I am a complete failure

We are on our way to the laundry room. The girl lingers at the door, clearly ready to make a bolt for the playground.

"Come," I call. "Come with me to the laundry room."

"I don't want to," she replies and runs off to the playground.

Naturally this is unacceptable behavior. Blatant disregard for directions usually is. There are consequences for such things.

A few minutes later we are talking about it.

"I said come, you didn't come, you chose to disobey."

"But mommy," she argues tearfully, "I told you I didn't want to."

blink...

um...

Let's try this again.

"When I say to do something it's your job to do it, even if you don't want to. That's what it means to obey. You do it because I said so, not because you want to. After you obey you have the choice to ask if you may do something else."

That's pretty clear, right?

"But I didn't want to, I told you I didn't want to before I ran away."

As if that makes it all better.

I think she really expects me to say, "Oh sweetie, I didn't know you didn't want to. Well that changes things then. You feel free to run off and do whatever you want whenever you feel like it."

Obviously she hasn't understood a word I have said in the past 6 years of her life.

I guess I have my work cut out for me.

Sigh.

Remember Who You Are

I finished reading The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis to the kids this week.

(If you have never read it or the accompanying books in the Chronicles of Narnia series you should stop now, drop everything, go out and buy the books and read them all this month. They are very worth the time, and really great to read aloud to kids as well.)

I have no idea how many times I have read this book before. Many.

I noticed something this time through that I don't remember noticing before.

The villain of the story is a witch. Her primary power is her ability to make people forget; who they are, where they're from, and what they are supposed to be doing.

We see it first when the children encounter her on the moor. By the time they are finished talking to her all they can think about is their own comfort; warm beds, hot baths, and getting in out of the cold. So strong does this idea become in their minds that they almost completely forget that they are on a quest, miss the signs they are supposed to follow and find themselves in grave danger as well.

The earth men she causes to forget all about their homeland, to believe that there is nothing else for them but to toil in her service day after day.

Prince Rillian's enchantment is the most sinister of all. For 10 years she keeps him with her, and he is devoted to her, thinking her his rescuer, and benefactor. She plans to invade the country that he is already prince of and rule it by force through him. Essentially, controlling him and so controlling what is rightfully his to begin with. During the hour a day that he does remember she keeps him bound, and powerless, until he forgets once more.

There is nothing like a good story to get at a fundamental truth in a way that is approachable.

For that is what happens to us all the time. We forget who we are. We forget where we are from. We forget what we are supposed to be doing. Some of us never even knew to begin with, which is the greatest tragedy of all.

We end up filling our time and days with things that don't matter, distract and are dangerous. The relationship we have to our lives, our vocation, our sphere of influence becomes distorted and wrong. Instead of a blessing, they become a curse.

All because we don't remember who we really are, where we are really from, or what we're really supposed to be doing.

In fact, we're all like the prince. We're children of the king, heirs to a glorious kingdom, and tasked with the work of nurturing and caring for those in it. Ours is meant to be a large and glorious life. But if we fall under enchantment and forget that, we are merely puppets, cheerless miserable puppets with very small lives. Or worse, tyrants, abusing our power over those we are charged to care for.

for you were formerly darkness, but now you are Light in the Lord; walk as children of Light... Awake oh sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ shall shine his Light on you. (Eph.5)

We need to remember. We need to be set free. We need to find our way out of darkness into the light of the sun. But we are not alone. One who didn't forget and never succumbed to enchantment has come to shine his Light on us, rescue us and show us the way.

Forgiveness

The Boy kneels on the floor sobbing, surveying what used to be an entire fort for his army guys to defend, complete with cannon, now scattered Lego pieces kicked all over the carpet. Little stands in the corner, arms crossed defiantly, brow furrowed, lower lip sticking out. She is angry because there was no page for her to scribble on identical to the big kids school work today, and she doesn't want to color in one of her 20 books instead. While the big kids were working on school she quietly knocked down and kicked to pieces all of the Boy's Lego creations.

I stand surveying the aftermath.

He is heartbroken. He can't remember how he built it, he can't reassemble the pieces and I kneel on the floor with him as he wraps his arms around me and sobs.

A while later I am holding Little, nursing her actually, as she continues to be sad, this time because of the discipline she received for choosing to hurt someone in anger. The Boy comes out of the bedroom again, still sad and leans into me, needing hugs and comfort.

