Category: Plum

stories of life with a our beautiful grandson

Stretching

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef1 Comment

A puddle of black water on the counter, again, the damn coffee pot is leaking. Every day I find a stain, a mess, some amount of my morning zing waiting to be sopped up, waiting to be cleared away. Easier to buy a newer coffer maker but funds are tight, gone, thus we are blessed to even have grinds to put in the damn machine so I shouldn’t find offense at the mess. Still, I do. I hate that coffeemaker and the inability to just make a cup without knowing their will be literal fallout. Then I chide myself for the fact that this is my complaint, this?, when so much is wrong all around. So I wipe, scrub, move on. Until the next pot is brewing.

We use the invisible, underground fencing system for our beasts, a system that has worked beautifully for years until recently when our Golden chose to withstand the shock and break free. Sometimes he stands right on the line and gets a really good zap and then just goes. All of this resulted in a pretty yucky infection around his neck, an expensive trip to the vet (several new coffeemakers worth) and 10 days on antibiotics and a full shave around his neck. On the mend now, he is still breaking free. He is huge, he is fast, he is gone. He is making a mess of my free time, I can’t let him out to wander our yard without finding him in the neighbor’s now. Always on the lookout for Plum’s bus, yesterday he chose to go out into the street and try to board it. I considered asking the busdriver to trade me,  all those children for this damn dog. Apparently I need to put in a real fence with the millions of dollars I have hidden under my coffeemaker.

Several days ago Plum ran into the house and asked if it was appropriate for him to know how humans breed. Why did this question not come up when he was riding the bus to mama’s house? Some gentle probing on my part discovered this curiosity was sparked by a Pokemon discussion, I guess they are bred and they evolve and then they get really dumb names. So I somewhat dodged the question. Until he came back for another visit and asked how babies are made. Seriously, kid, you are only 6 and you have parents and I am too old to be trying to remember how much is too much to tell. Where is my coffee? Still, I broke out my best high school science and made his eyes glaze over. Whew, dodged again.  Until bedtime a couple of nights ago when he was preparing to fall asleep, we were snuggling, both in our “walls down, chatting” mode and he asked if boys could have babies. He had me captive, I couldn’t squirm away, I would be breaking our nighttime vulnerable talk rules. So we talked. I explained that it does take mommies and daddies together to make babies but mommies carry them in their bodies. (Please don’t yell at me about all the other possible combinations, I know, I do teach this child about the many ways families can look. I was tired and avoiding.)  Seeds, fertilizing,  growing, beauty, I thought we were going somewhere until he made clear his issue. “Nan, but can daddies ever have the babies?” “No, sweetie, but they get to love them always and care for them always.” “That’s crap! It isn’t fair!” he told me with gusto. I agreed. I told him it was God’s plan so maybe we should take our issue up with Him. “YES!”  So we prayed to God as we laid on the bed, him snuggled under the warm blankets and curled up with his specials.  We told God just what we thought of this situation.  I ended the lament with a request that God get back to us really soon with an answer. Plum and I looked each other, he cocked his eyebrow at me and asked what now? I told him I thought God would get back to us later, we should maybe just go to sleep. He rolled over, closed his eyes and softly said, “You are so silly, gran.”

So much seems to be leaking out right now, breaking through the barriers I have erected. Sneaking through my soul walls, spilling around the edges of my heart. I forget to cry out to God, mostly I just complain and wipe up the mess, stuff down my frustration or leak out my own anger. Remembering that God can take my questions and my wonderings is good. Knowing also that the way we grow is to by stretching, some leaking out of those walls just may be His plan. After all, coffee is still coffee if I use a straw to drink it off of the counter. About the wandering beast, I’ve got nothing.  Breaking free, willing to withstand the pain to get to the other side, all I can see is a neck full of oozing infection and some terrifed  kids on a bus. God surely will get back to me on that. Still I have coffee to drink, beasts to encourage exercise, and a Plum who challenges. Blessings that remind me I am alive, I am still growing. I don’t have answers for everything, I have to seek out the One who does. Then wait for Him to get back to us.

 

Hungry Messy Inconvenient

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef7 Comments

She looks up at me from the crook of my elbow, the perfect distance for newly developing eyesight according to some researcher. Mothers already know this. She locks eyes with me, I am looking at my granddaughter and also at God. Not the “Strong take care of everything control the world ” God but the “tiny vulnerable captivate your soul” God. My God is sometimes the Father but more often the Child, He comes to me through the children who show me grace and love unconditionally. Is it any wonder that women flock to hold a baby even in the midst of the burdens of their own family? It grows ever harder to see the God in us all as we grow: we are needy and wanting and not always very nice. We don’t smell so good and look so sweet. Yet it is ever so clear staring into the eyes of a baby, God is here.

Still, babies cry and want fed and have to be changed and are highly inconvenient, the backstory you forget when you are a grandma who only has visits or a young woman longing for her first child. Those God moments can be more rare in the trenches. But isn’t that the same with our God? Surely our sins bring screams of agony to our Father, cries that cannot be calmed much like a baby with colic, requiring hour after hour of pacing each evening. I can only imagine God’s pure pain at the hate rising up in our world, the violence and separation, the refusal to tend to our neighbors. God is crying, a neglected babe alone.

