Category: Stella

stories of estrangement and our lost daughter, my best friend who has wandered away

Empty Tomb No More

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, Stella1 Comment

Recently I wrote about Being Stuck at the Empty Tomb, New Perspective hopelessly out of reach. Rarely have I gotten what I asked for so quickly. Maybe it was my utter devastation, my complete lack of direction. Maybe I was just empty enough to listen finally, to hear the whisper of the Holy Spirit tell me to open my Bible to the book of Romans. I did and what I found was perspective, the exact thing I was seeking. I don’t have easy answers but I have a new outlook, sometimes that is all it takes to start the day anew, to find the energy for a shower , to make lunch, to go smell the flowers.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” How many times have I heard that haunting call of Jesus at the cross, always considering the agony of Jesus dying to humanity, the burden of our meanness and judgments and horrible behavior requiring that he suffer the worst that we may experience the best? I haven’t ever stopped to imagine what God must have felt, to be separated from His Son in that moment. Yes, He knew the outcome, He knew how long it would last, but He also knew that in the deepest darkest moment when His child needed Him, He could only remain close but not fix it all, make it better, stop the destruction. I am horrified to realize that my sinfulness caused God to be separated, even for an instant, from His Son.  I also realize that God fully understands the agony of an estranged parent. He gets that pain of one left alone while sin runs rampant and destroys the family. He knows the only way to restoration and redemption is to be rejoined with Him. All this time while I thought I was suffering alone, begging God to return these children to me, He was saying, “Lisa, I want them to come home to me as well.”

I was drawn to the book of Romans today and as scripture so often does, the words jumped off the screen to me, they were alive.  I read the first chapter and was shocked to see that this new estrangement epidemic was not so new after all. Paul wrote about it: “They keep inventing new ways of wrecking lives. They ditch their parents when they get in the way.” Romans 1:30 I have wondered how my Stella could reconcile such a hard heart with what is preached in church each Sunday, I know my Arrow has stepped far away from his Christian faith. Before either of them can be returned to me, they must return to God. After all, they were His first. His agony must be horrific, to see His children so far away from knowing Him, believing and trusting in Him. In my weakest moments, I thought God had left me in this misery, I missed that we were suffering together.

My new perspective changes nothing in my relationship with my children, or lack of one. What has altered though is my closeness with God. No longer battling with Him, feeling lost in questions about why spring can come again but not my daughter, I understand now that the flowers bloom and the birds chirp as we together look for hope that they too will see those and hear those and remember that He is the creator of all. As my daughter shows the buds of new life to her daughter, surely she is explaining about the God who delivers anew our second chances and forgives us. As my son prepares to welcome into the world his daughter, can there ever be a more spiritual moment than that? Surely they are facing opportunities to find Him again and then they can find me. Perspective, I see you.

I know now that my prayers are not that God might hear me, that He might see my pain and my worry and that He might bring about the change NOW!!! How many times have I moaned that I cannot go on? How many times have I called out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He has been with me all along, the separation only in my mind. No longer helpless or powerless, I am united with a mighty God who can bring these children home, home to Him. Restoration to the greater family of Christ, then to ours. Together then we will smell flowers and feed birds and laugh and go to church and praise a God who loves us enough to give us the hope of spring days during dark winter moments. Now I join with God to pray that they grab hold of the faith of their youth, that they turn back to Him.

My new perspective, not from a bottle or the store but waiting for me in scripture all along. Psalm 62 reminds me: 5Yes, my soul, find rest in God; my hope comes from him. 6Truly he is my rock and my salvation; he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.

Do you see the lilacs bursting on the bushes, the breeze bringing the sweetness of spring into every open window, filling our homes with soul lifting hope? Can you hear the songbirds, as they busily seek twigs and strings, preparing to build nests and lay eggs and carry on with life, fulfilling their purpose? We won’t be shaken today friends, if we stay steadfast in our unity in the Creator of all. My new perspective is quite an old one, sometimes I misplace it in the dark. Blessedly, God shines some light and doesn’t let me get too lost. I trust He will do the same for those I love.

Stuck at the Empty Tomb

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella1 Comment

I wish I could go to the store and buy a bottle of perspective as easily as a jug of milk. I desperately need it and just can’t find it anywhere. I can purchase anything on Amazon, I can download a book in seconds. Everything seems readily available, at my fingertips before I have fully felt the wanting, yet I cannot get my perspective back. I am lost in a mess of remembering and wishing, usually cured by a spate of travel to mountains or valleys or beaches or to places where others are really hurting and my wounds look less like gaping oozing death-at-my-doorstep slashes and holes and more like pinpricks that itch or irritate but oh look at the view kind of sores. Good Lord, I need some perspective.

