Because some days, I just want to yell

Scrambling to clean up from the day, picking up, wiping, prepping the lentils & rice for when hungry, wet & tired bodies scraggle into my kitchen after a day of swim team & sun & work & school, I am stopped by 9 year old boy, introvert, standing in my path tears pouring out with every other word.

Big brother and friend duo were being too rough & macho boys on the trampoline.  I walk outside (well...I stomp actually) and see no boys but rather just the girls on trampoline.  So I bark out his name and he and friend come from the side of the house.  He red faced and a bit emotional and friend already saying, "He didn't do it, really!"

And why in these moments does it all rush back from my childhood?  Me 9 and my older sister hurting me in some shape or form, nails, feet or words that lodged deep and loud but quiet, peacemaker me had no tools to fight back, to solve the problem so I retreated, slunk back, gave up time and again.  And now, even as a grown woman, I feel the hurt and wish I could go back and stand up for myself.

So of course I am partial to 9 year old over 12.  And I am ready to dish out punishment large after I hear both sides when I suddenly ask a question and get a major curve ball, dagger to my heart.  "What were you doing behind the side of the house?"  And his answer clear and honest diffuses me and leaves me undone, raw and forced to look at the speck in my own eye.  "I was scared you'd yell at us."

And just like that, I gulped hard, bit my lip and whispered deep in my heart, "Help me Jesus not to harm but to help, to bind up and not to break."  I am guilty of yelling.  I was about to be guilty of embarrassing him in front of friend and all, for goodness knows he deserved it.  

Yet, how do you reel it all back in and not let it fly in the heat of the moment?  How am I to be the adult here when I feel like the 8 year old girl again, broken and bruised and finally ready to stand up and pull back the bow.  I don't have the answers.  All I know is words can scar and words can wound and lodge deep and fester when left unchecked.  I've been on both the receiving and the giving end unfortunately.  

As I grow up unto all the fullness of Christ, mature into 5th grade from 4th in my conflict resolution skills I am learning that usually when I feel deep anger, rage even, that it usually isn't about the issue at hand.  The issue, the squabble to referee, the broken glass, the spilt milk is just the trigger to push up some undealt with something that if I can be brave enough and face, grieve, yell at that sister face in my pillow that I can spare a lot of pain in my present hall of memories.  

My counselor back in Wenatchee, WA used to say the world would be a sweeter place if we'd stop throwing up on the sidewalk -ie. to each other- and learn to throw up in the toilet large and loud and then flush (i.e.-palms open, give it to Jesus, trust he's big enough to handle it).  And in those days she taught me to put my kids in front of Veggie Tales safe and walk back into the bathroom and speak out the deep hurt, yell even, grunt, pound the sink, kick the door, cuss even and then flush.

And there at 3327 School Street, the parsonage house we rented with orange carpet and white picket fence I learned that I was angry about some things and that being honest with my anger could lead to great hope and healing.  It hasn't been an easy road but I've learned that throwing up to the ones I love doesn't produce what I desire.

Medicine for Rushed Children

 There is a magical place I take my kids each summer.  

Yesterday,  I dropped one of my four off for his 3rd year at Gwynn Valley Camp in Brevard, NC.   I not only saw but felt the magic of slow, of nature beauty, of camp.  And it pierced my heart so deep....I cried.  

Teared up right there in the darn business office waiting for the gal to copy my insurance card.  Silly me.  What is 'this' about? I asked myself, only having been on campus for 5 minutes.   

Just a slow drive down the lane with 7 1/2 mph sign, creek on one side, expanse of tall grass field on other with wild horses roaming, a jolly greeting by a fella from the UK and a short walk down the road with signs for foot traffic only.  

Why was I so teary already?  The therapy of green, of horses and smiles coupled with kindness and wide open spaces and the smell of lush greenery touched my soul like a warm fatherly hand on my shoulder.  It was an invitation to be human, to rest and soak up the simple things in life in a community of families from literally  all over the world.   And I felt like I could unpack my bag and stay for a spell.  

But its his turn.  

His chance to revel in this magical place called Gwynn Valley.  