I hold the child who is hurt, and the child who hurt him in my arms, comforting both at once.

This must be what it's like for God all the time. His children are constantly causing each other pain, and in pain themselves, and he holds us all at once, and loves us all.

A few minutes later I guide Little through an apology. "I shouldn't have broken your Lego. It was wong. I'm sowwy I hurt you. Pwease fowgive me."

"I forgive you," he responds, and I see a smile pass across his face for a moment.

"Do you want to give him a hug?" I ask.

She nods, and shifts her weight from foot to foot in the silly wiggling way she has and then throws herself at him and wraps her arms around his chest as he kneels on the floor to return the hug. They run off together laughing, inseparable. For an hour they want nothing more than to please each other. She wants him to lie down with her in her bed during quiet time, and he agrees for a while.

This is what forgiveness does. It heals us. It heals God's family. It brings us back into relationship with him and with each other. No wonder Jesus made such a big deal about it. No wonder Paul did too. Without forgiveness these relationships we have with each other don't work. We will always wrong each other, disappoint. We must be able to forgive to go on together. We must go on together or or lives become bleak, empty and desolate things without any meaning.

I said I wouldn't write about grief this month, I changed my mind.

I wake to the regular morning sounds of chatter and clinking at my MIL's house. "The spare room is way too close to the kitchen," I think to myself, for the 567th time. Little sleeps on my shoulder and I am pinned to the bed, plotting how to escape without waking her.

"...It was a pretty long labor. The baby was finally born this morning but the mother had a seizure right after and needed to be transferred. She's been there all day holding the baby..."

My youngest SIL is working at a midwifery clinic, job shadowing if you will, to gain experience, to decide if this is the direction she wants to take with her life. She left before dinner last night to attend another birth.

I am momentarily jealous. I long to hold a newborn these days.

I finally wriggle free and stumble blindly to get dressed before putting in my contacts. The potatoes are already cut and in the pot. One turkey pulled apart and ready to serve. I spend the next three hours making mashed potatoes, gravy, and pulling apart the remaining turkey my MIL cooked the previous night. I forget to eat breakfast, I remember to hang wet laundry because the dryer is broken.

We drive downtown, loads of Thanksgiving dinner in the trunk. Four hundred people are expected to file through today, to get their turkey dinner, a gift from Bridge of Hope to refugee families who have escaped wars and destruction in their various countries of birth.

I get blisters on the tips of my fingers, in spite of the silicone gloves I wear, pulling apart the countless hot turkeys that arrive just in time, without a carving knife. I don't notice the burns until later in the evening.

People are fed. I wish I had pictures of the beautiful scenes; all of these children all different and beautiful playing together, the faces that light up when we offer the turkey bones to take home for soup.

It is a good day. I am fine all day.

This morning we drive to church, my mind is wandering staring out the window. The houses near the freeway that burnt to the ground two years ago in the wildfires are almost completely rebuilt I notice.

Without any warning I find I am blinking back tears, the image of a newborn in my SIL's arms fresh in my mind again. There are no babies or births for me this month, though there should have been. Just like that, this day becomes an ordeal, something to survive, to get through, before I can go home and curl up into a ball where no one can see me.

The kids get to their classes. I stop at the restroom, try to collect myself. "OK, I can do this," I think,"just get through."

There is a newborn baby outside the main door with a crowd of well wishers gathered round. I turn my head away, go through a different door. I will find Aaron, sit next to him, and I can hide there. I don't want anyone to look at me with concern and ask how I am. I will completely lose it if they do.

He isn't there, he's sitting at a table outside reading. I can't do this today. I can't be in there alone. I can't explain it to him without breaking down. I go hide in the car instead.

Once the sobbing subsides I try again. I blow my nose, comb my hair, put on my sunglasses, and head back inside. And there is a friend, and she asks the dreaded question, and I cannot speak, I can not say, "I'm fine" and walk away. I fight back tears, again. What do I say? "I'm crying, again, because I want my baby, my Shiloh, to be here. I can't get the image of the delight on Little's face as she holds our neighbor's newborn out of my head. I wish so much she could be a big sister this month."

I can't say that. I can't talk at all past these stifled tears. I croak out a short explanation.

She understands. She hugs. I eventually stop crying on her shoulder. I can talk to people again, carefully.

MIL wants to meet us after church, have a picnic, go for a walk, spend some time. I'm afraid talk will turn to babies. I ask Aaron to tell them to please not mention it.