Can you envision God’s cries as we feed our guilty pleasures, our addictions, fill our time with social media and leave Him starving for our attention, forgetting that time with Him feeds us too? Long walks noticing creation, baking bread, real honest to God knead the dough and let it rise bread, arranging colors on canvas with intentionality, all are answers I have received when asked “How do you feel closer to God.”  The commonality in the responses is time creating and time apart, maybe from others but certainly from regular life. I believe retreating and creating is when we feed God, when He feeds us. Our souls become open to his nurturance.

Scripture reminds us that God is the same, yesterday today always. But we live in a changing world that requires our involvement. We live in a broken hurting world that demands our engagement. This world is God’s, we are His. To ignore the damage is to ignore the baby with the sopping diaper, soon to have a rashy bottom, soon to be blistered and the agony magnified. We are the ones called to do the changing, to tend to all of God’s children. The ones who have been left neglected the longest may smell badly, have the worst sores and scream loudly when we get near. They certainly don’t present as cuddly babies but imagine how long they have waited for our attention? Like a child with diaper rash, one swipe of ointment won’t fix it. We have to be attentive, we have to keep at it. Closed wounds don’t heal themselves. Homeless don’t find homes, hungry don’t grow food, slaves don’t gain freedom alone.

God is inconvenient. I know He does not make my life any easier. My list of those who have angered me and should be scorned forever, cast into the Dungeon of Non-Forgivables grows shorter as I grow closer to God. I try to bring that list to Him, asking for a smiting, a spell that would do Harry Potter proud but come away we another name crossed off as I lose my own fire. I want to stay mad sometimes. I want to hold on sometimes. Inconvenient. I have another list, a list of topics I will not address in public or mixed company so as not to offend. This one is meeting a similar fate. Rather than disappearing in resolution or forgiveness, this list burns within me and God demands that I speak up. God demands that I begin to talk for those who are not present. God demands that voices rise up to confront hate and bigotry and lies. God demands that this list grow and it is inconvenient for me to get louder.

It is inconvenient for me to follow a God who sees our broken world, my hurting home, my addicted son, my estranged daughter, my grandson who cries for his favorite aunt and wonders when he will see his dad again, how can I follow a God who doesn’t fix all these things? NOW. Then I look into the eyes of this babe and know that He gives me her, a way to see Him. A reminder that He is here, He is near, I just need to keep walking and rocking and working on my lists. With each of her cries and diaper changes, I know I am called to act on her behalf out in the wider world. She is God. Hungry, messy, inconvenient.  I pace with her in my arms, pat her bottom as she falls asleep, and thank God for visiting my soul.

Hideout

Love Whispers, Happy Tears

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, StellaLeave a comment

I carried my Sweetness, my new little bonus granddaughter, through the house yesterday, a milestone. It was her first visit to gran’s house, she will be 8 weeks old tomorrow. She certainly would have been here sooner but beasts are huge and newborns are fragile, mamas are protective. I knew the day of our first visit was approaching, it almost happened earlier in the week but last minute plans changed. We see them in their space almost daily, quick visits to drop off or pick up whatever Plum needs, whatever we have extra of, all excuses to see our Sweetness.  We all know these are lame reasons but continually saying I need some Sweetness in my morning seems a bit intrusive. Instead we say, Plum left his jacket here, may need that. Or, do you have any more dairy pills for the school? So visits there have been numerous, just not at our home. A quick call to mama, an invitation to have daddy help run the beasts with Chef before our day trip left them alone for hours, it was enough to bring mama and daddy and Sweetness to our door. Until they were here, I didn’t realize how important that visit was, how much I wanted them in our space.

I sent Mama to Plum’s room to retrieve extra clothes, to the freezer to claim some extra food. Of course she needed her arms free for all of this, my arms were empty and ready for some Sweetness.  Then an incredible thing happened. I walked throughout the house, into Plum’s room, with this child in my arms and my heart exploded. I looked into her eyes, she smiled and finally slept and I was lost in the déjà vu. Plum’s room that once was a nursery, the toy room that once was mama’s room. Looking out the front windows as birds fluttered from tree to tree, remembering the hours Plum and I sat and watched and sang our “Birdie” song which will never be heard outside our home. Carrying the second child, the sibling, brought a gush of emotion I didn’t anticipate. When I loved him throughout all those walks and rocks to sleep, I was dreaming of the possibilities. Now I have a model of what a grandchild running about the yard looks like. Now I have a real vision to attach to the dreams of pounding feet on the steps and toys scattered about the living room. My soul told Miss Sweetness that one day she too could rush about the back yard and dig in the mud, that we would do experiments in the kitchen and take so many bubble baths. My heart sang to her and she slept in my arms.

Later, as I tried to explain to Plum just how amazing it was to carry his sister around the house, how I remembered doing the same with him, I choked up and began to cry. He said, “Yeah, I know, happy tears.” Joy in the carrying, the sharing, the remembering. Joy in Sweetness sleeping as I walked and rocked and patted her tiny bottom, a rhythm so intrinsic to my body, I music that I hear only with a baby in my arms. The dance of motherhood, of long nights and anguished evenings with colicky babies, my body moves of its own accord. God brought some joy over to our home, a delightful sprinkling of baby coos and remembered dreams. One day I know this home will be filled with all of our grandchildren, Plum shepherding all the little girls about the yard and establishing rules about the toy room. He was here first, will always be the one who broke us in. He opened us so wide, destroyed any walls we tried to erect to protect our hearts, he paved the way for his little sister and his cousins and a new sister to come. He taught us to love under extreme circumstances and to forgive beyond our abilities and desires. He teaches us that he is worth every sacrifice, worth every discomfort and to keep showing up.