His turn to make pottery, candles, baskets even. To splash in the pond, to sing silly songs.

To feed milk to baby goats from a bottle, hold chicks, harvest carrots & potatoes & broccoli from the farm.  To make new friends, to grow and stretch and be challenged some.  To go creek hiking, kayak if he wants or just catch crawl dads in the creek.  

In a recent conversation with my sister, who has her Masters degree in Early Childhood Development, we skimmed the surface of how rushed children (even our own at times) are these days, how competitive parenting has become and the challenges of raising healthy & whole kids... mind, body & spirit in a world full of both beauty & yucky.  

I'm spoiled to have a childhood/ parenting goroo for a sister and friend.  

I realized how I'm finally in the place in my life where I am thankful for the 2 earthquakes that  led me to an about face in my career 15 years ago.  Being diagnosed with a chronic disease at 21 and then delivering my second son, William as a stillborn and placing his body in my Moms butterfly garden made me face my immortality and what truly matters in the long run earlier than most do I reckon. 

And this place seems to embody it all...all that I've stumbled to piece together in my life and the lives of our little crew.  

After I fell apart and died a silent death with my William, I birthed fresh steps toward simplicity, toward a life lived with margins on the page and mostly out of doors.  Ground my wheat & made our own bread.  Said "No" to a 2 family income and "Yes" to less.  

Yes to lingering meals with my husband and each child that was added.  Yes to walks and hikes and bike rides.  Yes to books and learning to raise bees and chickens.

As I walk through campus taking pictures after making his bed and chatting with counselors I am struck by how blessed we are to have a treasure like this right here in our own little town.  

And I glory in the unique opportunity my kids have to come and be a kid surrounded by other kids both big and small, cause geese-louise those counselors even seem happy to be at a job where they are being fully human and not glued to a screen.  To be living in reality in this haven of a spot for both workers and campers alike.  

Grant and Anne Bullard have created not only fertile soil for hundreds of pounds of food to grow each year on the 320 acres they own but also fertile soil for thousands of pounds of goodness to sprout and grow in kids souls.   

A safe place for good work to be done each day.  A place to do your chores in the cabin, to be among peers without the 'whose who' of their own friends, a place to be fully alive without even the option of screen time.

And.  It.  Is.  A. Marvelous.  Place. 

If you've never seen first hand this little piece of heaven, I invite you to come take a look. 

This place embodies one of the most shaping books I have read over the last 12 years as a parent called Last Child in the Woods.  Here is the skinny on the meat of what Richard Louv found out when researching kids and their worlds today.

'Last Child in the Woods'

'Saving our Children from Nature Deficit Disorder"

by Richard Louv

"I like to play indoors better 'cause that's where all the electrical outlets are," reports a fourth grader.  Never before in history have children been so plugged in and so out of touch with the natural world.  In this groundbreaking new work, child advocacy expert Richard Louv directly links the lack of nature in the lives of today's wired generation-he calls it nature deficit-to some of the most disturbing childhood trends, such as rises in obesity, Attention Deficit Disorder and depression.  

The rate at which doctors prescribe antidepressants to children has doubled in the last five years, and recent studies show that too much computer use spells trouble for the developing mind.  Nature-deficit disorder is not a medical condition; it is a description of the human costs of alienation from nature.  This alienation damages children and shapes adults, families, and communities.  There are solution, though, and they're right in our own backyards.  

'Last Child in the Woods' is the first book to bring together cutting-edge research showing that direct exposure to nature is essential for healthy childhood development-physical, emotional, and spiritual.  What's more, nature is a potent therapy for depression, obesity, and ADD.  Environment-based education dramatically improves standardized test scores and grade point averages and develops skills in problem solving, critical thinking, and decision making.  Even creativity is stimulated by childhood experiences in nature.

This old water wheel still works.  It powers the gears that grind corn to make corn meal.  The children take a colander and sift out grass & ants from the corn kernels, atleast that is what my 7 year old told me.  Then they fill sacks with the freshly ground cornmeal and carry the sacks to the kitchen for grits in the morning.  

