Category: Plum

stories of life with a our beautiful grandson

How To Make Friends: Plum 101

On By LisaIn Faith, PlumLeave a comment

Plum raced off of the bus and into the house, past my open arms, over to his art table to grab paper and colored pencils before he had even shed his coat. I trailed behind this little whirlwind trying to sneak a smooch or a bit of a hug to no avail, he was intent on his project. I offered a snack, provided milk and still he was too busy to acknowledge me fully. It seems he made a new friend on the bus, it was a “her” I was informed, and he wanted to write a letter to her. Ahhh, so it begins, I thought. A girl has come between us. I peeked at his letter, mostly in awe that he was able to do all the writing himself, and saw that it contained all the necessary information for a beginning friendship. It was a greeting, a followup on a first contact. “Ha Faline, my name is Plum, the person you sat by.” I did not correct his “ha” into a “hi”, he clearly was on a mission and didn’t ask for back up. After carefully putting his letter in his backpack to be delivered the next time he rides this bus to our house, we could begin our time. New friendships come first.

His school was celebrating the 100th day in session, what a milestone it was. The growth that comes from the first day of kindergarten to now is amazing, from not reading to writing his own letters, from friendships based on our connections to new ones of his choosing.  He is changing each day, growing into a little person and that requires energy and effort, he is more often crabby and sassy with us. He is also more often hilarious with his wit and vocabulary. What I appreciate the most though is his heart that grows more open at an exponential rate to his physical and mental stretching. He shared his 100 day treats with me, said he would have had more but Faline was hungry on the bus so he gave her one of his special baggies of food. The much anticipated treat bags, like the bonus packages you get for going to a birthday party, who gives those away?

I hear people talk about the difficulty of making friends, connecting with others, after college or outside of work. I think Plum has provided the blueprint, he certainly understands that to have a friend you must be a friend. Sit with someone new, share your cookies, follow up with a note. Seeing those around us who are not in our circle, who may not have a treat bag, who may delight in meeting someone new, requires that we are focused outward rather than on our self. No worries about not having enough snacks, about misspellings, about whether or not she will like his letter or him, he moved out into the world. I love this child, I love his heart. I love his sassy mouth because I know that he may have used up all of his nice throughout the day and has little left for me. I love his faith that if he shares what is in his backpack, he will not go hungry. I love that God is so visible in this child I would have to be blind to miss Him, I would have to ignore His offers of shared joy and notes of introduction, over and over. I love the soul of this child who shows me how to do it all. I love that he offered his cookies even to me, when there was only a small bit left. I want to move actively out of my comfort zone and into the world, seeing the hungry and finding more friends. I plan to follow Plum’s lead.

Ha, I’m Lisa, wanna be friends? I have some gifts to share, I bet you do as well.

Jolted

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

Having spent the better part of a month watching Grey’s Anatomy (very late to this party, yeah yeah) I am convinced of two things: 1) I am pretty much qualified to perform cardio-thoracic surgery and 2) shocking a person with major jolts of electricity is sometimes necessary to save them. Surely my pastor would rather I found my life lessons in his sermons, inspiration in my small groups, greater understanding of my world through bible study. Still trashy tv sometimes settles my tired mind into a place that can absorb all those things, allows the thoughts that swirl too quickly throughout the day to find a resting place as I snuggle in and just stop thinking. Who knew I would see the hope and plan of God in the antics of raunchy surgeons?

Certainly attending a funeral just days before my birthday ratchets up the mortality swirls and twists of my pondering. Considering who would come, what would they say, what would be my legacy, maybe enough to jump start my life. A God jolt asking if I feel done, do I want more. How many times do I need my heart restarted before I get up and accept the recovery and take the healing offered? Choices that land one in the place of requiring that shock of paddles onto chest, the bad food or extra stress, all amount to poisoning the temple where God resides. Would I really sully the sanctuary with bitterness and alcohol, with anger and inertia? Why allow those toxins into my life? Yes God can handle my very real feelings, but I have to be willing to give them up, not share them with Him and then take them back, gathered like precious jewels, family heirlooms, keepsakes.  Crying out to my Father with my aching heart is modeled for me throughout the ages, filling my heart back up with my moanings is not. An offering of my pain, not the pure goat or pristine lamb, but the bloated crippled hobbled creature I have nurtured for too long, that needs to be sacrificed at the altar. Laid bare and left behind. Carrying around a damaged heart without accepting the healing offered, so readily available, sullies my temple body and slowly squelches the life right out of me. Then the God jolt comes, the chance for a new life, a fresh start.