In the dark days I never dared even dream of this day thus I know that anything is possible through God’s grace and relentless pursuit of our hearts. I carried my granddaughter through our home and whispered love to her. I told her I carried her big brother the same way. I told her I carried her cousin Princess the same way. I pray I get the chance to know my newest granddaughter while she is still carriable.  One day I will write about Princess visiting again, filling the bird feeder on her own tree. She will introduce me to her sister. Another granddaughter due in May, so many little girls. They will come to play and make messes and I will cry, watching them all through the blur. Plum will assure everyone there is nothing to worry about, he knows my happy tears. After all, they fell on him first.
Blur

The 20% Path Towards Easter

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef5 Comments

I awoke sweaty, kicking off blankets, seeking cooler air. Groggy from the heat and deep sleep, I struggled to determine the source of my fevered state. A quick check to the left for the heating blanket controls next to my bed revealed I had been tricked again, the dial reading “H,” a setting I haven’t used in ages. Certainly not for an unseasonably warm February night. My little trickster usually reserves this move for the early mornings, his effort to wake me before our internal alarms say we can rise. But 2:00 am, way too early. A slow look right showed not only had Plum messed with my dials, he had infiltrated my bed and was sleeping soundly on my pillow, edging me out of my spot. Something happened during the night to send him into gran’s bed, seeking comfort and protection. How had I slept through this? Once I would have woken at the slightest noise, hearing everything throughout the night. Learning as a child that night time was dangerous and sleep made me vulnerable, I rarely really rested. Now a small child can seemingly climb right over me, get under the covers and scoot me aside and still I slept on. Oddly enough, this is a good thing. It signals a clear sense of safety.

Childhood sexual abuse carries into adulthood, alters reality so dramatically that merely sleeping soundly is a huge win. But what other effects have I held onto without really questioning, without deciding to address? What if I did alter that abuse DNA to live more wholly, more fully? The topic came up as I talked with my small group of friends and smugly spouted my stance on pain management, pain levels, pain awareness. Even as I spoke I knew I was sinking into the realm of the absurd, somehow I couldn’t stop myself from trying to defend the indefensible. My ears could hear how wrong I was, my practice and habits bespoke years of training. Maybe I unconsciously wanted to be chided, to be questioned on the validity of my long held beliefs. It worked, I am rethinking.

In order to be a good victim to an adult abuser, you must learn to ignore your own body. You must learn to shutdown warning signs and your learn that pain is a choice, one you cannot afford to experience. You must learn to be quiet, very very quiet. You must learn to escape your body.  In order to be a healthy adult who has survived childhood sexual abuse, much unlearning is required. Years of therapy have gotten me about 80% there I think, on a good day. I have learned to speak up, to protect myself, to stay in my body. But that last bit, really owning my own body and caring for it, I just haven’t conquered. As I explained to my friends, I was a child who would stand outside and wet my pants, completely unaware that my bladder needed emptying. In many ways, I am still that child. Years of ignoring basic needs such as this have led to real medical bladder issues. Years of ignoring body cues to eat that for a time exhibited as anorexia, now look like missed meals and poor food choices.  Lack of awareness about my body makes reporting symptoms to doctors for routine neurological appointments a nightmare. I don’t know, I can’t remember, my standard answers. For most of my adult life this has worked for me, in the sense that I was okay with what I considered my quirks and felt no compulsion to address them.

These last several months with Chef, who has felt real pain and desolation in the stripping of his identity, have called on me to be a better person than I am. There, I said it. Like waking at every creak of the house as it settles during the night, I have old thinking that is disturbing my life now. As I tried to defend my position to my friends, I ultimately decided that maybe I am just a bitch. Wow. Angry ugly labeling to describe my adult self, still it is easier than choosing to address the core. Would I rather remain unkind than own that I am removed from my feelings for good cause? Looking at the source means resurrection of the worst kind, traveling a path that is dark and scary, enough to send the child me into granny’s bed, seeking comfort and protection. But I am the gran, I am the parent, I am the one to provide the comfort to my own broken self. Not trusting that is enough, I stay entrenched in the separation, not realizing that I am no longer hurting me, a pain I don’t feel, but hurting my Chef. I think I have finally reached a point where this is unacceptable. (I suspect Chef will raise his arms in victory at the reading of this.)

I realize that I was once so close to healing, so close to joining my body.  The estrangement with my daughter, a young woman who was guiding me into adulthood as much as I her, left me adrift, afraid. She was my realtime example of brave women who could feel things and do things and laugh out loud. Then she disappeared under the influence of a dangerous narcissistic man who turned her into her own cowering self. We have both shrunken. We have both hidden. We cannot find a way to connect and I stay separate from much of me. But what if God has brought new women along, put some women on my path to guide me back into me? Am I brave enough to accept the challenge to stop being unkind, to shed the label of bitch and finish the last 20% to fully inhabit me? I am convinced that is what God wants. I fill certain that is what Chef would love.