 Bonfire wood and benches just waiting for boys & girls to gather round and linger right outside their cabin.  Something that we do often as a family, but how wonderful for my kids to have these experiences with their peers.

After driving down the one lane road and parking, these are the signs that meet you before walking down the lane that smells of fresh dew & mountain laurel... your entrance to camp. 

The words bid me to s l o w.  

Slow down.  

Exhale.

Cause sometimes, we need a sign that just clearly says, "SLOW DOWN MAMA!"  "These are little persons your dealing with.  They need fresh air, conversation, time to 'be'."  How we forget this as Mamas & Daddies I don't know.  Call it stress or fatigue or what have you.  But young and old alike need a talking to sometimes.  

I've even had a few with my kids grandparents in my head lately on long jogs alone and on teary days when I feel so alone in the world.  "Stay still.  Make space for us will you?  The shaping is not only in the holidays, but in the every days, the ordinary days.  My kids are people that need role models not on stages but in real life, and I want you to be one of them.  But that takes time."

And lastly, here is the skinny on my second all time favorite, most helpful parenting books.                     I hope you'll consider finding a copy & reading whether your kids are babies or teenagers.

The Hurried Child 

'growing up too fast too soon' 

by David Elkind

With the first edition of The Hurried Child,  'growing up too fast too soon' David Elkind emerged as the voice of parenting reason, calling our attention to the crippling effects of hurrying our children through life.  He showed that by blurring the boundaries of what is age appropriate, by expecting-or imposing-too much too soon, we force our kids to grow up too fast, to mimic adult sophistication while secretly yearning for innocence.

 In the more than two decades since this book first appeared, new generations of parents have inadvertently stepped up the assault on childhood, in the media, in schools, and at home.  In the third edition of this classic Dr. Elkind provided a detailed, up-to-the-minute look at the Internet, classroom culture, school violence, movies, television, and a growing societal incivility to show parents and teachers where hurrying occurs and why.

 And as before, he offered parents and teachers insight, advice and hope for encouraging healthy development while protecting the joy and freedom of childhood.  In this 25th anniversary edition of the book, Dr. Elkind delivers important new commentary to put a quarter century of trends and change into perspective for parents today.

And if you'd like to see a little video of the place...here you go.

vimeo.com/14128578

Slowing down on Sundays

These spring days have us wandering barefoot in the grass, lots of invitations of my kids one to another, "You wanna play tag?" and just plain lingering afternoons.  Seeing my 12 year old out there swinging with my 5 year old between subjects reminded me of the need to give them slow space.  Space to be a person, a human and not be told what to do, where to be, how to act, or led in play or entertained.

This seems to be getting harder and harder for parents of this day and age.  Gone are the days of roaming around the neighborhood for hours on a bike, in and out of friends homes, like I grew up.  I remember making slime burgers with Leigh Rooker in her creek for hours on multiple summer days.  But what do we parents do to keep them occupied today?    We sign them up earlier and earlier for organized sports & activities.  We cram their every waking hour. We patrol them, hoard over their beings to make sure they are safe and developing appropriately.   And then when playdates are organized we parents have to patrol their time between their aching desires to play on a screen together and go play outside.  Dag nabit.

I don't have the answer to this place we find ourselves in, though I do have my own ways of dealing with the issue.  Some days I feel successful and lots of days... not so much.  Yet, I am growing ever more passionate about one thing.  Children (young & older) need space and time to just 'be'.  They need time to get bored and not have it figured out for them.  Time to lay in the grass and watch the moving clouds, wonder over things, sounds, birds chirping, the lush colors of spring, time to sing random songs on the swing ALONE.  Time to make up games, to believe they can make a ...... and go for it!  But how risky it feels as a parent to step off the cliff of "What sport is your child playing?  What are y'all into?" and into "We are being present and playing a lot these days."  

Sundays are a great place to start incorporating more of this.  I go hard all week.  Work, school, reading lots of books out loud  meal prep, lots of clean up, dealing with tiffs, correcting attitudes, shaping souls, running errands, washing tinkly sheets, having friends over, prepping another meal, taking kids to swimming, my days are non stop really.  All with purposeful, seemingly necessary things, but full none the less.  