I listened during this funeral service as family and friends spoke of a life lived to the fullest, a life now mourned because her passing left a hole too big for anyone to imagine filling. I felt hit with the paddles, an invitation to leave such a mark, not out of pride but to have served God so fully that when I move on, someone might be inspired to carry on good stuff in my name. She was quite different from me, those words shared about her were uniquely hers. My purpose is mine, my legacy will be different. The chairs filled, the stories told, every one of us has our own chance to start today with that jolt to wake up and live towards our purpose or continue to carry our bloated disillusionment and pain. Which is worse, to admit to watching trashy tv or acknowledge that I felt my mourning during a an incredibly moving funeral service mix with an energizing force? I was electrocuted with hope for a new day, the possibility of a life lived with meaning.

I also learned from my time with the medical show that most patients didn’t expect to be on the table with the wires strapped to their chests, they didn’t know that was their day. I learned about the “surge” that comes with knowing death is near, the need to draw family close and right all the wrongs. What if instead of waiting for the surge, we pretended we were on the table, offering up our lives to God and letting him control the paddles? Jolt of new life, a restart today, an invitation to sacrifice our grudges and toxic unforgiveness and accept the grace of a new breath, fresh holy air into our lives.

Birthdays invite us to pause and reflect, to take note of progress and purpose and paths not taken. Funerals ask us to if we have made those birthdays meaningful, not just a count of the candles on our cake but an assessment of each day in between the year markings. God jolted my heart again this week, reminded me I still have more life to live, another chance to right some wrongs, to offer hope to others who see only darkness, a bit more love to share. My heart is electrified, my soul is opening to this new year. My legacy may be that I just keep trying, a broken woman who won’t stay down. What will you do with your surge? Today is our day, all of us. Wake up, let’s make it count.

Invitation

Open For Visitors

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

I swear it was not planned, at least not by me. I just wrote about my new office, described my sanctuary. I didn’t get into the nitty-gritty of each item that made the cut, the thoughtful decisions of final resting places either on my window sill, the bookcase or a shelf, the absolute tyranny I wield over this space because I arranged it and it is filled with my stuff and it is mine! The less attractive details that give a peek into my ache for some bit of determination into just a bit of something, a tiny piece of control over where I at least put my own basket or cup of pencils. I have been working on letting go of what is not mine, the “give it all to God” plan that I battle with so often. That work doesn’t include my office.  The pottery that sits on my desk, I want that just off to the right where my eye catches it every time I reach for my coffee. It reminds me of Janet who brings honesty and grace into my life, sees my brokenness and has never shied away. The picture of my brother and I when we reached Colorado, I want to see it each morning and remember I can do hard and uncomfortable things and be rewarded with amazing insights into God’s creation. The pieces of twine, fraying snips of string, those are my reminders of connections to friends from back home, back when, who stand with me and for me with love, women far away  but who can be reached with just a tug. Another picture is off to the left, where my politics and a deep friendship from college have settled, a drawing from an art fair that captures my faith and this friendship. It reminds me the artist knew my daughter, back when. No random objects here, nothing buried under a hoarding mess. My office is an exquiste time capsule, not fancy surely, but all a reflection of me and my life travels.

Then Plum came to visit. He didn’t know he was intruding, he didn’t know he was supposed to stay out or knock first on the slightly opened door, he didn’t know that the books were arranged on shelves by topic and size. He only knew this room was most recently his play area and his gran was now in it and his gran delights in all that he does and … can you see that it really wasn’t his fault? Yet I grew tense, I suggested we play out in the living room, I offered that maybe Grandpa wanted to play a game with him. Even more appalling, he brought a laundry basket overflowing with several of his closest stuffed friends, dumped them out on my floor then proceeded to develop an elaborate storyline of how each one was finding this space welcoming. Certainly not the vibe I was putting out. Introductions were made at his insistence then animals read books, colored pictures, climbed the ladder in the corner, scoured the globe, two rather shy ones joined up for a game of hide and seek on the shelves. I am ashamed to admit that at first I was quite twitchy, I only noticed that MY stuff was invaded and jostled and messed up. I left for a minute, screamed in a whisper to Chef, returned with a resigned attitude, ready to ride it out while I tried not to keep checking the time. I sat on my hands while I plastered a smile on to avoid grabbing each toy and throwing them back into the basket and right out the door. How long before I could shut this playdate down?

