You know those really cute rocks that people paint to look like lady bugs or butterflies?  Or maybe they put watermelons or basil leaves on there to mark their well-weeded garden? My life is not like that.  We coated rocks with preschool water color paints, about 6 plastic slabs of them in various state of destruction.  We used the paint brushes that come with the sets, no true artist would ever touch these I am sure.  Because we were feeling extra saucy, we added glitter, both the glue and sprinkle variety.

We selected rocks from my Chef’s well landscaped path, initially just one at a time and then eagerly selecting one for each other on our trips around the side of the house, maybe two or three.  I painted the whole rock one color and then tried to decide what to do next while my 5 year old grandson merrily dabbed here then there, announcing it looked “fantastic.”  And it did. His freedom to play was inspiring, joyful, messy.  He asked if I needed help, he gave me pointers as only a child can.  “Do this, Gran.  Nan, watch how I made a new color.  Do you like this?” As a lover of all things green, he delighted in the green rock I painted with gold glitter in his initials. “Magnificent,” he proclaimed.  His pace became frenzied as he threw himself into the event, splashing colors, mixing hues.  “Oh Gran, this is fascinating!”

His rocks were spectacles of color, blending, running, mixing.  Was he really using the same 8 color palette as me? Chef joined and I watched as his rocks, like mine, were ordered, lines clearly marked.  His colors were perfect. (I think he could make those ladybugs and butterflies.) Plum offered to help his Grandpa too, who resisted.  He had his project under control.  He cringed at splashing paint as Plum’s exuberance took hold, worried about glitter on his pants.  Yet when I look at our now dried rocks, the most glorious ones are the those adorned by Plum.  He got it right.

I was reminded that my  God doesn’t see just an 8 color palette.  Children, having just come so soon from God, haven’t forgotten how to listen to Him, how to see Him in the world.  When we let them teach us, we see so much of Him, directly into His eyes. He has to be cringing when we draw lines that separate His beautiful people, robbing ourselves, our world of real glory.  We make children stay in the lines, use one color at a time, clean your brush, be careful.  We teach children to hate, separate, dominate.  What a shame we teach joy out of them, replace it with eyes that see only an 8 color palette.  For one day, I followed the lead of this child, letting him instruct me in producing colors I had forgotten how to make, how to see.

We painted rocks.  Aren’t they fascinating, magnificent, amazing? Glory be to God.

I love Legos. The kits, the instructions, bright colors. I will admit to purchasing some just so that I can assemble them, knowing my Plum will delight in tearing them down, using the pieces for his own creations. Like a puzzle but less guessing, the design is laid out, I can easily build a masterpiece. Sort, snap, click, ah. Peace is restored by connecting hundreds of little pieces.  Pattern emerges to create something I never could have imagined.

Seemingly overnight I have 3 trips planned, all in the space of a month.  My traveling heart is excited, my anxious soul wondering how to get all the pieces in the right places.  Child care, dog sitters, who will feed my birds? Yet each trip, I can see, is designed to restore a broken part of me, help reassemble this masterpiece God created.  I expect to discard some pieces, put some together in new ways, allow God to lead me in the rebuilding.

My first trip is to St. Paul to an event called “Sobriety and Spirit” with Steve Wiens and Seth Haines. https://www.eventbrite.com/e/sobriety-and-spirit-registration-25353557172 if you are interested. The opportunity to meet Steve, coupled with this topic, add time away with my Chef, too perfect to pass up.  Worshiping Sunday morning at Steve’s church is sure to be a blessing.  I have written already about Steve’s book “Beginnings” and how it has brought me back to life. The chance to thank him in person is so exciting. The subject matter of the event may be tough, will be tough.  I can feel the gentle hands of God pushing us to go, even as I initially resisted. There is something for us there.  He is going to make something new.

My next trip is to a Cubs game.  Why would God send me to, is it Wrigley Field? Because I need to meet my husband where he is.  I need to join him, nurture him, love him.  I want to watch his face as he watches his Cubbies, listen as he spouts statistics, participate in something that is so basic to who he is as we celebrate our anniversary. Marriage is about sacrifice as much as anything, finding the common ground.  I have strayed too far away, alone, leaving him alone, forgetting to have fun together.  So off to Chicago we will go, letting God put the pieces back in order, one inning at a time.