I’ve noticed an emptiness, a wandering sort of wanting, that leaves me lost in my head lately. Conversations swirl around me, I forget that I was reading or the show I selected is still playing, I am somewhere else. When I reach for the thoughts that seem to have captivated me so, I can’t quite grasp anything, sliding through gliding away. Daydreaming, unfocused, words float out and away, images hover, this is the edge of the abyss. I know, I have visited here after every hurtful text from my son, after every holiday my daughter is silent. My losses are real, the wounds won’t heal and each month seems to bring another damn holiday to highlight who is missing and what I am without. Some are easier for me, a slow pull to the edge that allows me time to fight back before I ever get close. Others, just too powerful and I am leaning over the cliff before I have pulled in enough breath to last me. I get woozy, I grow weak, I lay down and rest and forget I am supposed to get back up. I wander about in my mind. Sure, memories of joys and laughters and platters of food can threaten my mental health, but I forget I can choose not to breathe my slow breaths at that altar. I can take in lungfuls of goodness and new joys and the aroma of a smaller platter of brunch as well. The only way back is through, maybe, but sometimes it is just to turn around. Turn right around, open my eyes and see what is in my lap. That maybe is my bottle of perspective, awaiting me.

Yes every year, every month brings more opportunities to feel the ache but also the same can be said for chances to notice what is not hurting. Do we ever notice our elbow except when we have banged it on the wall and it throbs? The same can be said for all the things that go right, do they get our attention or only when they break, leak, chip? How many mornings have I gazed out of my office window at the bare bushes, longing for spring, wishing for the lilacs to bloom. Yet here they are, gloriously scenting my entire yard and I  stare past them into the darkness. Feeding the birds throughout winter was an obligation, now they are flying eagerly about, singing chirping calling and I hear them only from the distance I have created. Patio furniture is in place again, I sit on the couch inside. This is misery chosen. Perspective cannot be found on the couch in the dark curtains drawn to block out spring flowers.

I recognize this pattern, when I breathe deeply enough to regain consciousness and I remember I can still survive. There, another deep breathe, up we go. Step away from the edge, let’s rejoin our life. My self talk awakens me, again I must remember the path back, breathing isn’t enough.  The darkness that threatens to overtake, I must seek out the Light. Then I remember the way: gratitude. Yes, I ache for the losses in my soul. Today is the new morning, the day to awaken from my self-imposed joy sleep by breathing in lilac air with a nod to the birds building nests of blue string Plum and I littered throughout the trees. I am seeking out my blessings, the only way back into the light. Perspective doesn’t come easily when I am not packing my suitcase, when no mountain top reminds me of my smallness and God’s bigness. Wildflowers surely are blooming on the Colorado countryside but they are also sprouting in my own backyard. Noticing, seeing, hearing, I cannot leave all this behind in search of the God who visits far off places, forgetting He is here, right here with me in my sorrow.  He knows I am just stuck on the emptiness of the tomb, missing the hope and the promise, mourning still still I am just not done mourning.

Songbirds call to me, the breeze brings my favorite scent from the bushes around my yard. God I think understands though that I cannot buy perspective and I am cannot rush through this pain. I sit at tomb weeping and longing, slow deep breaths until I remember that I can get up again. And then I will. With my new perspective.

 

Double Teamed

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella1 Comment

There are days when in spite of all of my best efforts, my hearts shows the cracks anyway. Those days when the tears come a bit too freely, when the texts that I usually write and delete get sent instead, when I try one more time. There are days when I get lost in remembering and hoping and wishing and wondering, I forget to stay where I am, I go back to what was. Instead of gratitude for the plates that I do set around the table, I want to put out more. Those days, I wonder why God gave me a love I can’t stop for those who seem able to. I listen to sermons about all those who need me and I try to reach out to the needy but I want to be needed by who I choose also. At least seen by them. I try to strike a bargain with God, if I see those you put in my path, if I love those before me, won’t you please bring the other two back? Those days come and go, when they come, my heart shows the cracks.