I almost missed it. So very close to clenching my teeth right over the joy of this child sharing his stories in my writing room, realizing that he was arranging his specials as he created his words as well. Oh dear God help me break out of my rigidity!  This world belongs to our Father first, we claim it as our own with lines drawn on paper, we erect our shelves, arrange our specials and create our stories in the space God created, as if we really did something, forgetting just like Plum in my office space, He was here first. I almost missed that my Plum was copying me, he was setting up a space to then share his words. How could I hold so tightly to my room that I didn’t want to nurture his storytelling?

Thankfully I got the nudge that comes with being open to God first thing in the morning, He reminded me that this room is not really mine, that these objects are memories of my own nurturance and empowerment. He reminded me that the most importance room in my world is the one in my heart for this child. I took some deep breaths, I allowed an elephant to tromp across my desk and a rabbit to frolic on my shelves. A giraffe read a book, a frog climbed the ladder while a dog and a bear shyly found each other and played hide and seek. The moose gardened and the panda explored the globe. Soon they all packed up and left, except the shy friends. Plum decided they were most comfortable now with me and were choosing to stay. He said they enjoyed how I shared with them and felt more at home here rather than up with all the other animals.

I have two new objects in my office, hints to be softer, more inviting, ready to cuddle when the rare chance comes. Two blue scuffed up toys that remind me I wasn’t here first no matter how much I try to claim this space. I am a visitor also, I have to knock first too. God opened the door for me to see His world, the real perfect garden He created in my soul. All of this belongs to God, all of me is His. Will I shut the door, arrange my stuff and sit quietly to reminisce or open myself up to new stories and visitors and the charming sounds of a six year old who teaches me about flexibility and finding new friends?

I like my stuff just how it is, I bet God arranged His garden just as He wanted as well. We are all guilty of making a mess of it,  yet He keeps the door open for us, allows us to enter freely and with forgiveness, we get to bring our scruffy friends and tell our stories and rearrange His people and move His creatures. It seems the further I run into my own space, the more I realize the journey is where I see God, not in the destination of my own little territory. Surely I can follow His example and open my heart room for a few more visitors. Some may even choose to stay.

Exquisite
Marathon

Mistake or Message, We Choose

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella1 Comment

I learned somewhere along the way, before my daughter was born, that nursery rhymes were actually pretty dark tales. Instead of singing those songs to my new sweet innocent child, I changed the lyrics. I sang my own version of “Rock a Bye Baby” that always had me catching her at the end. I altered “Hush Little Baby” mostly because I was exhausted and could never remember the real song, but made up my own rhymes as I walked and rocked a colicky babe hours on end. She was born close to the holidays so Christmas carols were always on my mind, I could remember those easily. She fell asleep to those year round, as did her brother when he came along. “Silent Night” took on new meaning when sung to children at the end of the day. Gazing at their tiny faces, finally resting, finding the angels in the orneriness that so swiftly replaced, holiness that sustains parents.

As she grew older, I created tales for bedtime stories with her as the main character. She begged for these stories nightly, I drew from her experiences throughout the day to color my creations, after hours wakefulness when I felt the least able to make something new. I used her nickname, turned it backwards into an individual child who made bad choices or didn’t want to listen to her parents. She did things like not wear her shoes outside or put on a coat, she was often a bit rough with her brother. This child splashed all the water out of the tub or refused to eat at dinner. Then along comes the heroine of the story, the name turned back right, the child realizes her true self and in an instant begins to right her world. She puts on her shoes or her coat, she cleans up the water in the bathroom, she always says nice things to her brother and kisses his boo-boo’s. Stella adored these stories, they made sense of her life and unwittingly I was reinforcing her memory, reciting each night all that she had done each day.

I have told some stories like this to Plum, we sometimes skip books at night or snuggle in afterward them when he needs a bit more chatter time. He loves to hear my stories with him as the hero, who doesn’t? Mostly though we end our evenings with our “love books,” the sweet and beautiful books by Nancy Tillman. He thinks he is the child in each picture. I so hate that the day will come when it is just an illustration, when he realizes those words are for millions of children, not specifically him. Hopefully the telling every night of my love, the deeper theme of God’s love, will have permeated and it won’t matter.