Finally, traveling on the back of my brother’s motorcycle for 4000 miles over the course of two weeks is beyond my comfort zone. Outside of buying new boots for the trip, I am less than sure how else to prepare. Borrowing a helmet, living out of a backpack, those pieces are easy.  What does God have in store for me on this trip, a forced time of sitting, no talking, just looking.  Evenings spent remembering old family stories, processing some history, putting pieces in place.  Days spent looking at God’s creations, reminding me of my place in it all.  What an amazing opportunity to find restoration, to discard old hurts, accept some new colors.

Soon I will leave my porch, leave my instruction books, leave my Lego bricks and set out to listen closely for some new things being whispered and roared. The ultimate Master Builder is leading, I can’t wait to see what He creates in me.

I wish I could say I remember the whole sermon, even more of the point that Pastor Chris wanted us to walk away with.  I know he was telling us about sheep hearing their shepherd’s voice, about the Good Shepherd and I love those feel good sermons, especially with videos like he added.  Something from Youtube with international students trying to call sheep, sheep ignoring them, the shepherd calls, the sheep come running.  (Much like when I call chef to help with chores.  Nothing. Then my Plum hollers for Grandpa to play legos, squirt guns, baseball.  Chef knows the little shepherd’s voice.) I woke at 3:30, unable to go back to sleep, I wandered down stairs to the couch and was soon joined by the two huge dogs.  Just as I was drifting off, Plum joined me, blankets were shuffled, pillows, rearranged.  He dozed, I was pushed off.  Coffee was started. In my defense, my mind was hazy by the time I made it to church. Still, I sit in the first row so I was giving it my all.

Somewhere about the halfway mark, he began to talk about a ministry in L.A. that works with gang members. He told a story that broke my heart about a young man who found a father in the pastor who leads HomeBoy Ministry, a pastor who opened his life to a son.  Feeling the gratitude that there are those in the world who shepherd these lost men mix with envy, even anger that no one had yet reached my son, right there in God’s front row, I accepted that a mother’s soul can hold both emotions and I was probably where I needed to be.  But Pastor Chris and the Holy Spirit weren’t done with me yet.  Just warming up, it seems.

I remember the first time I heard a James Taylor song.  I was with my oldest brother, he told me I had to hear this, he was sure I would like it.  He was right.  “Up on theRoof” has always reminded me of this brother, who died in November 1997, just 4 months after I came home from prison.  He began using drugs at age 14, didn’t stop until he took his life at age 37.  When I was in college, my roommate loved JT, as did my best friend.  I fell asleep each night listening to his sweet cronings.  The songs held such significance for me that my son’s middle name is Taylor.  I took my daughter to see him, a lawn concert, under the stars, shortly after I returned home again.  Thus when Pastor Chris announced that we were going to sing “You’ve Got A Friend” by James Taylor, the tears that had evaded me for two weeks came rushing out. Seriously, I get that my appreciation of JT verges on the religious but c’mon.  My Chef’s shirt was soaked, I didn’t sing along but I left the sanctuary feeling like I heard the voice of the Good Shepherd. That He sounded like JT is just wool on the sheep.

 

When you’re down and troubled,
And you need some love and care,
And nothing, nothing is going right
Close your eyes and think of me,
And soon I will be there
To brighten up even your darkest night.

You’ve Got A Friend

I fell for it again, the Pinterest trap of crafting.  Not a natural DIYer, I get sucked in by the bright pictures and step-by-step illustrations.  I buy into the idea that even I could make this, assemble that, forgetting history. This time: a simple wreath made of clothes pins, painted red, white, blue and clipped to a wire form.  White painted stars adhered to the blue section finish the adorable July 4th decoration sure to make any door sing with patriotic glory.  Step 1, step 2, step 3, hang, admire.  So easy.  Or not.  I probably bought the wrong paint, I surely wasn’t supposed to ask a 5 year old to help, I forgot about that craft mat thing to put the wet pins on. Most of my porch chairs now are singing with their own slashes of red, white and blue and all the pins are stuck to the table.  I walked away from this mess for 2 days, unable to even face the disaster, my own failing, the inability to follow the basic instructions to create some beauty.  I need Pinterest for the Rest of Us, those of us who have hearts that yearn to create but have no talent.  I need way more steps, maybe even a warning, asking if I REALLY want to tackle this? Step 1: have you thought this through? Step 2: grab some coffee, think some more.