Today the world sang the Hallelujah chorus and heard sermons on grace and I wondered if Stella was listening. On any given Sunday I feel convicted by the messages and try to correct my course, always correcting my failures to align more with Jesus. How can we listen to the songs and the words and the greetings as we walk into church in our best clothes and not feel compelled to adjust our behavior and notice how often and how much we have been forgiven? Of all the things I don’t understand about the estrangement phenomenon that is so incredibly prevalent and there are many, is how it can possibly live companionably within the heart of a Christian, that is the greatest. But probably that is true of so many ways in which we hurt each other and then go to see our priest or pastor or preacher each week. I know that no sin is worse than any other, I have been granted grace beyond what I can ever express. That is the very reason my heart just cannot hold on to a hurt, a grudge, a wrong. I know the power of forgiveness and multiple opportunities to get it right. I still get so much wrong. Another Sunday, course correction. Somehow my heart just believed that my daughter would walk into a church today and hear a message and the clouds would lift and the angels would sing and the phone would ring. It is Easter, for God’s sake, the big grace day. Did she listen to a choir sing and not think of giving another chance?

Instead I listened to a sermon about a woman who was estranged from her family and went to see true devastation in Rwanda and then heard God speak to her about not straying away from Him. I thought, Stella and I went to the Killing Fields, we did that. Why are we now estranged? I heard the pastor speak of a family that discovered their child dabbling in illegal substances. They decided to go all in and build an orphanage in a foreign country, a means to reach out and pull themselves back together. My cracked broken heart only heard that I should have built an orphanage when I found the first joint in Arrow’s room. My heart was showing the cracks today.

I was missing the message.  The point is that people mess up and God finds a way to bring them back together, if they stay open and present to His word and His calling.  I am open, I am listening, I am mostly present. Let’s see some results, God. Challenge accepted.  The pastor didn’t talk about the happily ever after part, the immediate appearance of the angel and the chorus. Surely it happened. I just want my angel and my kids and my happily ever now.  See my heart cracks? I was a bit angry in the chair during the sermon,  I really felt I was doing my part and God was just not showing up for His. Bold, right? On Easter no less.

Most days I seal up the cracks with forward movement, planning next steps and answering calls of ministry. I spend time with the ones that God puts in my path and I actively seek out more that need what I have. Putty, spackeling, this stuff restores what is breaking in me and in the world. On good days, that is enough to hold me together. I can keep busy enough that I barely consider what size dress my granddaughter might wear, I barely allow myself to note the calendar inching closer ever closer to her birthday. Then Easter comes and suddenly my hopes are raised, this could be the day that restores us all. Might this be the day that I can stop pretending I am my own devastated wasteland, a family killing field, a place where traditions and laughter have been destroyed by the regime of estrangement?

I listened to a podcast Steve Wiens put out on Holy Week, the episode is called Loss. Had me from the start, sigh. I considered not listening but Steve usually gets me so I gave him the benefit of the doubt that he wasn’t going to disrupt my cracked and barely holding together heart. I was wrong. He smashed it open, he expanded my grief and I am sitting with a new understanding of my loss. He told me I need to offer grace to myself. He is a crazy man.  I have spend two years now seeking begging pleading for forgiveness from my daughter for all the wrongs I can imagine, plunging into our history for evidence of my rights, searching for an identity that allows me to still be her mother when she just says nothing which somehow means no. I forget that I am worthy of forgiving myself. He shared a story that included the message that yes, of course we messed it all up. Yep. Yep, we do that. Owning that is not the end of the story. What else have we done? Did we try to fix it? Offer grace to ourselves.

This is radical stuff to me, I didn’t see it coming. I still am battling with God that I want restoration with my daughter now, that I have cracked open my heart enough for other people. Maybe though the crack hasn’t widened quite enough to include me. Maybe the voice God is calling me to love in the devastation is not all of His other children but me as well. Maybe the orphanage he wants me to build is a home for this child here, who seeks refuge and safety and a place of belonging. God is so sneaky, sending me a double teaming set of pastors to deliver Easter messages, knowing my cracked heart is turned away, turned toward little dresses on grandchildren in another state that I won’t see today. If that isn’t love, if that isn’t grace, I really don’t know what to tell myself.

So I cry some tears but not many and I remember a bit but don’t get lost there and I make my ham and listen to the chatter of the ones who are here and I make the plates on the table be enough. I know the tomb is empty and the weeping was for that moment when the loss was real.  Then all were restored but it was different and unrecognizable, this new Jesus and our job as believers got so much bigger. We have to deal with the cracks in our hearts, we have to let the loss be felt, and then we find restoration and grace in the One who rose. Not a simple 1,2,3 get it done process, no angels singing and the clouds parting when we get it all right. Because we so very rarely do. Thus the grace. For OURSELVES and others.