As a writer, I understand that words matter. I edit and consider and ponder, wondering if my message is clear, concise, truly expressing my meaning. Still sometimes typos sneak through, auto-correct or a rushed publication, maybe a hurried post written with too much emotion and not enough distance, mean the wrong word is out, is said, is written and cannot be taken back. As many times as I have sang songs and read books and created stories to help protect my loved ones, I have mistakenly or wrongly allowed words that hurt to pass from lips or my pen. The entirety of my work surely can show the characteristic of my soul, can one piece be judged by the typo? How I long for the opportunity to edit old letters to my children, to republish the ones filled with love and support, to remind them of our life’s work together. Currently they are stuck finding all the errors, missing the messages. I pray one day my sweet Stella will change back into the other child, who rights her world and remembers that forgiveness and grace are characteristics of the heroine. I take comfort in knowing our story has not yet ended, we are in that middle part with the tension and suspense. One day God will bring restoration, my words will be filled with the glory of reconciliation. Until then, I will keep honing my gift, measuring my words, sharing my stories with those who understand that we are all a bit broken and imperfect.

Specific

Gliding into Gratitude

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

Tissues piled on the table, a glass of orange juice and a cup of hot tea, trashy tv that requires no mental faculties, a warm blanket, all indicators that a virus has hit. I lay on the couch searching for self-pity but none comes. It is just a cold, just a dumb sinus thing and how blessed am I that it waited until after the new baby, after school started, after Christmas and all the celebrations? So I snuggle under the blankets and Chef brings more tea and I doze, floating along in a daze, remembering that rest is healing.

When my children were little, I told them the fighter guys inside of them worked while they slept, that is when they got better. I explained those guys were too busy during the day dealing with all the stuff of just making their bodies work, so at night while they slept, or during the nap I was trying to convince them to take, that is when those guys could work on just the sickness. Medicine was extra fighter guys, sometimes we needed back up. I tell the same thing to Plum, he is more skeptical than my Stella and Arrow were. I often have to get more realistic with him, remind him the doctor always says rest and fluids, get some back up of my own. They slept, he sleeps, I slide into unconsciousness on the couch to the sound of trashy tv and dream of fighter guys healing me, a days gone by when I nursed my children.

The hot tea I drink, a new addition to my fluid choices. After at least a year of me saying I don’t like tea as we met weekly, Janet offered up a cup of the one I thought smelled so good. I curled my lip, I wrinkled my nose, I prepared to waste the cup she brought to me. I already knew the aroma was enticing, still I hated the flavor. I was sure. Yet I sipped, just one tiny taste so as not to be ruder than I already was and then discovered like many times at Janet’s house I had to deliver my “I was wrong” speech. She most often already knows and patiently smiles without telling me so. Like the silent fighter guys, there is healing in trying new things and especially in admitting our own mistakes. The tea I drink now replenishes the fluids I lose when I blow my nose every 10 minutes, warming my hands as I clutch the mug, reminding me of soul healing on better days. The blessing of friendship hovering like the steam that wafts with each new portion.

Chef attends to me, so much sweeter than I when he is sick. I am an impatient nurse to him, physical needs met and then out the door. Maybe more like an orderly, just dropping off food, cleaning up the tissue pile, next dose of meds administered, on to the next patient. I am blessed that my Chef is willing to bring more orange juice even when it isn’t time for rounds, that he will watch dumb tv with me and get up 100 times to deal with the beasts. He offers food multiple times and makes sure I have taken meds. He lets me rest, allows my fighter guys do their thing. He doesn’t add the emotional toll of making me feel like a burden, something I need to work on. Especially because I heard him sneezing yesterday. More tissues, more tea. More rest. As I heal, I must remember that sometimes sickness looks different, sometimes fighter guys need  back up doing waking hours. My Chef deserves a more attentive nurse, more than tea refills.

This forced slowdown is a chance to focus, to zoom in on either myself and my misery or on just how very blessed I am. As the tissue pile grows higher I can’t help but choose to list   all that is right in my world. Maybe I have a fever, maybe I have completely lost it, but laying on the couch with a warm blanket covering me, surrounded by evidence of love and the healing nature of my God, I can barely utter a worthwhile moan. Maybe it is appropriate to begin the new year resting up and drinking more tea, with fighter guys working extra hard. With no crystal ball to see what is ahead, never guessing all that 2016 would have brought, I consider my choices. Sink or Swim? I hope to share more healing this year, less germs and viruses. I hope to remember how it feels to be cared for when I am weak, how freeing it is to admit when I am wrong, how to generously accept others admissions. I hope to swim in a pool of gratitude, never sinking into despair or self-righteousness, ugly viruses that spread more readily than the flu.

May your year find less piles of tissues, extra fighter guys while you rest and many ways to nurture those around you. Warm mugs of tea, trashy tv and cozy blankets during the cold days ahead, shall we count our blessings with each other?