I think the complication comes down to messiness.  The art of crafting requires clutter, flexibility, sticking with the project in the moment, not working too far ahead.  Even when I am cooking, I wash dishes as I go, the finished product leaving no mess behind.  Peanut butter sandwich? Each item is stored away before the next is used.  I will admit to some rigidity in my ways, a certain lack of spontaneity. Clutter, surprises, off-schedule makes me anxious.  A lot anxious.  Attending Chef’s niece’s graduation party yesterday got messy, spontaneous, off-schedule.  The worst kind of project for me, one I wasn’t able to control, clearly the world was ending.

Heading to Indianapolis midday with a hot, tired 5 year old who wanted to play with his friends and his brand new play set, I could only see the obstacles.  We bartered, I calmly explained the issues, my Chef patiently explained it would be fine.  We bickered.  We got to the party, visited with family and I played with Plum to keep him occupied.  So far so good. And then the bomb hit. The pins stuck to the table, the project got messy.  We were asked to come to the after party, I was put on the spot, Chef told his cousin to talk me into it.  Already approaching bedtime, facing an hour drive with a child who doesn’t ride well, a brand new swing set that had yet to be explored, dogs who hadn’t been let out for hours, I could only see paint splotches all over my chairs.  A project gone very wrong.  A disaster for me to clean up.  But to the party we went.  The boy played in the sprinkler, we had more time with family we rarely see, we collected hugs and smiles, filling up our soul. Still I couldn’t stop my anxiety from expanding.  Chef stuck to the timeline we had agreed to, maybe because I threatened no tv for two weeks and the NBA playoffs are happening. Either way, we headed home, no traffic, anxiety lifting.  Until we reached his car at work.  The original plan was to pick it up and head home, he wasn’t going back in. He again changed the plan, as he got out of the car with the over-tired, dirty boy, mentioning he needed to make sure “they” were okay.  The red paint was nothing compared to the color I was seeing as he sauntered off, leaving me to deal with dogs and a boy and bedtime and my schedule all messed up.  I had counted on his help to get things back on track since he was the derailer. Step 1: get home, step 2: let the dogs out, step 3: let the kid play, step 4: clean up everything while getting bedtime stuff ready, step 5: get kid to bed, step 6: remember all the ways Chef was wrong so I can tell him.

Miraculously, no pillows were chewed, no messes to clean.  The boy explored his playset while I tried to get pjs and books selected, dogs fed, snack made.  The meltdown came when I said it was time to come in, tears I anticipated all day.  Ha, I knew it.  Justification for my rigid timeline.  Except Chef appeared right then, took over with the boy, both came in when I called next time.  Books were read, snack was eaten, the boy went to sleep.  Step 1, step 2, step 3. done. I still had a car to empty, trash to collect, wet clothes to deal with so I generated a production of my own, a stomping, whirling, meltdown of the adult variety while Chef sat in his chair.  He ignored my nonsense, wisely.

I spent the day much like I spend my time crafting. I start out with great intentions and then the mess and worry take over, ruining the project.  I can see how I want it to be, I just don’t follow the instructions, I keep trying to clean up while we are still creating.  Yesterday could have gone differently, I could have come home to chewed couch cushions, the child could have cried the whole way home.  My worries would have been reinforced, but they weren’t.  Even if that was our experience, it wouldn’t have been life ending.  We all survived and I complicated what could have been a rather simple day.  Step 1, step 2, step 3.

This battle I have over controlling for all possible outcomes leaves little room for trust in others, faith in God.  Staying in charge is exhausting and not really very fun to be around, I would guess.  In fact fun is about the opposite of me.  Let Go and let God, I hear so often in my mind. Let go and trust your husband, let go and trust the mess inside of you.  There is fun and creativity waiting to come out.  Red, white and blue splotches on the table instead of clothes pins still speak to patriotism, missed bedtimes in the summer mean memories. Each day as I allow a bit more of my mess to show, as I own my need to control, I find God greeting me with a patient smile, trusting that I am following his instructions.  Step 1: look to God, Step 2: try again, Step 3: repeat.