly I was in full grandma mode where I would remain for the foreseeable (with no sleep and the inability to see much further than this mug of coffee) future.

Plum has croup, not fun with little lungs that grasp for breath sometimes anyway. Oral steroids and nebulizer treatments are helping to open his constricted airways. Neither help close his little eyes to get rest. I want rest. I had planned much rest after making the Wednesday meal for the larger group. I scheduled much rest as we came to the end of this study and my other one that just finished. I was going to do one slow victory lap around my kitchen with a glass of wine and then collapse contentedly on the couch until I was ready to leisurely climb the stairs to collapse in bed for hours and hours and then rise slowly for coffee and more resting in a comfy chair. I love the studies and work at church but my body was making it clear it was time for rest. I could taste it, I was seeing it. Then I heard the knock, knock. I knew in my gut that knock was for me and that my fantasy rejuvenation time was going to be just that, all fantasy.  My head turned in slow motion, letting go of my fantasy to return to reality requires much effort to release those plans: a push of the years in mama mode, the pull of the sickly cough of my best boy.  Slow motion propelled into high gear as something took over, the knowledge that grandmas step up to the job when needed. Wine, rest and comfy chair collapses will wait.

Mama took Plum to the doctor who advised limited access to my Sweetness, if possible.  Yes, it is possible. Knock knock Plum returned and I waved goodbye to mama and Sweetness for the day, the evening, the foreseeable future which looked like forever when Plum was hyped up on steroids and did not want to nap the day away. As I was pulled back out of sleepy mode I remembered many many years ago while in grad school when our family came down with the flu. All of us, both children even.  The real horrible flu. So my mother-in-law at the time, God rest her soul, came to nurse us all. That time is hazy, a feverish sweaty tear-stained memory mush. What has remained after all these years is the selflessness of that grandma who drove an hour to come sleep on a couch, to wipe brows and mope vomit, to make soup and do laundry, days and days of nursing a baby and a toddler and two grown adults now rendered helpless and worse than children.  Surely she had plans before that phone call, ring ring, created an interruption that challenged her physically and mentally and was not in any way a fun visit with her grandchildren. She stepped up and delivered. She is one of my grandma role models, one of the women I pattern myself after. There when needed, not intrusive when not. She mastered the transition.

Chef’s mom has served us in such way, I have been blessed in mother-in-law selection. Grandma J has starred in many blog posts for her selfless appearances at every one of my surgeries and the nursing afterward, she shows up for all the kids events and never misses the chance to send a card with $5. Much has happened behind the scenes with her as Chef and I grew into our marriage, establishing our family and our boundaries and making room for us all. Still she shows up and doesn’t judge the state of my refrigerator or flower bed s and always asks for a recipe. She just genuinely allows for my dignity as I make sure she has time with her son alone also. The transition wasn’t always smooth but worth the effort as we built trust and found space for our new family dynamics. She is one of my favorite people, a valued resource who is welcomed into my home and has claimed my heart. Creating all these different kinds of family places is challenging but matters most when someone interrupts our daily life and asks that we show up. She always answers the knock with a yes. Together we mastered the transition.

As a child I remember when my mother’s mom was dying. I didn’t know it then that was what was happening, I just knew my brothers and I were pulled out of bed during the night and taken across town to my dad’s mom. She opened the door as we were being carried up to it and she said no.Knock knock, no. She would not have her plans interrupted. She would not have her home in disarray. In the midst of this trauma, my mother had to find alternative care for her 3 children. I am sure she never forgave her mother-in-law. That night we met an extended aunt in the town I now call home. I have warm feelings for her, I never really bonded with my paternal grandmother. This woman was never a grandma to me, the antithesis of who I wanted to be when I grew into my own role as mother-in-law and gran. She didn’t understand how to transition, she wanted her son to stay her son and the rest of us to fall in line with her plans. Disaster.