Float

Joy Got on the Bus

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

The bus just took my Plum off to start the 2nd semester, the beginning of the end of kindergarten. I was tempted to pretend I didn’t know the date, forgot that school started again today. Our home is too quiet without the giggles of this little boy, the crashing about as he searches in his toy rom for just the right weapon, the shouts for me as he wakes. He exhausts me, uses up every ounce of energy, I long for my bed mid afternoon most days when he is here. Snacks that seem to come just after dishes are done from the last meal, crayons scattered about the dining room rather than his art table, couch cushions endlessly needing adjusting, I can never rest. As soon as the beasts finally lay down, he erupts in laughter or a race around the room, they come alive again and begin battling, chaos ensues. I should welcome the bus, delight in the sight of that orange vehicle stopping at the end of our driveway. Yet I am tempted to wave the driver on, keep our little noisemaker for another day.

Plum discovered a really annoying game that he and Chef play on the tv, something that is ridiculous with music that makes my head hurt. I sit in the other room while they goad each other and trash talk, cackles and shouts of triumph filling the air. My little boy who used to delight in gran time, baking and cleaning, now drives monster vehicles up hills and crashes to get more points than his grandfather. I try to tempt him into mopping the floor, dusting the furniture, instead he slides around the wet tile and practices his cool falls. He is turning into a boy, full of testosterone. He doesn’t want to be hugged at the bus stop, he rebuffs my attempts to cuddle when he bumps his knee. No longer little, he is growing and every attempt to push him back into my little boy is thwarted. He loves all the time with grandpa now, they talk about farting and butts and think they are hilarious. I stay in the other room. Still, when I snuck away to my bed for a nap, he lined the hallway from his room to mine with candy canes and set up a complex trap for me to find in his room with various figurines, marbles, bionicles, and blocks. Then he woke me to play, unable to wait for me to discover his evil plan. He wanted some gran time after all.

The music of his tinkling giggles, this child’s delight lures me closer, like bells at Christmas or the ice cream truck melody. You just know that this sound holds joy. My mood, my energy is always lightened, I want more. His chatters, his songs, talking to no-one and anyone, I want to hear every word, I am his willing audience to it all. Encore please, chatter some more. Stay home with gran, I will listen to it all. Yet the bus comes and he gets on, his teacher will hear his chatter. Our home is quiet.

I wonder as the bus pulls away if the driver realizes how precious he is, if his teacher knows she has an amazing child in her midst. Can anyone see this boy and not feel awe? The driver has many children, just as the teacher does. Maybe his giggles aren’t music to them,  lost in the cacophony of so many. So we wait for his return. We clean up crayons, return weapons to the toy room and rest up. He will bring his music back, each time with added vocabulary and greater math skills. His voice will grow deeper, he will grow taller. Yet his gran and gramps will always be here, his oh so willing audience, listening for the sound of our joy returning.
Tempted

My Own Rosary

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

I have a tattoo. It adorns my wrist, a charm bracelet that never dangles or is removed because it clashes with my outfit. I have to be honest to say that I chose to walk into the tattoo parlor not in my twenties or during a bachelorette party but when I was 50, fully aware of the life choice I was making. Because this marking falls on my wrist and onto my hand, if I am not wearing mittens, it shows. Exactly what I wanted. I get asked about it all the time, compliments from young people and musings about the point of it from those closer to my age. What I tell people is this: it is kinda like my own rosary beads. I grew up in the Catholic church, we were taught to pray a specific prayer for each bead on the necklace. This charm bracelet is my prayer minder, my constant companion, my own list of joys and concerns.

One charm is of a knife, fork and spoon set, it signifies my husband. It takes the place of honor closest to my heart, where my pulse can be felt. Another charm is an arrow, the symbol for my son, who has always been protective and has a choice of which direction his life will go. The elephant charm is an ode to the trip I took with my daughter, a fiercely independent and loyal child. Next comes the tiara for my grandaughter, my little princess and then the globe, for my grandson, my whole world. Finally, a tree, to show my family, friends and faith. They keep my rooted and reaching for more. With two more grandchildren on the way and a bonus granddaughter here, I have been considering additional charms. My bracelet, just as my heart, holds the capacity for more.

My tattoo is not a piece of artwork, it isn’t the most intricate and holds no colors. Yet for me, the beauty of each glance at my wrist, each reminder to lift someone up in prayer, is that I know my church family is joining me. I can look at the arrow and see years of prayer, faithful friends and strangers alike who have lifted this child and now man up through many life struggles. I am reminded I am not alone. I glance at the elephant and I see friends who know my daughter, really know her. People who prayed for our safety throughout our South East Asia backpacking trip and celebrated her successes as a young woman traveling  on her own, who have wrapped her in love and prayer when she was pregnant with our princess who now receives her own prayers from the same long-distance friends and family, those she has yet to meet. I pray for my daughter and granddaughter but know I am not alone in those prayers.  The globe, these same people have been praying for this child almost from the moment of conception. He is one of our church’s own, a boy so wrapped in the love of God and the faithful acts of His people, I know I am never alone as I lift him up to God.