We eat Costco pizza on the new stress ribbon bridge spanning the lake, or rather, the mud with dead trees sticking out of it. The water is low again this time of year. Some sit, and some walk. I have to walk, even in shoes that will give me blisters.

Red earth hills rise all around the lake like a cradle. Brown hills, blue water and, every so often, a patch of brilliant green that startles. The sun is gentle today, the wind is cool.

Fire scarred trees are around every corner. I marvel aloud at green leaves curling out of blackened twigs. They look dead to me, but they are not.

I walk alone, held, it feels, by sky and the earth together. I keep thinking that there is some kind of lesson here, some encouragement to take from this triumph of life after such devastation.
But it feels too far away to hope for right now, life. I feel blackened and scarred, tired and sad. I know the story doesn't end here. There are trees and laughing brooks round a few more bends. But I cannot see them yet, cannot hope. I can only take each curve as it comes, and keep walking, knowing that good days and bad can cause blisters.

I didn't take these lovely photos of Lake Hodges. They were taken by villanninv, bookish in north park, and vissago and posted under the terms of a Creative Commons License

Dear Anthropologie, This is getting kind of ridiculous,

Ever since I bought my super cute apron from you you have been stalking me. You won't stop sending me seductive emails, and at least once a month I open my mailbox to find you've sent me yet more photos of yourself. I will admit, they are beautifully shot and very creative and I may have been willing to continue simply sighing over their loveliness before throwing them in the trash, knowing that you and I shall never have have more than a mild flirtation. You prefer women with money to burn.

But with this month's decorating themes you so kindly sent to my inbox I can no longer keep silence. Anthropologie, I hope you don't take this the wrong way but, it's time to get over yourself. Really.

Your new home decor line titled recycled? Let's talk about this.


My kids could make something that looks exactly like this, for free. All you need is a pair of tin snips and some rivets. Or failing that some glue and cereal boxes for the exact same look.

Do you really think I'm going to pay $60 for something like this, which most people will probably never put where birds can live in it?

But that's not all, no.

There is this.
An elephant carved out of flip flops that washed up on the beach in Kenya. For $298. Are you freaking kidding me?

You want people to pay $300 for a carved up flip flop? Even if I thought all of the money was going to the artist, which it's not, let's just be honest here Anthropologie, they aren't seeing half of it, this is completely ridiculous. It's a rubber elephant. I can find 20 like it at a world market for less than $20.

Behold, the Magpie Chandelier. Want to guess the price? Go ahead.
$4800 plus $259 shipping for something that looks like it was made out of all the stuff I can find in my mother's craft closet, including the old chandelier with wiring attached. I mean really, it is sort of charming. But it's made out of galvanized wire and found items. Anyone who can string beads on wire and can find their way through a hardware/craft/thrift store could make this themselves for less than $200.

This I-phone dock, for only $98, reminds me of something my little brother made from woodpile remnants when he was 10. Only his was better. It's a hunk of wood, with a branch glued to it, and an iPhone charger glued in through a hole drilled in the bottom. If the desire ever seizes me for an item like this, which it won't, I will pay a Boy with a saw to make it for me.

Ditto for this, which looks remarkably similar to my first ever attempt to create anything out of clay.

I could go on, you provide so much fodder, but I have other things to do. Like figure out how to get people to pay me exorbitant prices for stuff I can make out of trash. Toodles.

Thanksgiving in the Slum

Sometimes I'm just really happy that this is the family I got when I married Aaron.

This was in my inbox last week from my MIL.

Hi all,

It's November again and I think you know what that means: turkey, stuffing, green beans, pumpkin pies, dirty dishes, sore feet, and a long walk down the dirt road.

You and anyone you might want to bring along are all invited.

RSVP by November 22 - the Sunday before - so I can buy and thaw enough turkey and strategically attempt to seat squeeze everyone into the same room to sup together.

WHAT TO BRING - As always, I'll do the turkeys, stuffing, gravy, and mashed potatoes and drinking water. The rest is up to y'all. To ensure a really grand feast, family groups should mastermind both a side dish and a dessert. The rest of you, all I can say is don't come empty handed.

HOW TO PREPARE - We've all heard and some of us have seen, that even if we have to check under the couch cushions for gas money, we are still better off than the rest of the world. We have MUCH to be thankful for. This year we are taking the opportunity to spread our thanks to the other side of the world.