My sweet friends, offer yourself a gift today and listen to this podcast This Good Word if you dare and if your heart feels ready for some expansion. Some putty may fall away, you may find yourself listening to the call of God’s voice, saying, “You, you child are the one I want you to love and forgive. Then we can do some big stuff with food pantries and orphanages and classrooms and driving without anger.”  The truth is we are all mistake making messes but I would sit next to you at church any day. Will you sit next to me as well? Can we make some space for grace for ourselves this Easter? I am not trying to team up with your pastor, but personally, I think you are worth it.

Waiting

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

I stumbled across an Easter activity on Pinterest that I was sure would make the season more about Jesus and less about the bunny for Plum. You have probably seen it, the one where you dip a marshmallow in water, roll it in cinnamon sugar and then wrap it in a crescent roll and bake it for about 7-8 minutes. The concept is all about the disbelief the disciples had, the lack of trust that Jesus would really be who He said He was. They prepared His body for burial anyway, not understanding He would not stay in the grave. So the marshmallow (Jesus) disappears when we open the robes after some time in the tomb. (I got a bit twitchy about the oven being the tomb but that is my adult awareness, I didn’t share that with my Plum.) He was with me for the entire process of preparation and was all about exploring the rolls, looking for Jesus after they came out of the oven. The waiting, though, which I thought we would do, chairs pulled up to the oven window, watching the slow process of dough puffing and browning, nope. He was out. He couldn’t stay with it for that long. I will admit my timing was off, he was involved in other things, but still, I wanted to tell him if he didn’t sit with me and watch he didn’t get to eat any Jesus rolls after! That didn’t sound right to my own ears, felt just a bit creepy, so he was allowed to play Lego while I cleaned up our mess and kept watch. Next year we will try again and I will enforce the waiting part, that is what living in Saturday, after Good Friday and before the dawn of the Glory of Easter Sunday is, the waiting, slow agonizing empty waiting.

We have a Keurig, it sits in the closet. We decided the expense and the waste were not acceptable to us, we went back to a regular old pot and grinder to make our morning coffee. While I can sit in comfort knowing I am helping the environment with this little step, I must admit I hate the coffee maker every single morning and secretly dream of pulling the faster more efficient machine out, EVERY SINGLE MORNING. In fact Chef just admitted maybe we should use it just for my first cup, while I wait for the pot to brew. Because I don’t wait for the entire pot to fill, as soon as enough liquid has filled the bottom of the carafe, the pot is pulled, my cup is filled and the mess begins. Our machine still sends drips without the pot to catch it, I know the mess is coming, it is acceptable to me each morning as I struggle to wake. I just can’t wait. Or more accurately, I won’t. So towels are at the ready, the mess is wiped as I sip and I always get the strongest of the brew, when Chef reaches for the pot it is mostly black water. There, you are privy to my ugly coffee routine, an inability to wait and share and not be messy. And I am the one who wants to give Plum lessons in the importance of waiting? Do as I say, not as I do, right? IF only it were just a first thing in the morning issue for me, if I were a paragon of patience and trust the rest of the day, I might have more credibility. The truth is, I think I would have been right there with those disciples, lost angry seeking a new direction without my leader. I spend too much time there now and I already know what happens when the rock is rolled away from the tomb, when the crescent roll is broken open. I really should trust more, the waiting should come easier for those of us who know the truth. But Saturdays abound in my life, like early mornings without a Keurig.