As I look at the tree, my family and friends, I am reminded to be thankful, to not just ask but to praise God for His blessings of those who are joined with us, chained with our little family into the larger family of God. Those branches give us shelter, encourage us to climb higher. We stay rooted in His Word by their example and know we are bound together. Maybe a simple cross necklace provides this comfort for others, I needed my own rosary, specific beads to define my prayers. A Catholic ritual brought into our Methodist traditions. Joys and concerns shared not just on Sundays but with every glance at my wrist.

I have a tattoo that reminds me I am never alone in my worries, fears, joys and celebrations. May you be filled with such a reminder every moment as well, may you know that even in the darkness when trees seem to obstruct the light, you are rooted in the family of God. May you find comfort in knowing your joys and concerns are shared by all those encircled by the faith.

The Temptation of More

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

As we made the hour trip to visit family my Plum had questions about houses. He wanted to know what was the very first house ever made. I described the abode Adam and Eve must have created as they left the ultimate shelter. He wanted to see it, wondered why it wouldn’t still be around. As we passed houses we considered how many people lived in each, how many and what kind of pets they might have. Room for beasts like us, cats or maybe a bowl of goldfish? He asked about the smallest house ever and then of course the largest. He was into extremes, sometimes that is how we start, working our way from outer edges back to us. We talked about his old apartment, perfect for just him and Mama but as his family grew they needed more. This apartment has enough space for a stepdad and a new baby sister. We showed him images of the Biltmore Mansion in North Carolina, a reminder of a trip Chef and I took many years ago. Shocked at learning such places existed, imagining getting lost inside, he asked if we would ever have a mansion. I told him we did. We described out home, too much space now for just us but perfect many times throughout the years for all who have needed a dwelling place. We talked about having too much, losing each other in all that house, and about those who have so little that our home is a mansion to them.

We focus often on what we don’t have, the missing pieces, the broken parts or compare to others who have newer bigger shinier versions. With one conversation with my Plum, I gained perspective again, remembering that first home that was filled with everything, all needs met. Still wasn’t enough, temptation to have more, the extra that was out of the budget, the lure of that comes with taking our eyes off of the beauty surrounding us. That is when we lose it all. Lose all perspective and are cast out of goodness and understanding that God is providing. What we have is our enough. Regardless of the beauty of someone else’s enough, regardless of the size of their garden, our enough is from God. We are not called to seek more, we are called to SHARE more. What if Eve had invited that serpent in to share in her garden, to find peace and sanctuary in there? Maybe she had many times, maybe she was broken down by the temptation. Imagining what could possibly have not been enough for her, that she wanted more, with no job loss, with no aging parents, without addiction, with estrangement, without any other worries, what in God’s name could have been so bad that she just had to want more? But that is just it, my list is no one else’s, the things that tempt my sinful nature. Hers were different and show that regardless of how easy life is, still we are broken, we are human. So we compare what we have with others and think we should have bigger, better, newer.

When I traveled to South East Asia, my heart was changed forever. I cannot look at our home with all of its needs and not see how rich we are. I cannot un-know the poverty I witnessed. I am not a saint, I still want to buy way too many Lego sets, especially the new Batman mini figs coming out. It may kill me not to be able to collect those with my Plum. We have reached the place in our financial state where I dare not buy even one packet, I must resist the temptation. Yet every trip down the hallway I pass a toy room filled with Lego, I know he has enough. I find pieces in my purse, on my desk, on the dining room table. Scattered bits of toys that would be precious to those who have not even one. We have enough, our enough is plenty.

The new year brings many ads to organize all the stuff that came in for Christmas, ways to stow away and sort all the things we accumulate. Buying more to clean up what we just bought. The temptations are endless, the lure to forget that what we have is enough beyond the belief to so many. Considering that Jesus carried nothing with him, amassed no wealth, built no homes with attached garages and extra sheds to store his extra robes, how can I as a follower think I need more? If I truly believe that every single thing in my home is gifted from God, how can I question if it is enough, can I really go to Him and say I need more?