Self-care is just a phrase I speak, words I type, something I have never practiced. I know the importance of putting on your own oxygen mask. Lent is soon to begin and as always, I am giving a great deal of thought to what I will give up. More and more I am realizing I am being called to give up that last 20%. Thus Lent may not look like fasting for me but eating.  Really eating.  Lent may not look like solitude for me, but engaging.  Really engaging.  Giving up chocolate or Coke made the Easter celebration delightful, for sure. Inhabiting all of me may well please God beyond the 40 days.

I may ask for prayers along the way, I may wish I had given my M&M addiction up to the Lord for the season.  I hope to share with you my struggles to keep me honest and on the path. 40 days towards 20%, starting March 1. (I don’t want to get ahead of myself, I may stay a bit aloof for a few more days.)

Translate

More Than One Dress

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella, The Chef, Travel1 Comment

I bought this dress on a whim while on a trip about a year ago, full of expectation and brimming with the hope that I would be the kind of person who wore that dress. It was a vacation kind of dress, bright fun colors, a bit shorter in cut. It required some sass, a bit of pizzazz to wear. I intended to have those, I wanted to have enough confidence to wear this dress. I purchased it, packed it in my suitcase, brought it home and hung it in my closet where it has stayed all this time. The dress began to mock me recently, laughing as I walked by, knowing it was not for me and I was not for it. I wanted to be that person but the dress just did not fit my vision of me. Oddly though, every time I looked at it fully, I saw not my shortcomings but a vision of my friend. I could not get her out of my head with each pass through the closet. She has sass, she has pizzazz, she routinely wears dresses.  She has been allowing her hair to go gray and has the exact right coloring for this dress. I knew this dress was not me, but surely it was her. Finally, the dress was removed from my closet and now resides in hers. I don’t know if my vision really matches her reality, this could be just a  traveling clothing item that is searching for the right home. Still, I am sure this dress was not for me, the real me. It felt good to let it go, to walk peacefully through my closet and not feel mocked at who I am not, but rather to see my big sweaters and longer, darker dresses, also to see the t-shirts from marches and issues I support sprawled around my shelves. The closet reflects me.

When I was younger, I wanted to heal the world. I was an activist social worker, I wanted to make a difference. I was on track but messages from childhood competed with the education I was receiving in college. I can see now that I was scared, afraid of being on my own, not married, not sure I was capable of protecting myself. My desire to be a mother erupted and overtook my personhood. My life trajectory was forever altered. I don’t regret those years, still it is only with hindsight that I see I gave all to only one aspect of me. I only ever wore one dress at a time. When my children left to begin their own lives, their own relationships and choices with consequences that severed our ability to stay connected, I was left naked. My one dress was gone. I can hear myself tell Chef repeatedly through angry hurtful tears, “But I am a mom, that is who I am.” The sound of my own voice crying out that plea to let me go back, put on my old identity, begging God to just let us all go back, it still breaks my heart as it reverberates in my mind. Like the children of Israel who followed Moses out of slavery, I didn’t understand I was being freed. I didn’t see that while walking in the wilderness, God was leading me by day with the clouds and at night in my fiery dreams. I could only complain about wanting more, what to go back to the known. Yet, God had more for me, wanted more for me, knew that I am more. I didn’t know I was shedding. I did know it was horrible and painful. I didn’t know if there was anything after, if there would be any me left when all that had been was scrapped away.

Wearing roles as my identity is much like that dress, I wanted them to fit. I wanted to be enough for them, them enough for me. Shedding those roles that once defined me has been an excruciating process, not one I would have chosen any more than giving up on this pretty dress. Pain in the peeling, the leaving behind, fear of the resulting emptiness. If I take away “mom” will I disappear?  I did for a bit. I sat in the nothingness, my skin raw as the last vestiges of who I thought I was slid away, unable to expose the fresh tender me to the sunlight. The hiding time was healing time, though. God was growing me into my new skin, from the inside out, not allowing me to don another role of caregiver as my new dress. Hindsight allows me to see that my year of seclusion looks much like a time of wrestling that old skin away, much like my beasts hurling themselves against the huge trees outside, rubbing their bodies from nose to butt against the rough bark to help remove their winter hair. Clumps fall away, get caught in the wind, beasts run with abandon feeling lighter and less itchy. Many trips to the tree, much hurling and tossing about, barks and yips breaking the quiet. Growing into the new is hard, is a process.

I am new. I am becoming more of me. The struggle to assert my personhood even causes friction in my marriage as we establish room, more space for a bigger me. Like the dress that doesn’t fit, not just a size up is needed, an entirely different style. Communication, assertiveness, determination, skills required as Chef realizes he wed one woman and is living with another. We are sweeping up the clumps of hair, wrestling with our evolving selves and how God wants us to stand together to be new and united. I can see that Chef is in the beginning stages of the peeling away, the horrible painful time of losing it all to find what is underneath, to find his more. I have cleaned out his closet to remove those clothes that mock him as well. Now he sits in the nothingness, losing clumps of himself and wondering what will remain, will anything remain. I know, I want to shout with joy, I know so surely, that God is leading him out of this wilderness and into his own time of growth and new identity that is pleasing to God and in fulfillment of His plans. It is okay that Chef doesn’t know, doesn’t always believe, I do.