Not to take anything away from Good Friday, but this is the harder day for me. I can mourn with the best of them, but waiting is just about the worst thing my Jesus can ask me to do. I don’t want to have down time to think, to feel, to acknowledge my pain and mortality and my sins. Instead I bustle around, wipe the countertops, make a casserole and scroll through Twitter to find others who agree with me about the sins of our leader. More comfortable looking outward while I clean up my coffee splatters, I scour Pinterest for ways to bring more Jesus into Plum’s life.  Move along, push through, avoid avoid avoid. Yet my Saturdays come in the evening, when Plum is in bed or at Mama’s and I am alone without any more energy to bustle and the house is wiped and maybe my wine glass is filled. I’ve been stuck in a very long Saturday of waiting for others to wake up from counting my sins and accepting the glory of a Jesus who has given us all more grace than we can put in our Easter baskets, too much grace like the plastic grass we buy to fill up baskets of candies and little trinkets for kids to find when they wake Easter morning. Grace that always hangs over and despite our best efforts is cleaned up for days afterward, found stuck to our shoes, peeking out of purses and clinging onto our best dresses, a strand between the couch cushions. That grace like the staticy plastic grass sticks to us and to everything it touches, transferred from my hands to the Beast’s fur as I reach down to pet their horrible selves, is transferred to my car on the way to church Sunday morning and left on one of the chairs, maybe the one where the lady who never smiles at me sits or the man who knows me from before will rest. Will they pull the strand away and know they are given the chance to forgive? It really only comes when we sit alone on this Saturday, our basket empty, wishing we had grass and grace and forgiveness and a second chance to say the right thing and not say all the wrong things and the opportunity to read a book to the most ill behaved child in Sunday school. Grace is really only ours when we give it away, like the disappearing marshmallow that still tastes so sweet in the rolls. Waiting for our grace and our baskets to be filled means we have to just be alone, empty, watching the rolls get brown while everyone else goes about their lives and we are aching. We are called to sit wondering how we could have missed the chance to say, “No no, I know how this ends, stick with me, He is who He says HE is, we can trust Him with our everything.” Because tomorrow we will sing glory glory but on Monday will we? On Monday will we worry and fret and stew over whether our children will ever speak to us again, if the job is going to end, if the president is going to lead us into another war, and we forget that we are called to trust in Him. We forget on Monday that we must forgive the car who parks ridiculously and the person who doesn’t take their cart back at the store and the person who always always replies to all instead of just the original sender on an email to 50 people. We forget because we rush through our Saturday and we throw away that grass that annoys us. We don’t notice our grace chances when the sugar high is over.

Tomorrow we will discover that the tomb is empty, that the promises are fulfilled. The crescent roll lesson is not lost on me, I am committing to waiting today. Waiting for this long Saturday of aching searching emptiness to show me the ways I can offer more grace not just tomorrow when everyone looks their best, but on Monday and Tuesday and the days that follow, when we all have a bit of sugar low and grass stuck to our shoes. Maybe, just maybe, my children will find their own awareness of all they ways they have been forgiven. That is between them and their own marshmallow experiment. Just as I couldn’t force my Plum to sit with me, I can’t make them wake up to grace. I can pray a stray bit of plastic grass finds them, all the way from me.

My friends, I pray you embrace this lonely day of waiting, that we might truly feel the glory of the empty tomb. I pray your day is not just filled with egg boiling and ham prepping, but real soul searching. It is a hard day, by design. Still, we know that tomorrow will bring song and fancy clothes. Sit with me in our Saturday, friends as we watch the dough rise.

Rude Pants

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

I am horrified and dismayed to report that my sweet little Plum woke this morning in a rather foul mood. Actually he woke me up and then things turned foul. It was too early, not by much but I have been too tired lately for our extra early rises, I needed that 15 minutes more. I said go back to bed, he said I was a rude pants. I said go back to bed, he went downstairs and turned on the tv. Now I was facing a choice, a really terrible choice where I lost no matter what. I could stay in my very warm bed and try to go back to sleep for a few minutes and know that I had given in to a 6 year old. Or, I could get up and send him right back up to his bedroom thereby getting the beasts roused and my blood pressure roused and him further roused. If you are guessing I stayed in bed to avoid being more than a rude pants gran, well, you know my heart’s desire. But I got up. Thus you should know I am the rudest pants of them all. The very angry child went back to his room and the beasts and I made coffee.

See we have a rule in our home, the best boy ever cannot get up until 6 am. He has a digital clock in his room to let him know if it is time yet to wake the grandparents. Because he is such an early riser, this has saved us from 4:30 starts to our day on many occasions. This has allowed him to exercise some control over his morning, to understand the boundaries and not be in a position to ask without all the information at his disposal. So waking me too early was an out of bounds request and had to be addressed. An attempt to push the clock rule just a bit. With summer coming, I knew I had to tighten up. With it being Sunday and his return to Mama, I knew I had to be sure he was well rested and anyway I could nap later. All this made my choice of getting up to be the enforcer easier, to be crowned the rudest pants of all somewhat palatable.

Later, as we discussed the need for rules, like was it okay for his 3 year old cousin to race across the street yesterday even though I was shouting her name and telling her to stop (the other children watched in horror having already internalized that rule) or like if cars don’t choose to stop at red lights or drive on their side, he understood people have made those regulations to keep us safe. We talked about bigger statues like no killing and being kind, who’s rules are those? Those are God’s he knew. But still, guidelines that keep him in bed when he wants to get up, hard to take. I get it. Accountability is for the other people. All the other people who are not me. We addressed that idea as well. Dear Lord, this is a large mug of coffee day, a bit more sugar added, if we have to hit on all this before 6:30 am.