Houses are structures. Temporary dwellings that can be filled with people, creatures, love, turned into gardens of Eden. Used to satisfy the needs of all who wander, all who need shelter, places for us to rest as we do the work of God. Conversely they can be the casting out places without us even realizing it, brimming with evidence of temptation engaged, apples bitten. May your home reflect your love of God, may it feel like enough. May your home be a refuge for the lost, may you find peace in your dwelling place.  I live in a mansion built by God. May I look around and see not all that is broken, not what is missing, but see just how very blessed I am. And then share it. This mansion has plenty of room for those in need.

<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/gone/”>Gone</a&gt;

 

Sharing Our Light

On By LisaIn Faith, PlumLeave a comment

Watching Mama with the new little sweetness, just 3 days old and home settling in, creates an undeniably warmth, the cold winter air long forgotten as we rushed inside, removed layers of coats, hats , gloves. How can anyone deny the wisdom of our God to deliver His Son this way, the perfection of a babe, unblemished by the world requiring only the nurturing of family to survive? Every mother carries that glow despite unwashed hair and milk stained shirts, puffy cheeks and swollen feet. The shine that surrounds that circle of mother and child, with father hovering and leaning and seeking ways to provide comfort, that light defines who is in and who is on the outer edges. Important information, like warning flares, respecting the first days of that light, means no one gets burned. How much easier for those who have walked that path to take over, take the crying babe, deliver unwanted instructions, unwittingly diminishing the light and confidence of new parents? The light grows brighter though in standing just a bit back, like a candle first lit, it takes a moment to really take, for the wick to grab the heat and shine out in glory.

Knowing when to ask for and when to give help is like the dance we all do at Christmas Eve  service when we light all the candles to sing Silent Night. One candle begins, each is lit from that. But the one with the fire must hold theirs steady, the others wishing to gain the light have to turn their candle. When you have the fire, you are controlling the situation, even if you don’t realize it, others must bend. Everyone is in the dark until they make that adjustment. Whispered instructions from those who hold the wavering fires to those who forget to turn help keep us all safe. Yet we don’t need to tell everyone, some watch and learn, some have been passing the light for longer than I have been alive. A holy procession could get bogged down in over-eager directives and constant teachings, forgetting that the power one possesses in the holding of the light means knowing when to instruct and when to hush. There is nothing like a darkened sanctuary filled with slowly spreading light as the singing voices join to fill the night. Together we create enough to see, together we allow all to glow.

Plum was playing a new game on one of his presents, a spelling game. Apparently he has to spell out what ever he wants to build, brilliant. While I was visiting mama, he conned his maternal grandpa into spelling all the words for him. When I reentered the room, he asked me for some word help. I helped him sound it out. I knew he could do it by himself, I knew he was leaning on the skills of those already educated to do the work for him. Yet that means he won’t grow, he won’t gain the confidence to play the game when no one is next to him, he will grow up to never be able to spell “pond!” Okay, maybe that part is not true, but still, building confidence is more important than showing off my own light, butting in to do things for others that they can do for themselves. Which brings me to my on-going battle with Chef.

I am completely aware of my rescuing tendencies. I understand I have a girl scout badge, an Olympic Gold medal, a Presidential (whatever the President gives out) in rescuing. I am like one of those well-trained dogs who go into disaster areas to find survivors, the ones who go crazy if they don’t get worked often enough. I KNOW this about myself. I am critically aware when it comes to building up Mama and new hubby as they establish themselves as parents, I am fully invested in Plum learning to read and write and spell. But when asked to hang up his own coat or find his hat, I get weak. When Chef is having a conversation with Plum and it is taking too long by my standards, I butt my rescue snout in and save the day. I forget that my intervention extinguishes the light of their circle, their interactions. Sure, mine grows brighter but at what cost? Learning to back off, stay quiet, allow them to discover how to bend, twist, turn is the greatest gift I can give to us all, allowing this child to realize he has a grandpa who teaches with amazing wisdom and patience.

I have been open about my own flickering candle, about the times I have sat in the dark. How blessed I am to have others who have shared their light, who understand the balance between doing for and doing with, who celebrate when my glow is bright again. I love that my circle is wider now, including many who share warmth from their own lives and wish to be included in the messiness of ours, not concerned if a little wax falls on them. Bending, twisting, learning, teaching, somehow we are getting through this together. Sometimes I hold the fire, most times I wait for the Light. I know the story says there was a star that led the way but I really think the glow from Mary holding her new babe would have bright enough for anyone to see, if only they looked. May your Light shine brightly today, may you be surrounded by others who crave your warmth. Lastly, may you remember that allowing others to learn how to light their own candles will only make for a brighter world.