There is a family I know who live in one of the slums of Visak in India. One of their daughters has been blessed to live and study at Grace Life kid's hostels. Her name is Usha and she is a beautiful teenage lover of Jesus. The last time I was there, her family asked if I would come to their home and walk through the slum to their relative's home to pray for their nephew who lay paralyzed from the chest down from falling off a 3rd story roof. I did and I hope I never forget the honor it was being invited into such a situation.

Usha's parents and young siblings are literal, glowing lights in the darkness of the demonic and Hindu slum they live in. Their hut seems to shine at the end of a long, dark tunnel, but it's some kind of spiritual optical illusion. The path, under the open sky and a few overhanging branches is in full light of day, while their hut is so dark they have to guide me in. A filtered light falls from the smoke hole in the back room they've designated as the 'kitchen'. Their beds are a piece of dirty fabric on the concrete slab they are so happy to have under part of their plank and metal sheeting home. A fan hangs from the ceiling of the little room where everyone sleeps. It's wires threaten to strangle me. The blade hits my head even though I'm already stooping. But this family sparkles with joy.

Usha's little sister was born prematurely and suffers from seizures and is "different". Her mother hip holds her 4 year old frame and asks me to pray for her, but before I can open my mouth, the little girl reaches out and touches my chest and then my head, while looking steadily, lovingly into my eyes, and speaks words that might be Hindi or Telegu or some construction of her own and I receive the purest, straight from Jesus, blessing ever. Not because it was sweet having a little kid 'bless' me, but because it was the purest, straight from Jesus, blessing ever. She did it to me twice and I was nearly undone by the deep joy that filled me. And then there was outright laughing when I asked what her name was and they said it was Blessy.

It is very easy to see the Kingdom of God in this slum. The Light is life radiating out of and around this family. The path that leads to their little home is a gauntlet of dark, heavy, empty eyed families spilling out of their huts. There is no light in the eyes that stare back at me. Not even a glimmer.

Jesus said it is more blessed to give than receive. I want us to thank Him for that dynamic this Thanksgiving and get in on that blessing by collecting our extras for Usha's family as they love and follow Jesus in this visibly dark and demonic place. I want them to know that the family of God is proud of them and 'with' them and willing to share what they have with them. I'm not asking for a lot, just the extras that can be collected during this month leading up to Thanksgiving. The pennies and dimes you see on the street. The change you find under the cushions. The coins that fill up the little compartments in your dash, on your dresser, in the bottom of your purse. Bring it on Thanksgiving and I will send it to Kell Frandsen of Grace Life Ministries to deliver to Usha's family.

To be honest. I haven't got very much spare change at all this month. Several weeks without paying work tends to do that to a family. Sometimes I like to think I'm exempt from these things because of all the work and sacrifice we already do to help people. But the truth is that I still have way more, that I don't really need, when I'm honest with myself. I can afford to give something.

For people who live on less than a dollar a day even $5 is a huge gift.

I've set up a donate button for Usha's family. It occurred to me that some of you might like the chance to pitch in your pocket change as well. So I asked her if I could post her letter here. I have learned to see an opportunity to give as a gift in itself, that I need to give to people. Some of you taught me that, when you wrote to thank me for giving you a chance to help in a meaningful way when we started The Charis Project. So here you go.

One Thousand Gifts-Week 38

A quiet night at home, just me and my little girl.

Silly buns with friends.

Watching Little lay out the cards for a game of memory. The level of concentration is astounding.

My kids all singing together, "Twinkle twinkle little star".

Laughter from the bathroom where they're supposed to be brushing their teeth.


Little money for groceries. But there are free guava everywhere around here. They use the trees for landscaping. The Girl loves to pick them and bring them home to eat.

Quiet children, heads bent in concentration, diligently working on their writing assignments.

Man humming a tune as he sorts laundry.

I let Little walk to visit a friend this week by herself while I watched across the courtyard until she reached the door safe. She looked behind her at least three times as she crossed, to make sure I was still watching, before waving goodbye at the door.

Those little hard and sweet fall apples that smell amazing.

Walking all together, no agenda, just walking all together outside. And climbing a bunch of stuff too.

Hugs from my Boy that he doesn't break.

Lavender flowers in my tea.

That concentration.

My lovely SIL.

Dinner with friends. Good food, good wine, good conversation.

Little-'Mommy, you cute!'

Bouncing

Long talks with the man I love.

The gratitude community is here.