As a parent with some truly complicated relationships with her children, I analyze and inspect every choice I make with Plum. I look at how I raised my two and am determined to not make any of the same mistakes and to keep doing what I think I did right with them. One child graduated from college, taught in a foreign country, seemed to be such an independent thinking young woman. The other has chosen a different path, took a detour through years of drug use and the ensuing addiction facilities before a stint in jails and prisons slowed him down. He now is out, has completed secondary education and is gainfully employed. He is, I believe, helping to support the new family he is creating although he has not yet caught up to supporting the child he left behind. Still they both began their lives wrapped in love and books and songs and full knowledge that I meant what I said and followed through. I did the hard stuff, but not enough hard stuff. I tried to save them from too much. I intervened too often. I didn’t let them learn to be accountable. Until it was too late and I wondered why they didn’t just know.  Why did they feel so entitled? They aren’t alone, regardless of their unique situations. An entire generation has lost it’s footing, feels completely justified in breaking away when they don’t like what they hear, don’t like the rules, don’t like being told to go back to bed or to work or to the table to talk. More than rude pants, those of us who try to enforce some rules or boundaries are labeled toxic.  I like rude pants better.

As I have scoured the internet for information regarding estrangement, I am flabbergasted at the plethora of memes and Pinterest quote pages devoted to each person’s right to cut off those who just don’t make us feel good. There are days I spend so lost in all that I did wrong that I can’t imagine any other result than to be cut out of my daughter’s life. I replay the conversations and the conflicts that arose when she became involved with her now husband, issues we never had before. It is easy to say it is all his fault but maybe she always felt that way and just didn’t have an escape route. Then I wake up to a new day and remember all that I did right, I replay how deeply we laughed and how long we talked and know she escaped to another continent and we were still good. But still, it isn’t his fault. It is ultimately her choice, she is accountable and that breaks me further. What I am sure of is this, I didn’t teach either of them to discard me. I didn’t teach them to find no value in me, I didn’t teach them that people have no worth and that we throw them away if they don’t make us feel good all the time. This I am sure of. Sometimes people hold us accountable, we have rules to follow. It rarely feels good to be the enforcer, if you are a mercy kind of person or one who just wants to stay in your warm bed. It likewise doesn’t feel good to be reminded of the rules, regardless of our age. Reminded of family norms and customs and fitting a new spouse into those, making room for different ways, that is a place rife for conflict and misunderstanding. It may require much time at the table talking. Accountability for all.  A review of the rules, an adjustment of some, relaxing of others. Family meetings, we used to have those, where we hashed out issues and practiced conflict resolution. I know we modeled that. I think she has forgotten.

Most of my research shows adult children who describe choosing estrangement from “toxic” parents who were abusive, who suffered serious psychological disorders, who held them back from their dreams and stunted their growth. I am either so blind or lack any insight at all but I just can’t find myself in these descriptors. I search for nuggets of truths, because she hasn’t told me. I look for our story because I only know my half. I can only be accountable for what I know and it is missing the pertinent pieces. I beg God daily for a chance to hear my wrongs and atone. How can I ever do better, how can I possibly not mess up with Plum if I just don’t know? He is angry with me, I am quite honestly not all that pleased with him when he wakes me too early and starts our day with a battle. But I hold him accountable and I require that he discuss the problem with me. I allow him to be mad at me but not disrespectful. I am the rudest of all the rude pants but I am trying to be a better parent. We sing, we read books, we laugh deeply and we have long talks. Please please God let this story end differently. Show me how to live it out so that my heart is not thrown away just when it all gets so good, when all the hard stuff is done.

Just in case, I teach Plum about mercy and forgiveness also. I am sure I taught Stella and Arrow about this as well, but I work extra hard on these lessons. We practice second chances and fresh starts, we give out apologies and we learn to accept them. We allow anger and frustration and real feelings to roam throughout our home and then we figure out how to bring joy back in to the mix. Some days I miss Stella so much that I don’t even want to get out of bed, I resent the fact that anyone else does. Why are we even starting another day? Maybe that is why I didn’t want to rise this morning, maybe that is why I am a rude pants today. Still, I rise, in the great horrible words of Maya Angelou. Because maybe today will be the day. If not, I am accountable to another child and a merciful God who gave me a fresh start. I am accountable for this air that fills my lungs, that I not waste it moaning in agony but singing praises in church. I am accountable for these eyes, that I not fill them only with tears of agony but with utter gladness that the lilacs are beginning to bloom. Today I have a second chance, I rise up, drink my coffee and know this is the day.  The day the rudest pants of all will rejoice and be glad in it anyway.