Family Fusion

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

The room was too tiny for all of us, squished together in the apartment living room and kitchen combination. Toys and gifts littered the floor, boxes of new cologne sets and bath products lined the steps up to the bedrooms. The countertops held vegetable trays and dips, desserts and bits of Legos, snowman napkins and plastic silverware. The kind of disaster that normally sends me into evacuation mode. A cluttering of all things holiday complete with grandparents, two uncles, the favorite grandchild, the Mama and the step-father. The assortment of people couldn’t have been more odd, as if they each were dressed for Independence Day or Halloween. But it was Christmas as a very blended family and it worked. A holiday with those who put aside bloodlines and chose each other.

Seven years ago my son was deep into his drug use, his girlfriend was riding along with him. They were never together sober. When they discovered she was pregnant, she moved in with us, we really didn’t know her but she had no other options. Thus began a long and often tortuous relationship with Mama. We have loved, battled, rescued, stepped away and jumped back in so many times that others question our sanity. It took a serious court proceeding over Plum’s custody for her to determine she was all in with her son, she has never looked back. What should have broken us completely was actually the ultimate glue, the deepest honesty brought us all together. No longer being careful to not hurt feelings or being afraid of the consequences, we had to act and tell the truth. She was forced to hear it and choose. She is a wonderful Mama to her son now, we are grandparents along side her. The process of letting go of our Plum, little by little and supporting her as his mother has been healthy for all of us, she leans on us more, rather than him doing the leaning.  Today she will deliver her second child, my bonus grandchild (thanks LuAnn for the terminology!), a child not in any way blood related and yet still somehow we will be gran and gramps. This is blending, we are choosing to stay in.

Mama married a young man who has taken in not only her but her child, my Plum. Plum celebrated the union, asked if he could then call him “Dad.” While my heart broke just a little, I knew this man would not abandon Plum, he would be present daily to play games and nightly to see him off to bed. He would make sure money was in the lunch account, that rough play on the floor occurred. He would make fart jokes and tell Plum to respect his mother. We have embraced this young man, he comes to our house and reaches right into the candy bowl, walks freely upstairs to Plum’s room to play Lego. They join us for dinner, he texts me with questions about the pregnancy. He is my bonus son. More than that, his parents have taken in my Plum, they treat him as one of their own grandchildren.  Special nights out, amazing gifts, time to play, complete grandma duties. I love that they love him. They have chosen to blend, to combine and accept the wholeness of who to love with all of their love. I was honored to help plan the wedding with Plum’s new grandma, to coordinate decorations and food, the glueing of the new us. We found there was space for all of us to be, an expansion of family, no bloodlines needed. Fully blending.

This child needs all the love that can be poured into him. His father has checked out, his aunt disappeared. His paternal grandfather is just as he was with his own children, absent.   Yet a new family has assembled who will worry less about roles and bloodlines and past hurts to create new memories, to allow room for all who want to love on Plum and  celebrate this new baby. So we found space in the tiny apartment for all of us to sit and eat and play and chatter, a regular holiday scene with unusual players. We have labored hard to get to this point, the ability to rejoice without worry, nurture without scorekeeping, clean up without judgment. We found harmony.

While my heart was saddened that Arrow could not choose to see his son yesterday, not even on a special day, I knew it was for the best. Plum didn’t seem to notice his absence, even sadder still. Addiction does that to families, teaches you not to count on the one using. Without sobriety, my son is unable to see truth, accept humility, be the man I know he can be. The monster is raging within him, taken over again. Soon he will have a second child, just a matter of months, God only knows if he will be able to care for that one, create a family. Just as we could never have predicted the blending that has resulted in the beautiful holiday we just celebrated and the wonderful everyday we live out now with Mama, we have no idea what 2017 holds. I pray that next year more of our bloodline is present in whatever space we all occupy, more combining of love and trust and noise to round out our family scene. Maybe Arrow will be swept up in another grouping, a different merging of those who are unanchored and now finding connection. If so, I pray they share as much joy as we did last night.

Addiction has ravaged our family, caused my Arrow to retreat again from his son. The ugly truth is also the blessed honesty, Plum doesn’t notice. He is surrounded by a mixture of people who embrace him, his normal is somewhat crazy maybe to anyone who would ask to chart the family tree. Just as in a tiny stable so long ago, crowded and messy and noisy, we all came together to be with this child on Christmas. Those who missed it may still be traveling, searching for the star to guide their way. May they all find it, may it lead them to the Christ child who will surely lead them home, back to the tiny places that hold what is most dear.
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