The further down this road called life I walk, I hear Fathers whispers to receive the gift of Sabbath, which is a word telling us that God ceased from his work.  God told the Isrealites to follow his pattern of 6 days of work and 1 of rest.  It was a command.  How cool is that?  Do you argue with your boss telling you to take an afternoon off?  Heck, no!  You welcome it, you receive it, you walk in it with gratitude.  Just as your mouth waters when your about to bite into some delicious watermelon, so we should desire our day of rest.

I recently read a wonderful book by a family friend in our community, Fred Bahnson.  This quote captured my experience of Sundays over the last years as I have sought to make Sundays a different day for all in our home.

What has happened to our Sundays?  

What is the Sabbath anyway?

The Sabbath is not just a day; it is an aura,

 a spiritual force that infuses everything with the gentle and feminine light of Shekhinah.  "The seventh day is like a palace in time with a kingdom for all," Heschel wrote.  "It is not a date but an atmosphere...the Sabbath sends out its presence over the fields, into our homes, into our hearts.  It is a moment of resurrection of the dormant spirit in our souls."

Soil and Sacrament  by Fred Bahnson

Beauty Hunters

Come now, My Love, My Lovely One, Come,

For you, the winter has passed,

The snows are over and gone, the flowers appear in the land,

The season of joyful songs has come.

The cooing of the turtledove is 

Heard in our land,

Come now, My Love, My Lovely One,

Come,

Let me see your face, and let me hear

Your voice, for your voice is sweet

and your face is beautiful,

Come now, my love, my lovely one,

Come.

Song of Songs 2:10-14

This time of year Abba's whispers lull me outside.  The birds wake me in the morning with the brightness of the sun.  The fresh green grass puts off a smell of freshness, the flowers bring a sense of hope to my winterized heart of chill.  New life behooves me to hop on my bike.

And ride with wind in my face, sweat down my back, balancing in the curves making me feel like I am 8 years old again.  Only this time I'm surrounded by a flock of kids soaking up the adventure with me, beating hearts pumping blood to all the extremities.  Gosh it feels good to be alive in spring time! 

We have become beauty hunters over the years, these kids and I.  Eyes peeled, nature journals open we chronicle the first buds on our trees, the first signs of our hostas pushing up from the earth, the return of humming birds.

Abba Father woos us to dine with him, to laugh and to play in his delightful world with the coming of spring.  I hope you'll don a helmet, borrow a bike or trike or even your walking shoes and get out there and soak up the joyful song being sung all around.  Our Lover calls to us.

Birthing Creativity

As a child emerges through the birth canal, his nerve sensors are woken up.  The act of applying pressure for a few minutes alerts numerous systems of the body to come alive.  Amazing, this birth process beyond words to describe the holy mystery of it all.  

All I know is that I’ve done it five times, pushed skulls & shoulders, bellys & knees and little feeties through my body.  Reached down and brought fully formed little people to my chest even.  Time.  Stands.  Still.  Glory be!

Only once the birth canal couldn’t wake up my son.  His little heart gave out in utero and his spirit went to dance with Jesus, be rocked by all the Mamas in heaven who always wanted a child but for whatever reason never got to Mother one. 

I can’t begin to tell you what that did to my heart to birth something dead.  The heave of each wave of contraction insurmountable knowing his eyes wouldn’t open to meet mine.  He would never nurse and coo at my breast.  Knowing I’d never play itsy bitsy spider with him smiling joy over his pop belly only to have him cackle at the end like his big brother did.  Who knew a baby could unlock so much room for love in a womans heart?  Or grief.

A part of me died with him that day.  Retreated.  Slunk into the shadows.

We named him William, which bore great significance for both my husband and I.  William Shakespeare for me since I completed an 8 year journey to finish my college education the day before he died.  I decided to quit college after too many unsuccessful majors and took a class not for credits but for my heart upon my dads concern and prompting and chose a writing class.  