My raw skin has healed, I am free and new. I am a person of God. I will always be a mom, be grandma. But I am more. My closet is a mixed mess of colors and styles, ready to take me anywhere from the back of my brother’s Harley to Sunday morning church. It takes me to meetings for all the ministries I am involved in and out to the dirt to play. There are comfy clothes for writing time and Tom’s shoes to make my statements.  I pray I never get stuck wearing one dress again, as beautiful and tempting as it may be. I am more.

 

 

 

 

Expectation
Sound

Delightful Roar

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

Two nights in a row Plum went to bed quite unhappy with me. Highly unusual, this is our snuggle time, the precious moments when his last wonderings of the day spur questions that fascinate me, when he wants to be a bit closer, when he reverts to being just a tiny bit smaller. I love bedtime, when our guards fall down under the nightlight glow and we can be our truest selves. Not so on these last couple of nights though. The first was after being at church too late, bedtime pushed far enough back that self-control was lost. Somewhere between the church front doors and ours, he morphed from my sweet boy into a horrid monster who found no delight in my presence. I was good with that, not the morphing really, but I didn’t take it personally, it had nothing to do with me and everything to do with tiredness and my role as the enforcer of pajamas and brushed teeth and butt into bed.  He very nicely in his horrible monster voice told me he only wanted grandpa and that I could not snuggle with him. His precious sing-song voice roared that he wanted to put a sign on the door saying no grandmas allowed. Delightful child. I accepted the rules of engagement, sent in Chef and told them both to hush and go to sleep. The miracle of the sunrise brought my sweet boy back to me. Until bedtime the following night.

I have read that it only takes one time of doing something to create a habit with a cat, maybe Stella taught me this. I think Plum thought he was on to something, was in touch with his feline side. I declined his offer of exile and chose instead to pick up one of our love books and begin reading over the growls and hisses next to me. A weird thing happened though. He stopped. He settled in. He forgot that he was mad at me while listening to me tell him all the ways that I love him.

I get it, he is growing older. He wants his grandpa more. Trust me, I know, everyone wants grandpa more. Still, I want those precious moments as long as I can have them, those still quiet minutes before he drifts off.  Those are the times I remind him that my love will follow him anywhere. Right now he thinks those books are about him and I which is true. My love will follow him even when he turns into a horrid monster and turns me away.  But one day it will occur to him that I was whispering to him each night as he slide into slumber about God’s love. That a greater love than mine follows him. That a deeper love than mine forgives his monster morphing and knows the Sonrise will always lead him back. I am sure of this because sometimes I morph also, too tired to resist the bait, fall into temptation of anger and strong words, morphing into my own worst self. Then I rely on the love of God to bring me back, I listen for His loving words to invite me back into fellowship and grace.

Fortunately our morphings are pretty rare, we mostly delight in nighttime book reading and quiet questions. Maybe a new habit has begun though, one in which I am banished from his room and Chef is the hero. A new stage in our journey, perhaps. Like sneaky cats that seek out a new solution to any problem, I just have to find new ways to show him God’s love endures. Awareness of our changing relationship requires that I give him the space to push me away and know that I will never go too far. I can morph into that.

Aware

Wanna Race?

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef6 Comments

Plum’s shoes had grown holes in the toes, a bit of a slash in the tread. Back to school shoes that survived into second semester were now screaming to retire. I picked up a new shiny pair while out running errands, hoping the amount of green on them would be acceptable. There always has to be green. I left them in Chef’s car while I went on to church to begin the Wednesday evening meal. Then it began to snow, a really good snow that quickly covered the sidewalks and silenced my worries as the world grew quiet. I prepped and cooked in peace until a little boy crashed into my kitchen cocoon carrying his new box of shoes. Hat, mittens, coat and boots went flying as he rushed to open the box, a new pair of shoes!  I tried to slow the process, remind him to hang up what he had tossed but new shoes awaited. Scissors were located, tags and that elastic string cut. Tissue paper form holders removed, the shoes made contact with his feet.  The magic happened.

Children with new shoes know, just know that they are suddenly faster. They have amazing abilities that either come with the clean tread or are enhanced by the fresh fit. They can jump higher, are able to win all the races, have limitless potential. Favorite color only seems to enhance their magic. The laces were barely tied and he was off. The still vacant hallways provided the needed outlet, he challenged Chef to a race. Laughter and taunts mixed with the aromas of dinner almost ready. New shoes, new perspective.

That night, he dreamt about those shoes, about racing with his friend from church. He and J share dinner each week under the supervision of J’s mom, I can’t watch over Plum while managing the food line. This week they decided they were grown enough to sit all by themselves, sent adults to the adjoining table. I love this friendship, I love that as soon as they see each other, they hug. I am not surprised that Plum spent his sleeping time with both his good friend and his new shoes, following the directive I give him each night as I kiss his forehead, “Have sweet sweet sugar boy dreams.”  He dreamt that he had green shoes and J had blue shoes and they raced around the church hallways, each winning some of the races. He laughed again in the retelling of his dream, the joy of the race as real as If it were true. He delighted in his time with J, with his new shoes, they BOTH had new shoes.