It matters not how often you see someone but what you do when that knock happens. When the call comes in and the need is there. Do you show up as a grandma? Can you set aside your plans for wine and victory dances and comfy chairs? One day I pray the knock is from my daughter, I will always say yes. I won’t ask to hold the baby, I won’t reach for the toddler. I don’t do either with mama now. I have mastered the transition after many hard pushes and pulls, I know my role as mother-in-law. Show up when asked, stay out of the way when not. Put a bit of food in the fridge and send a card with $5. Back away slowly. Of course I long to hold the baby, who doesn’t really? I have huge gaping wholes in my heart about the size of new grandchildren who are 10 hours away, a daughter who is emotionally a million miles away. Still, I wait for the invitation and pray that when the knock happens, I can summon the strength to let go of my own needs and accept the request to be present for hers. That is how we master the transition.

Knock knock. Who will answer? Just as God shows up always, I pray we find a way to be present for those who need us and not show up as needy ourselves. Being a servant is really the best descriptor of a gran’s role that I can find, not the lady of the manor. That job already taken. Cookies. Cookies help too. Even daughter-in-laws like cookies. Come to think of it, my mother-in-law always brings cookies. Of course that is mostly because my husband tells his mother that hers are better than mine, but that is a completely different post. Show up, let God work out the details of when we are supposed to get our rest and our wine and know when to back out. Always say yes to the knock. Easy-peasy.  Oh and that hole, where our child used to be, God has plans for that. Can you hear Him knocking?

 

 

 

 

 

Ta Da!

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

Gran, where’s purple blankie? Honey, have you seen my briefcase?  Nanny, I can’t find my______.  Lisa, do you know where I set my ______ down? Like the chorus to our family song, these questions ring out with such frequency I almost don’t hear them anymore. I just begin looking, I go retrieve the missing item. Like our beasts who can sniff out a tennis ball behind the couch or under a cabinet, I just know where lost things are. No need to pray to the saint of missing items around here, it never gets that serious. Ta Da, here you go!  I am the hero for a few fleeting seconds, family member reunited with item, all is well. Of course, that means these people never really are responsible for their stuff, not with a built-in finder at the ready. I previously thought this was a superpower that made me special to them, I have come to realize that it kept them from being able to search on their own, a skill they would need throughout their lives.

Being a mom to my children was more important to me than just about anything, like breathing or eating. I overdid it on many aspects and hindsight allows me to see my mistakes, attempts to swing so far away from my own childhood that I created other problems. I left my kids with deficits that now are glaring, now haunt me. In my efforts to protect them and make their lives happier, to make up for earlier trauma, I forgot to let them struggle just a bit. I forgot that they needed to learn to find stuff on their own. It feels great to be so needed in the rush of everyone’s lives, when buses are coming or carpools are waiting and I could hold up the desired book bag or sweater, but that meant they didn’t learn to look for what they wanted, they didn’t learn to miss what was gone. I thought they had enough struggle early on, I wanted to save them from anymore. Oh, Hindsight, you wicked devil. It felt so wonderful to be needed in the moment, now I am missing and they don’t know how to search for me. They can’t find their way home and back to truth and into forgiveness. I think maybe they just gave up and got replacement moms, relationships that were easier and immediate and Ta Da required little of them.

I left my children without the skills needed to stick with the search, to uncover truth like pillows on the couch, to compromise as if bending to hunt below the bed. They give up too easily, forget the fun of the hunt. I remember one birthday party when we held a scavenger hunt during Stella’s sleepover, all the girls fanned out around the neighborhood. What was expected to be an hour game quickly turned into a bust when one household went through the list and gave that pair everything on it. The girls returned triumphant, unaware that they had really lost and destroyed the game. Robbed of the opportunity to ask many times for help, one stop gave everything. The goal was not really winning, the journey was the fun part. The neighbor thought they were helping I am sure, just as I always thought I was. Kids need to learn to search and find and ask and look.