Why God?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Rediscovering Fruit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Great Fence Man

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

I am counting days, marking off my mental calendar, until the fence man appears. The invisible line that protects our beasts is no longer enough for both of them. Our Lab, my beast, respects the boundary. He hears the warning chirp emitted from his collar as he nears the edges and he retreats to safety. He doesn’t cross. The Golden, Chef’s rotten horrible spoiled bully who refuses to share any bones, he has discovered that a bit of a shock is worth the adventure of touring the neighbor’s yard. He runs freely across and mocks my poor beast. He chases my cats who used to be able to cross the invisible line and feel safe. He just has no concern for the established boundaries and now we have to put up a fence, a real fence, a big jail around our yard to keep everyone in and safe and I can’t wait for the fence man to get here. We could have gotten one of those outdoor kennel set-ups, much less expensive. Yet the boundaries on those for our big beasts would have been cruel. They have long legs built for running, they have instincts to explore, they want to bring balls back for us to throw again. Well, my beast does, Chef’s Golden prefers to collect them all in his mouth because he doesn’t share and is horrible. Still, boundaries too close leave none of us satisfied.

These beasts remind me that we all make decisions to either stay within the lines or push free and that consequences are sure to follow. Not that everyone is facing jail time for breaking out, but I can’t decide which of my beasts is the true lesson. I really want it to be mine, who runs to the door to alert me that his sibling has once again chosen a path that could lead to trouble for all. He is a rule follower for sure. I want the lesson to be about following God’s plans for us and respecting the boundaries, even ones that are harder to see like the ones our loved ones set out for us. But then I see our Golden running so freely with a smile on his face, which is true for Goldens most of the time anyway so I have to take that in to account, but still, he just looks so happy. Unencumbered by the restrictions placed on him, new rocks and trees to smell, exciting new places to pee, what joy! Accepting that a bit of pain may be necessary to find our true spirit, is that the lesson God holds our for me here? Where is the fence man? If only I had more time to consider this all without jumping up and down every few minutes to check on beasts.

I really wonder if maybe my actual lesson isn’t the anticipation of freedom that I imagine at the surrendering of theirs. That hasn’t been lost on me. Much like the times I have used a child’s time-out to actually go to the bathroom alone and I always feel freer when Plum is finally asleep in bed, I am a mother hen who only feels truly able to do as I please when I know exactly where all my baby chicks are. Knowing that I can no longer just let the beasts outside without supervision means I have no rest, no down time until they are safely back in. With the nice weather coming, they don’t want to be in. In out, up down, we are in constant motion that leaves us all tired but not spent. No one is satisfied with the current arrangement, I call them back in too soon for their wandering spirits, I keep them closer to try to manage any runaways. They fuss to go out when a squirrel braves the porch, taunts from the other side of the door. They need to run and play. I need space from them. We need a fence. Did I mention I can’t wait for the fence man to appear? Balancing their need to run and explore the world and my desire to keep them safe is a constant struggle. But deeper than that, I realize my heart is never fully at rest until I know my other baby chicks are safe as well.

I have been fenced in or out, depending on perspective. Without knowledge that they are running freely, exploring the world within the bounds of God’s fences, I just worry. I fret and call for them in my dreams. If only I knew they were respecting boundaries, were establishing safe ones for themselves, couldn’t I just rest? I am anticipating some pushback from our beasts when they realize the front yard is no longer accessible to them. I imagine sitting up there in peace with coffee and my laptop in the early mornings while they roam the back yard in search of squirrels and sticks. More likely they will bark and demand that I join them. My fence may not bring all that I hope, it will surely require a different kind of mowing and weed whacking and the front door will need more attention so we don’t have escapees. As I spoke with the fence man, we talked about where to put the gates. Ah, yes gates. We have to have access beyond the back door, other ways to access the jail, the safety zone. I wonder if my Stella has considered putting in a gate. Not an all access opening, one that could still have a lock, but an way into her fenced off heart. An invitation to see that she runs freely, that she is secure. If only I knew that Arrow was respecting the safety of his fences, my God wouldn’t I rest? I don’t need to run freely about their yards, sniff their rocks, only peer over the fence sometimes to catch of a glimpse of their smiling faces as they explore their worlds still sheltered from harm.