It is not lost on me that in Plum’s dream, he substituted in his best buddy for his grandpa. Interchangable. What a testimony to the love they share, the connection that has never been broken, the trust established. Chef is the fun grandparent and also the one who gets those extra snuggles when things are rocky. Chef has taught this child how to have friends, how to be a friend. He is teaching him how to be a man. One day Plum will buy new shoes for a child and accept the challenge of a race. I know he will remember all the times his grandpa paid for his shoes and then lost out to him at the finish line, with a good natured high five and a request for another chance. I know he will look back and rejoice in his grandpa who has been with him from the beginning and lets him sometimes lose because that makes him stronger, gives him character. Plum knows I am the disciplinarian but still an easy mark. I  more often than not let him win, haunted by all that he has already lost. One day Plum will buy his own shoes and begin of running fast, I pray towards his goals and all that God has planned for him.

On days that are hard, I want to remember that feeling, that new shoe freedom and confidence that I can run faster, climb higher, go the distance. God gives me that, everyday. Sometimes all I can see are scuffed up broken down holey old sneakers, my life in tatters and my self-esteem shot. New shoes, just out-of-the-box super powers are awaiting in the form of prayer and devotion. Favorite psalms and lines of scripture to speed my pace and reset my perspective, prophets to remind me of what can be, what is. Centering myself in my faith is where the “magic” happens. My wakeful dreams are of a world where I have that feeling to spur me on but also, my friends and my not-yet friends have it as well, we all have “new shoes.”    Let’s pretend just for today the magic has happened, the box is waiting for us to open. What would you achieve ? How high could you climb? Let’s open our faith box and find our new shoes. Mine will of course be blue or maybe teal. What color will yours be? Wanna race?

 

Pursuing the Lost

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

The commons area outside of the sanctuary was overflowing as the second service released, all those in Sunday school classrooms joined in search of coffee and conversation, the 3rd service attendees entered the building. A normal 11:00 site except that I was missing Plum, a miscommunication between Chef and the teachers in Plum’s crowded classroom area allowed him to be released into the larger church area without Chef really knowing. Plum tried to follow Chef but lost sight of him so he took his handful of newly crafted tissue paper flowers and colored bible verses into the sanctuary to lay on the seats we always choose. Seeing the chance to escape, he took the opportunity to hit the senior high room where video games awaited. Meanwhile, Chef sat chatting with coffee in hand, wondering when Plum would be released. Chef never picks him up, his class usually runs longer and chatting happens in the hallway after. I am the one who picks up, I linger in the commons during the second service and chat and tend to ministries and wait for them both to be done with classes.  I know eye contact with the teacher above the many rushing children and seeking parents means “I am here, I will take my grandson now.” The number of children, the crowded space by the door require that some of us stand further back. I look, she looks, I wait. That is our signal. We haven’t discussed this, it is honed from weeks and weeks of crowd control and successful connections. I haven’t discussed our method with Chef. One of the many conversations that don’t take place, considered unnecessary as we all play our parts, cogs in the machine. One added move, a change in the order, though, and we have a grandma frantically searching the crowded narthex for a little boy, a frenzied search that grows ever more so with each passing second.

Suddenly the sea of people who were mostly all friends became barriers, they were hindering me, I needed them all to MOVE OUT OF MY WAY.  Friends turned into strangers who I feared, I wanted to scream above the din. Cursing the circular design of the church as I wondered if Plum was going left while I went right. I stationed someone at the doors, hollered over the masses to Chef that our Plum was missing, gave the one sentence to Janet as I passed her in a hallway that every mother understands, “I can’t find Plum.” Trusted community mobilized, panic spiraling into terror with each passing second, spying Janet through windows as she searched left, right.  Rounding the hallways, afraid to move too far from the front doors, right, left, back into the sanctuary, around the commons, repeat. I could barely breathe. In my fear, it didn’t occur to me to check the one room that holds the most appeal: the video game and couch luring Plum into Chef’s Sunday school room. Another sweep through the halls and I heard voices first, “Found Him!” I arrived to see Chef, Janet and Chef’s co-leader all converged on this room, around a Plum who was slightly frustrated that he couldn’t keep up with his grandpa, a Plum who knew he would be found, didn’t even know he was lost.   Mustering the tiny bit of self-control I had left, I sank into a nearby chair and allowed them all to handle the first line of questions. I really wanted to push through even these most trusted friends and grab this child, hold on until my breathing was restored. When I summoned him to me, a necessary act that meant I didn’t doing any grabbing, I tried to find the balance between expressing how important it is to stay with trusted adults and not scaring him. Time will tell if I achieved that, I think a second conversation may be necessary. I want him to feel safe at church, safe with all of those adults, in the hallways, away from my eyesight. I want to feel safe with him more than a step away from me as well.