Sometimes when we search for one thing, we find a different treasure all together. I began writing to seek my own voice and have found a place where many feel heard. Each holiday season as I prepare to decorate I come across something in a closet that I forgot was stashed away, the blessing of a short memory, maybe. Still, treasures lurk waiting to be found. Exploring is the journey, finding riches in my soul I didn’t expect, finding connections to God I would have missed if I chose not to go looking.  Oh how I wish I had taught the kids to seek. I can’t undo the damage with my children who are now adults. I pray they someday will learn to ferret out truth, they will become eager to seek forgiveness and dole it out like the grand prize. Ta Da! We found you, Mom!  Until then, I can change my role as “Super-Finder” with Plum. He loves to explore already, it won’t take as much to help him learn to seek out what he wants most. Not so sure it will work with Chef, he is already grown. And I AM really good at finding things.

One day I pray I will find my daughter again. Ta Da! I pray my son will find his way, Ta Da! I know that God, the Great Finder of all us lost souls, has prepared the way. The best hunt ever, the most glorious find ever, a journey that will ultimately only happen with Him as the guide. So I keep looking to Him, knowing the struggle is teaching me much. There is no one place to find all that I need to get reunited with my lost children, I have tried all of my super-powers to make it so. The time is not right to find them. They have to find me. When they just can’t do without me anymore. Like Plum and his purple blankie, often he goes to find her on his own, he can’t wait until I finish my task. When their need is that great, they will look back towards home. I will be here. Just where they left me. Ta Da!

May you find what you are seeking today, may your heart be filled with joy and just enough curiosity to seek out what God is nudging you to look for. Treasures await, my friend.

Messages On a Card

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef1 Comment

Wandering the clearance shelves of Target, I happened upon a little booklet called “Happy Cards.” Described as “30 fill-in the blank cards to make someone smile” I was immediately intrigued by the possibilities. I put the booklet in my cart, then decided it was silly, I could do the very same thing without the help of pre-constructed pages. Walking two aisles away, pursuing pink duct tape and cork board stick ups and bundles of twine, I still had the booklet in mind. Backtracking, I somewhat sheepishly put it in my cart and went on to complete my real shopping. No pink duct tape for me. Maybe it was a Holy Spirit nudge, letting me know I needed a bit more positivity in my dealings in the coming days. The cards turned out to be well worth the $2.98 I spent.

Plum has been struggling with some adjustments as home, a new sister who has taken the spot he held for over 6 years. A new marriage with all those pressures, tight to nonexistent money, little sleep, extended family expectations, less fun, more work, Plum has started to show all those tensions of the family. Mama is aware and is working on correcting as much as she can (anyone have a spare money tree?) but these things take time and Plum is  acting out now. Thus our weekends with him have become a complicated combination of supporting rules and propping up his need for stability and extra love. We aren’t in the position of being those grandparents who spoil, we see him too often and are frankly broke anyway. We (read me, Chef is too much fun) have always taken on the role of disciplinarian, knowing we played a critical part in shaping this child into a real person. So we have been engaged in some battles that leave us all feeling less that wonderful and wishing for the days when we just snuggled and read books and played games and laughed Ah ha, the Happy Cards.

I filled in a card that said, “I like your” with “friendly smile” and left it on his bed for him to find. I didn’t think about signing it, I left one for Chef as well, he can always use a bit of sweetness from me. (That may be a different post.)  A strange, unexpected thing happened: Plum never considered that I had written the card. He wasn’t bothered with logic or the need to work out the details. His mind grabbed onto the mystery and stayed there. Someone noticed his friendly smile and also that Chef is the best grandpa ever and that was enough. He carried his card with him all day. Not like an adult who puts a note in their wallet, but a 6 year old who rarely stops moving. This card went with him from room to room, activity to activity. His friendly smile joined us almost all day.