Cathy Smith Bowers taught in a way that made my heart swell with possibility.  I made my  first ever A in a college class and went on to major in English with an emphafiasis on creative writing.  I wish you could see the way I just spelled emphasis.  Emphafiasis.  I laugh now and just move on.  But for years it haunted me with shame the backwards way I do things, pulling words that aren’t right but have the same first sound, not  remembering passwords, names.  I was on a stage last week telling David Wilcox a story so he could sing me a song and upon being asked how old my husband and I were, I claimed myself a whole year older than I really am.  Oh my!

Now though, thanks to my 3^rd child coming out wired like I am, I know that I’m dyslexic.  And I’ve spent the last year letting lots of shame come to light and be healed.  Waves of anger, sadness, confusion and acceptance have come over me at the oddest of times. 

Ultimately tho, it feels like I’ve been in that birth canal wayyyy toooooooo looooong trying my darndest to wake up my authentic self to have the courage to come out into the world.  And offer something. 

My heart.

When you’ve offered and gotten shut down or laughed at in front of others during formative years for truly trying but getting it way wrong, it doesn’t take long to figure out how to be quiet and just not offer.  To play it safe.  To hide.  To be safe.

But that’s not where we find true life, hiding in the shadows.  “Hide it under a bussell, NO! I’m gonna let it shine.”  I can sing it.  But I struggle to live it.

Yet, Abba is inviting me to step deeper into parts of me and offer and I want to say YES! with gusto and throw off the mask of caring what others think, if anyone even reads the writing, likes or shows up to hear me speak.  A tree was made to grow leaves.  I was made to nurture life, to write, to speak, to create with my heart and craft words that bring life and health to souls and bodies alive.  I want to do that. 

My husband and I talk about what it looks like to ‘train up each of our kids in the way that they are bent.’  “Jed is bent towards caring for living things and the environment, how can we best set him up to have what he needs to succeed in that way as an adult?”

Well, Abba invited me (through a mac daddy friend) to take a writing class this past winter.  I jumped, literally at the invitation.  It was called a Fearless Writing Workshop for Women.  We ate salty, almond chocolate, told stories, wrote them and read aloud.  It was the best part of my week for 6 weeks.  But I kept not writing.  Rather, sitting safely in the shadows reading Ann Voskamp, Mary Oliver, Sarah Bessy, Anne Lamott, Barbra Brown Taylor, Windell Berry, Sally Clarkson.  Souls that craft words in a beautiful  way that daily guide me, heros that have become friends I’ve read so much of their writing.  But, me?  Am I really old enough to really offer something?  Does it even matter?  So many words out there, blogs, books, websites, we live in information overload, I told myself.  “No one needs my stories.” 

"The essence of creativity is essentially risk, believing enough to leap into the yet unseen.  The theological terms for this is faith."            -Ann Voskamp

And then, I turned around to grin at her after picking her up from preschool and I felt like the last 4 years had slipped through my fingers it went so fast.    

It hurt in the deep middle of my ribs.  This realization of my littlest growing up.  Turning 5 next month.  5.  And this realization that I want to write more.  For her.  For them to have words and stories to look back on one day.

Then and there I drew a line in the sand telling myself I’m going to chronicle these crazy, messy beautiful days of home educating, shaping 4 healthy souls, reading galore, baking fresh, eating whole food, growing tender plants, having dance parties, living the ‘slow life’,  building chicken coops, going on bike rides, sleeping a consistent 11 hours a night….the kids that is.  But also the messy parts, the hard groans.

So, here goes nothin’.

A Woven Life...My Messy Beautiful

http://momastery.com/carry-on-warrior

I almost missed this day.

Our 15th wedding anniversary, April 10, 2014.

Bullheaded, brokenhearted, and enraged I fumed out the door after hastily packing my bag.  Smashing my wedding picture on the corner of our bedpost leaving a million little pieces of glass for him to deal with along with our 4 sleeping children 10 & under to feed, nurture, do laundry, drive to soccer, make sure they use soap in the shower and to read to and tuck in bed each night. 

 I was done.  Or was I undone?  Used up.  Withered.

Sampson, my first Toyota truck, an 89' stick shift that my Dad still has was more than a mode of transportation for my passionate, introspective 16 year old self.  It was a think tank, a solace for my romantic heart allowing me long country drives with music blaring.  