I tell Plum all the time he is my favorite. As of this writing, he is the only male grandchild so I am safe in this designator. This child has seen some horror in his life already, is feeling the pain of two critical but disconnected relationships, still is mostly well adjusted. He is my treasure. I reflected all day on Jesus’s parable of the lost sheep, leaving the 99 to search for that one who left the fold. I can only imagine the panic in God’s heart as He watches us wander off, as He sends out the search party to bring us back to the sanctuary. Oh my God, I am so sorry for those times I have wandered beyond the hallways that circle your altar, the times I ignored the calls of those trying to find me. That I have caused that terror in His heart while I played games, I could just cry again. Still, how comforting to know that just as I would never stop searching for my Plum, my God will pursue me, will stay after my soul. I am his treasure. So are you. Can you hear His frantic calls for us to return? Is He asking you to join a search party for a lost sheep?

My heart still quickens at possibilities yesterday. When I told mama what happened, admitting up front that we had a “bit of an issue,” her response was calming. “Pretty safe place to get lost, at church.”  I too get lost there almost every time I visit, lost in His mercy, lost in His grace. I am keeping my eye out for others who feel frantic, who feel lost or that something is missing. As God’s favorite, I need to be ready to join the search party. Today though, I mostly need to remember what was found and let go of the panic that still threatens to paralyze me. Plum was safe all along and he knew it.  So am I. God is always pursuing us, even more than a crazed gran after her favorite.

Holy Moments

On By LisaIn Faith, PlumLeave a comment

Plum decided he didn’t want to go to children’s time at church a couple of weeks ago, he preferred to climb on the steps and hang off of the railings. It was a Wednesday evening and I had no time to deal with his shenanigans. I asserted my views as I passed by carrying dishes to the kitchen, again as I went through for another trip. He was deep in conversation with Chef who had a group awaiting as well. The clock was moving ever closer to that moment when we all separate into our small collections of studies but also closer to Plum’s bedtime. Wednesday nights at church are a bit rough. Chef was finding minimal success in reasoning with this child who was enjoying his captive audience, who really just wanted our attention and to not be at church now that the running wildly through the hallway portion was over. Janet walked by, quickly assessed the situation as only a mother can and asked Plum to help her find her son so they could go to kids time. He went with her without looking back at us.

Several weeks ago I was stationed at a big table in the commons area of church, providing information about a new ministry when Janet’s daughter joined me in the extra chair. We chatted during the chaos of the comings and goings between services and then practiced her multiplication tables when it grew quiet, everyone either in a Sunday school or the service. It wasn’t until the doors to the sanctuary opened that she mentioned she might be in trouble for skipping her class!  She was not where she was supposed to be, where her parents trusted her to go, but on this day she was where she needed to be. A bit of one-on-one, no new information coming in, a review of what was troubling her. We found a pattern, a way for her mind to click and grab and explore the numbers in a manner that intrigued her. No one stops this child when she is in that mode. She didn’t get in trouble for staying at the table with me, the math helped. We conquered 6 x7.

What if we were all that intentional, available, noticing the moments that a subtle shift of our attention could change the course of someone’s day? I am not advocating the judgmental grocery store tongue clucking as a two-year old flops on the floor in a fit of rage while mom tries to remember why she ever wanted kids. I am not encouraging parental pointers during that moment, but I am not opposed to a pat on mama’s back to say we have all been there, (really, who hasn’t?) to encourage her and then move along. What I am suggesting is being present in those times with people we do know, folks we are in relationship with, who could use a different voice or more importantly a fresh ear. I am suggesting being aware that sometimes children will follow a trusted adult to their class by virtue of that relationship. Let the child go, be that adult sometimes. Children will self-select a cocoon at a table with a trusted adult sometimes, be that adult.

Children tell us with words but more clearly with behavior when they need a break, sometimes we miss those cues until it is too late. As adults we train ourselves to ignore many of our own signals and those of others, not recognizing that God is in those tiny moments. Our Father is in the grace we offer the harried mother and the tired grandpa and the cranky children who want to go to bed or are worried about 6×7.  Do we slow down to see how truly offering ourselves in those times is showing up as Jesus to lepers? Let’s face it, a melting -down child is surely about as attractive as those who were ostracized, sent to separate colonies. But also, how interested are we in the complaining friend, the old man who tells stories we have heard many times, the slightly stinky woman who sits too close?Do we recognize the child in each, do we see the God in all?

Personally I find it much more palatable to wash the dishes than talk to people at church, I am just rather introverted.  Behind that reticence though lies fear, a hold over from childhood, rooted in distrust. But when someone stops and really checks in with me, they are speaking to the child within, leading me back to the classroom. When I receive a text message inviting me to come to a group, one well advertised to the entire congregation, I feel nurtured in the midst of my stinkiness, a holy moment.  When a friend listens to my complaining for the umteenth time and doesn’t roll her eyes, she is caring for the cranky child who is tired and needs a nap and some stability. How blessed am I to be surrounded by those who offer up grace when I least deserve it, when I feel like flopping on the floor and kicking my feet and raging that it is not fair?

I pray that I can see those moments also, that I recognize the child in those around me who need an extra cookie and a glass of milk and to know that someone is aware that they exist, not just that they are there, but they ARE. Being seen at our worst and still valued, led to a safe place by a calm voice, a chance to practice our math and work out what worries us, this is holiness. God is in those moments and He wants me there too. Friend, I SEE you. Have I told you lately that you are important to me? I really enjoy what you bring to our relationship. Want a cookie? By the way, do you happen to know what 6×7 is?