What struck me most though beside the fact that changing my focus had changed his behavior, (c’mon, we all know this, just forget in the nitty-gritty day  to day) was how he refused to make the mental leap that I didn’t get a card and maybe I gave him the card. He is a really smart kid, has begun doing multiplication when he is supposed to be learning addition, he is reading at mid-second grade level as a kindergartener, he connects things. He refused to see this. He needed to not see this. This message needed to come from somewhere bigger. That works for me. Because I think it kind of did.

I wonder how often we miss the messages our parents have given us, thinking they were just the “have-to’s” You know, mom has to say this stuff because she is my mom, not believing they are telling us the truth about ourselves. We miss the chance to bask in the good by discounting the authority of the messenger. I tell Plum the very same things I wrote on the card, and the card he found the next day, but it was truer, more special for the colored card stock and fancy printing. What messages do we miss from God as we look for the special card? We miss what He is sharing with us all the time about ourselves, messages that affirm who we are to Him. I think I take for granted God’s love just as my Plum takes mine for granted. In many ways that is the sure sign of a solid parent-child relationship. Plum knows he doesn’t have to earn it, doesn’t worry it will go away after one bad day, or even two, he trusts it will grow with him. Yet I am no longer a child and need to show more respect and appreciation for my Ultimate Parent. I can’t discount the messages God sends me that I am enough, add more value to the ones that come from others. I can’t forget to say thank you to the One who wakes me up and the One who gives me rest. I hope I can be more open to those special cards from God. The ones that come as bright red birds in the barren winter trees, as dreams of hopeful visits with my daughter and granddaughter.

By the way, I found this card here for you. It says, “You’re awesome at….” What is God whispering you to write in? Listen to your Father and fill out the message. Rest in His love today. He knows you best, He knew you first.  Let His message be louder than all the others who talk to you, louder than the voices of worry and shame and fear and self-doubt.  God thinks you are awesome! Really, isn’t that enough?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Good Breaking

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella4 Comments

Apple pie, layers of crusts surrounding cinnamon sugar coated slices softened in juices, cut into wedges and served up, so delectable, an irresistible gift. The baker offers up pieces of themselves, labor and love melting with flour, the tiniest bit of salt. She watches as those with the plates of pie carve into her heart’s gift, fork slicing through the crusty wall, reaching the luscious fruit, she watches as the first taste of her love is taken. Waiting waiting anticipating the moment when taste buds accept her love, know her gift is of herself, that moment when eyes shine and a smile begins, a sigh escapes, the fork returns for another bite. Her soul rejoices, she broke herself into pieces that found new resting places as others accept her slivers of love.

There is a breaking that happens when good is coming, like the sun pushing up over the horizon to interrupt the darkness or the tight shell of an egg releasing the promise of breakfast. Good breaking surrounds me, the rip of paper as my grandson prepares more artwork, the grind of coffee beans wafting me awake.  Finding, noticing the good breaks is challenging when the biggest break is my heart, splintering slivering shattering silently into fragments unrecognizable and irrepable. I watch from a distance as the pieces shred away, captivated by the beauty as light catches memory slices and reflects hopes and dreams. Paralyzed rooted maybe unwilling to stop the destruction anymore I just gaze at the growing heart heap and watch my life loves destroy what I gave them. I don’t think this is good breaking, my pieces seem too shattered and scattered ever be restored. I gave my soul pieces, they rest within others now, aching to be rejoined.

That gorgeous apple pie left out on the counter, left unattended, forgotten, will grow moldy, will sink into the plate, become a heap of mush, the extravagant gift wasted. Apples cut and left to rot are not good breaking. My pieces are too fractured to collect, scattered by the winds of harsh words and shriveled by unforgiving neglect. I watch, wonder if I will ever be whole again, if we will ever celebrate the good breaks of rising suns and the crash into language of a first word, the busting into mobility of a first step. I imagine a place where my heart pieces are reconnected, bigger, more light through the cracks, room for more more ever more still. Those are good breaks. Today I wonder about  growing moldy, slinking down into the juices of despair as I see more pieces of my heart flake off, out of reach.  Then I remember those slivers are not meant to ever come back to me, an egg shell cracked is not to be restored. The glory comes in what is created after the destruction, after the crisp apple loses it peel and the sun pushes us into a new day. More light comes into my broken heart where all of those slivers and slices were carved out. If I am left with only crumbles, I have given the me God said to offer up.