When the fence is erected, I will plant flowers along the edges, much more flowers around the front yard that won’t get trampled by beasts. Knowing my landscaping is inaccessible from large paws that seek to dig and trample and hide bones and make mud piles, I can garden in peace. My fence can be decorated with joy colors to show it is only for safety, not to keep others out but to ensure that those who need to run can do so without worry of passing cars. Maybe my children have decorated their hearts as well, new joys that sprout up without the worry that I will trample it all with my mothering and busting through the invisible fences. I pray that one day the Great Fence Man will appear to them and show them the wonder of gates. Until then, we are learning more and more about our own need for safe boundaries and the call to run freely. We are learning to balance both as we await the fence man. We are remembering that sometimes we erect a fence that is just too small, we need God’s help in expanding our boundaries to include room to move more safely, we need some help installing those gates. I also know that lessons are sometimes muddled when all I want is some peace and quiet. Soon, soon the fence man will appear.

“Then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea. And he closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul.”― Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Eight Days and Over Two Years

On By LisaIn Faith, StellaLeave a comment

This meaningless ordinary symptom of acceptance, a minimal label to conquer controversy. Whew, I managed to get all the daily prompt words in for the last 8 days, behind on my writing but catching up in one sentence. A rush, indeed, maybe nonsensical if anyone dares look too closely, but still. Done. Project complete. Except, no. Just spewing out words without thought and concern for where they fall, no acceptance of consequences  when they do can stir controversy for sure, create just another meaningless mess of letters that conquer a page but nothing more. In fact realizing that our words are powerful, that what we choose to say or withhold speaking will have long lasting impact, that is truth, for sure. I can’t just throw out words strung together and catch up, I can’t just throw out apologies and make it all better. Thoughtful consideration, deep listening, that is the stuff of relationship building, bridges that heal and stabilize and continue the conversation.

Much has been said about the word salad that our new president serves up daily, a feast of letters that leaves me bloated and still hungry for meaning. Anger rises in me when I read transcripts of his remarks, not just for content but in the absolute butchering of our language. I worry about generations to come who will study his remarks as if they are reflections of acceptable speech. Closer to home, though, I wonder if I am accountable for my words. I know I certainly don’t always say what I mean, my heart is not always expressed as clearly as I intend. I am shocked to find someone has taken offense at what I have written or found hurt in one of my posts. A blog about grace, and someone got their feelings hurt? Really digging, right? It must be them. But is it? Maybe my own word salad has been tossed, something mixed up between the writing and the reading. Doesn’t it matter that my intent is not to bring pain? Is it my responsibility to continue to follow up until clarity reigns? Grace requires that I seek out those who find offense and work towards reconciliation. And then do better with my words.

I heard of a published author who posted this week that she received a really nasty bit of feedback, an email that ended with, “Stop writing.” Wow. While I was hurt for her, I was somewhat buoyed by the fact that even someone of her stature can set off a reader, elicit such anger. That she chose to expose it and address it publicly was my real wow. She didn’t hide in shame, she owned her words and her space. I have invited some folks not to read my words. I have apologized to others, have almost shut down in shame as well. Finally, I decided to own my space. I also committed to being more thoughtful about my writer words. Still, I think back to the turning point disagreement with Stella and her fiancé at the time, words were spoken that altered our course. We all thought we had apologized, clarified, got quiet and listened enough to move on. To share our space. Hindsight shows that night broke the bridge, each time it rained the flood waters washed more away. Since that time, there has been much word salad and excessive letters, controversial notes and emails and attempts to visit, the bridge won’t hold us up. Because, ultimately, clarity and understanding, accountability requires that the speaker and the hearer each own up to their parts of the message. One way communication is a lecture, not a relationship. Words only going out mean interpretation happens with no chance for feedback and translation. Like 8 days worth of writing prompts, words mixed together may look good, but one can only guess at the meaning. And guessing is dangerous when we are talking about matters of the heart or our country.

Here’s to catching up on prompts and one day catching up with Stella. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing to you oh God. And to you dear readers. And to you my dear daughter.

29 Watch the way you talk. Let nothing foul or dirty come out of your mouth. Say only what helps, each word a gift. Ephesians 4:29The Message 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Controversy
Conquer
Label
Minimal
Acceptance
Symptom
Ordinary
Meaningless

Knock Knock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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