Recognize

I’ll Take a #2 with Fries

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum2 Comments

My Plum chose that exact moment when I sat down for lunch to explode with anger at Mama’s house. I know this because she phoned me in support, finally over his antics and ready to call in the big guns, The Gran. I could hear his stomping and screaming through the phone. Her calm voice told me she was not further enraging him, he was ignited and burning all alone. Lunch abandoned on the table, I headed over and considered what to say to a 6 year old who was fighting against his world. Mama expected back up, as would he. Given that my balance is all but gone these days, I was pretty sure I was risking getting burnt myself. I called in my own big gun, the ultimate fight settler, I said a quick pray that I would be the water to refresh them all and help restore calm.

I found a home brimming with frustration and that lack of patience that comes when sleep is a concept you remember hearing about but no longer experience, like the heat of summer during frigid winter mornings. You know July will return but it does you little good in January when your toes are icy and your nose is running and your bones feel brittle. A home with a newborn doesn’t remember what deep sleep feels like, eyes are always just a bit glazed and dazed, conversations have a way of faltering as mamas and daddies lose track of words and sentences. Is it any wonder a 6 year old is able to push everyone up against the cold walls of reaction with just a tiny response, a slightly negative raise of his ever so cute eyebrow, a bit of sass the arches from his mouth to his mother’s ear and creates an electrical current that catches the house on fire?  You may also see that I am a bit biased toward the child with his stomp and circumstance, I want to stomp a great deal lately as well. Yet I know mama’s heart and I know how she never sets that new baby down and I know she could just fall asleep standing up so she stands very little. I know daddy’s heart, I know that the name of ‘step” anything in the family really means “shit” and all your good works are forgotten by the tiniest misSTEP when you are reminded quite loudly of your outsiderness. Thus I walked into that home and fired my Gun of Gran wisdom at them all, which included a raised voice to get Plum’s attention, some negotiation, some explanation, a heavy dose of the Commandments, quite a bit of hugging, some wound management and practicing the fine art of atonement. An hour later I returned home to my cold lunch with my gun chambers emptied but my heart completely filled.

This little family modeled for me exactly what I need right now. I want to see more puppies and kittens but the world is hard, we are weary. We are stomping and shouting and just want each other to do the thing we want and forget that we ALL count and that history impacts our moment, our choices. As I sat on the step and asked Plum if maybe he thought God might have an idea about how he was supposed to behave at home, he said, yeah, honor God. I pushed more, how about that one rule about how we are supposed to treat our parents? Blank look.  Like he had never heard this before. I know for a fact he has colored pages and listened to Sunday school teachers on this commandment. We have discussed it.  In that moment though, it was gone. Whether by convenience or necessity, he just couldn’t find what God wanted him to do. (I know that feeling, sweetie, oh Lord I know that feeling.)  Nothing to do but remind him of God’s rule about honoring our father and mother. Waiting, sure the light would shine in those beautiful eyes, but no, he doubled down, sunk his head in his hands and told me I had it all wrong. He provided the much needed levity for mama and daddy as he stuck to his guns and assured me he is to obey God but is perfectly just in making faces, scratching and fighting and throwing laundry at his parents. Clearly he needed a nap, I promised we would check with Miss Emily and Miss Suzanne to see if Gran was making stuff up, as we retrieved his special blanket and he climbed on my lap for some rocking and snuggling.

Still, I couldn’t help thinking about my own times of defiance.  How often do I stick to the absolute wrong thing and ignore the teaching because I just DO NOT want to acknowledge my error, I DO NOT WANT to do the hard stuff, I DO NOT want to atone? I have colored those Sunday school pages, I know those Commandments, contrary to what my Plum thinks. I know the right thing to do. When God sits me on the steps and asks me if I remember His rules, I know I often dodge the question. I know I put my head in my hands and challenge Him that what He is wanting from me is just entirely too much, I may even shout that those rules are too hard to follow and I like my own list better. I prefer during those difficult times to treat God’s big 10 like value meals on the screen at the drive-up:”I’ll take a number 2, sure you can biggie size that. Oh no, that’s all for me today, thanks.” At those times, I know God sees how tired I am, how far away warmth feels to my cold scared soul, and he sends in the big guns of kittens and puppies and mamas and daddies and a Plum to show me the way. I pray we all find our sources of hope and laughter during the days ahead, when our souls are being expanded to accommodate the hurting and the scared and the “Steps” around us. That expansion is excruciating, I pray we remember to warm each other whenever possible, to grab our special blankets and rock in the arms of our God. I pray we remember that the rest of our family, the others out there,  may have been fighting much longer than us, we may be asked to join in order to make the blast from the big gun felt.  They need our voices to rise up to ensure we are all heard, all of God’s children. We need to rely on each other when we are too tired to stand. I pray we just keep holding each other up and when we can’t remember all those Commandments, let’s follow that one bit that Jesus told us and I told Plum on the stairs:

34-35 “Let me give you a new command: Love one another. In the same way I loved you, you love one another. This is how everyone will recognize that you are my disciples—when they see the love you have for each other.” John 13:34-35  The Message (MSG)

I’m gonna check with Miss Emily and Miss Suzanne to be sure, but I think it boils down to we are supposed to be kind to each other. I’ll keep you posted.

 

 

 

 Replacement