There is good breaking, where more light sneaks through walls into our souls with forgiveness, casting out shadows of shame, slicing up room for new hope and creation. I pray that you can find those broken pieces and see the beauty that came from gifting your love to others. I pray that you can find that grace comes in severing your hold on those gifted pieces. They are no longer ours, any more than the baker would ask for that piece of pie back. Let our hearts be broken and slivers offered, let us rejoice in the light of our crumblings.  This is good breaking.

 

Ashes

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef4 Comments

Fat Tuesday, the day to live it up and indulge, as if we need permission go all in on our vices. Don’t get me wrong, I love the parades, I love the beads, I love the excitement and energy. I love the idea of celebration together, so little to celebrate these days. A thousand miles away from the big party in New Orleans, still the day before fasting begins arrived and I wondered at what it all really means. In our home we have been fasting for several months, leaving hope and joy out of our daily diets. We have avoided high calorie elation and glee, sticking to the austerity foods of despair and depression. Chef surely has been on this strict diet, I have to admit to cheating snacks on the side, away from his view. Time with friends allowed me to feast on bits of glee and slices of hope. Sermons at church fed me reminders of hope, Plum always brings a taste of joy. Finally, we are entering back into a season of dining together on these delicacies and the thought of fasting for another 40 days is unsettling.  We just left the dark wilderness yet the calendar is calling us back into it as we walk with Jesus in preparation for Easter.  I want to Easter now.

I have to wonder though at the timing. We have been wandering for 8 months now. We finally see some light and are asked to wander some more, spiritually at least. What is to be gained by turning back around? What did Jesus gain from that time of separation? He was tempted, He prayed intentionally, He was prepared for the darkest times ahead. It would be easy to lose the lessons gained from our own wanderings, lose the humility, the centering, the focus of the wilderness now that light is shining in our eyes. Excitement that comes with new beginnings can cause us to forget that we are merely on the edge of the forest, not yet clear of shadows and the chill. Old habits can resurface, did we wander long enough to internalize the trail markers and remember how we found our way out?

Of course, the season of Lent calls us to slow down, to check our pace. Chef is just getting up to speed again, but I have to consider that maybe I have been running a bit too fast. A pit stop to check my vitals feels unnecessary as I rush forward into my more, the tug to slow down feels like punishment, like when I was a teenager and gave up chocolate for Lent. Truly a sacrifice when I have great momentum. Candy never was more enticing than those 40 days without, never tasted sweeter than Easter morning when I found my basket filled with my favorite kinds. But many times I would discover that I didn’t really want it as much as I thought, it was merely the idea of it, the longing, the knowing I couldn’t have it. Cravings for Three Musketeer and Snickers bars were replaced with thoughts of Jesus on the cross. By the time I was free to indulge again, I found my diet had changed, my desires had changed. If only I hadn’t worked so hard to push this candy back in. Because every year whatever I have chosen to let go of for Lent was really something I needed to let go of for good. A supreme sacrifice for 40 days was preparation for the rest of my life. I have yet to accept the offer. Will this be the year that I offer up my rushing that leaves others behind? Will this be the season that sees me sacrifice my constant movement to spend some quality time in the wilderness, alone with God?