Dad always said, "A car is a tool to get safely from point A to point B" and "change the oil & take care of it & you'll get tired of that car long before it will tire out on you."  I love my Dad.  He was right about so many things I would never admit then but will now.  

But for me, even now at 37 years old, my car is sacred space.  Mountain drives beside creeks, through woods and wide open spaces push up the sadness I sometimes don't even know is there, nature safely absorbing my emotions, hard questions, distraught soul.  I get clear about things in the car.  I dance, I belch out my favorite tunes, I feel safe to scream out my anger & disappointments, and I cry....

So this dark night of the soul was rightly spent driving around in my car talking & feeling at the same time like my counselor was teaching me to do.  Easy when I'm alone.  Hard when real faces are staring back at me.  Abba was with me, he heard.  After the death of my son I learned God was big enough to handle my anger.  Ever since, I bring it to him straight up.  

After driving for hours in the dark, spent by tears, exhausted, I stopped to get a hotel room.  "Were booked Mam and so are all the hotels within 10 miles of here, leaf season you know."  The one night of my life I decide I'm walking away from my marriage happens to be the beginning of peak leaf weekend here in the blue ridge mountains.  Great.

Forced to knock on a dear friends door at 3am and curl up on her couch, I found solace in a prayerful friend who loved me without asking too many questions I wasn't ready to answer.  Sleep whispered to me but never came.  I walked through what my life would like to start over, without him.  I saw pain in each choice.  I felt it like the beginning of a heart attack.  

Pains do not hold a marriage together.  It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads which sew people together through the years.  That's what makes a marriage last- more than passion or even sex.
                                                                                                            -Simone Signoret

Numb from the shock of what I was truly contemplating, I folded the blanket over me, slipped on my shoes, left a thank you note for my friend and tiptoed with hardwoods creaking out the front door.  One step. At. A. Time.  I drove home in the budding morning light haze straight faced.  It was a Sunday morning.  Pulling into the driveway I saw him through the window sitting at the kitchen table, light on, a book open.  The hardest few steps of my life from the car to the front door.  My feet like heavy bags of compost.  

Choosing the road less traveled rarely is easy you know.

But I did.  We did.  After both of us saying those two humbling words, "I'm sorry", we choose to walk back into our life together, one day, one hour, one minute at a time. 

And yesterday, we celebrated 15 years of marriage.  I spent hours planning for our kids to be cared for by dear friends, packing bags, organizing details while he asked for a day off work, found a snazzy hotel overlooking the mountains, bought tickets to hear some great music, wine & cheese for the hotel room.  Truly, our lives are woven one decision after another.  Nothing glamorous.  Just messy, beautiful daily life lived with a touch of intention.  "Brutaful" my friend Wendy calls it...brutal and beautiful at the same time.

Lingering over spicy Indian food last night we celebrated large and loud.  We lingered over each other and our imperfect lives speaking gratitude to one another for choosing to keep loving, keep forgiving, keep learning how to do this thing called marriage and conflict and raise healthy souls, my Lord no one ever told us it would be this grueling at times.  Did my romantic idealist self just miss that talk that everyone else got, or what!?!

Don't get me wrong,The Professor and I have chapter books of scrumptious memories...glorious family waterfall hikes, lingering wonderful moments in our peaceful home reading and writing together, tasting delicious food, wrestling with our kids, playing board games, reading out loud while eating popcorn, jumping wildly on the trampoline.  We do have a good time together.

But, but marriage has also viscously exposed our selfish hearts...our wounds from the past....our lack of this or that...and our lack of skills or knowledge in some cases of how to truly love and serve.  Yet, today as I sip a latte at a book store and glory in no time constraints or responsibilities my heart swells with deep satisfaction and thankfulness that we made it to here as well as hope that we will make it to there.

Marriage is God's greatest tool for transforming the human heart.
                                                                                                           -Mike Mason

For the ones who have gone before us that have shown us bits and pieces of how to do it and given us courage to keep going and shared the not so great parts of our journey we are grateful...Laura & Matt Parker, Elizabeth & Fred Bahnson, Karin & Mike Abbott.  Thank you for giving us courage to keep walking towards each other.