My pastor marked Plum’s forehead with ashes and my soul broke open, I almost fell to the floor crying. Plum looked so earnestly into the pastor’s eyes, absorbed his deep words of God’s love, and then returned to his seat to wiggle and jostle the boys around him. A holy moment lost in “little boy too late in the evening” rowdiness. Still I bore witness. The pastor etched my forehead with ashes and I am not sure I have ever felt more loved. I am pretty sure Jesus was speaking through this man, I think that quite often. But this night, in this moment, he and I were alone, the others all fell away. He spoke words of affirmation while marking ashes along my forehead. Life giving hope out of the death of my Jesus. The moment was actually too powerful for me to sit with my family, my friends any longer in the sanctuary. I left and returned to my safe alone place, the kitchen where I could weep  undetected. I may have looked like a martyr to others as the service ended and I was finishing the meal clean up, they didn’t know I was selfish and needed more time alone with Jesus who had just touched my soul.

The season of Lent is powerful, leads us to the cross, to Calvary, to the empty tomb, to the proof of resurrection. Lent is calling me to slow down and stand on the edge of the forest, accept some darkness, address a bit the ugliness that runs freely in my hidden wilderness. Last night I spent some time with Jesus who promised to go with me on the journey, who told me that I was worth it, He was worth it. My soul is worth it. I will eat chocolate, I will continue to drink Coke. This Lenten season I am doing some soul work. Back the wilderness I go.

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Rise Up, Child

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef3 Comments

Coke is my go-to drink during the day, a glass of wine instead for the evening hours. M&M’s and pop tarts have been mentioned frequently enough throughout my previous writings that no-one would be surprised that those are my easy comfort foods. None of this would please Michelle Obama, I know it isn’t healthy. So I balance it all with lots of fruit and vegetables, a tiny bit of protein (Yuck) and drink too much OJ. These habits are sneaky though, unless I keep mine in check, they threaten to become my lifestyle and not treats I indulge in occasionally. I have another habit that I fight with, think I have beaten, only to find it sneaking up on me at the most unexpected times. I know this habit is not pleasing to God. Well, I don’t Michelle would like it either but God is the one who concerns me here. I am talking about shame.

Like the little jar of candies I have on my desk, I often reach for shame without realizing it. I allow stigma to enter my soul without even the sweet taste of chocolate to ease the way. Reading an old message, wondering if a current one is aimed at me, humiliation sliding down my throat while my skin grows cold and my cheeks begin to flush. Shame is that sick feeling of too much food, knowing it was just too much food. The cold bathroom floor brings the only relief, hidden away, accepting punishment that can never really flush away my stains. Tears, angry floods that never drown my accusers, leave salt trails for soul detectives to follow, will they ever find me?

Then I remember that I choose what enters my body. I do actually love carrots and zucchini and mushrooms. I so love pesto and peppers and fresh peas out of the garden. I don’t have to accept the slurs and sideways glances and dis-grace, I can say no thank you and move away from the Shamers. Like a salad bar with all the best toppings, safe places feed my soul and remind me I am a child of God who has already washed away my sins, He doesn’t need my salty tears to do so. God doesn’t remember who I was, what I have done, He knows who I am. God sends soul detectives to follow the salt trails and whisper to me, “Rise up, child.”

The scars throb sometimes, ache with the memories of all the times I lost my job again, lost my hope again, lost my identity again, because of Shamers. Today is a throbbing day, too much delving into the past, tracing wounds that seek to choke out my soul. How to deal with the pain? Rush to the candy jar? I remember the boo-boo bags we got for Plum when he was just a tiny babe, rice inside soft cloth that can be stored in the freezer and gently applied to any hurts. These bags mold to his legs, his ankles, around his hands. He is big enough to seek out the boo-boo bags himself now, he knows how to stop the hurt himself. Today I will seek out my own healing bags of grace, those who dispel the ghosts of shamers-past and bring cool refreshing mercy. Today I will go to the salad bar of Jesus who offers redemption and a way back from the bathroom floor. Today I will enjoy some pesto and perspective, remember who I am: a child of God who has plans for me. I think that would please Michelle Obama as well.

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