Having the intimate community of family is truly one of life's greatest gift to humans.  The Professor and I appreciate the commitment of marriage in both our families.  I will mention here tho the sweetness of my two sisters whom we all share anniversaries in April.  Our resolve is somehow strengthened by yours.  Thank you!  We celebrate you, Brice & Jeff Melton- of 20 years and Ash & Tom Stahlschmidt of 9 years.  

Most of all, we appreciate the role model my parents are in our lives.  We realize with each passing year the impact of your choices upon us and we are truly grateful.  Humbled actually.  The large oak of your marriage has provided love, nurture, wisdom and hope for us.  Thank you, Pat & David Jones celebrating 45 years of marriage this year. 

A Dinner Gathering

My husband told me our 4 year old said, "Shoot a damn monkey" tonight.  "I'll let you deal with that one, babe" with a smirk and a chuckle is all he said as we sat under stitches of a quilt wandering through the halls of the day.

With my firstborn I would of freaked out or felt tremendous guilt & vowed to never say it again, these words first patched together by my own mom and now come tumbling from my lips as I slice my finger in the kitchen, can't find a pencil for the millionth time or am just feeling lost in this world and the walls are closing in on me.  Please tell me you have some of those moments.

But tonight, I chuckled and owned it.  Her.  And all the ways she soaks me up that blue eyed Walters girl who lives at a decible above us all.  She is a mirror of me.  It only took birthing 5 children to get one that looks just.  like. me.  All but the blue eyes.  Those are from her Mama Jo.

At first I grinned and said thank you and ahhh, isn't that sweet as people commented on her resembling me.  Slowly tho, I have awakened unto the glory of this sacred thing called mothering and imprinting souls, having little shadows that look to me...are watching, modeling.

And just today as I gave her and her sister beaded little purses fit for evening gowns my mom just passed on to me for them, this pistol pot of a girly girl said, "Bye kids, I'm going on a date, be good for Miss Johannah."  Her purse swinging down by her feet.  I grinned and played along talking into the story.  Then I whispered, "I think I remember Nana putting this long chain in the purse and then tucking it under her armpit like this."  Smiling large and loud the way my own Mom does espically around my Dad I walked out of the house, blew kisses.

She carried that purse under her arm all. day. long.  To the dentist as well as the grocery for a few forgotten ingredients for the crazy dinner party of 12 ladies I was hosting tonight and feeling unprepared for yet that I needed like I need water & sleep & air.  A penny, dime, lipgloss and an old camera tucked inside her purse.  Though she is playing at being grown up today, I know all too soon she will be.

I called my Dad this past Sunday at the kitchen sink over a broken garbage disposal with tons of dirty dishes to wash and a trundle bed of the boys that broke that morning.  Tears weren't far behind my eyes as I asked if there was any way he could pop up the mountain to help with some projects.  Servant that he is, he was being the passenger while my 15 year old nephew got some driving time in.  "Isn't being all grown up fun!?!"  My Dad chuckled and I could see his grin and feel his love so tight around me the tears squirted out. "You wanted to be all grown up so bad."

And I did.  And now she does, this precious little girl child who has me all on my left foot in my parenting grooves.  Keeps me humbled, this fourth Walters blessing.  And when she does grow up, you know what?  I think she will be like me in ways that will both humble and heal her.

Tonight I hosted a dinner party of women who mostly didn't know each other.  Women whose eyeballs I get to look into now and then, some more than others and who have been a part of Abbas wooing me to sink my teeth into things that are tangible tho they don't know it.  A creshendo of sorts of the 4 month journey I've been on of being mostly unplugged, off facebook.  Women that I admire deeply, who lead my kids godly play sunday school class telling the stories of old, breaking bread and letting the little ones pray for their cats & friends & boo-boo's.  Women who said yes to my wild idea of a monthly Mom Heart group where we read through a book together, pray for one another once a month.  Women who lead magical childhood memory camps, finish Acupuncture school, fight cancer, home educate 5 kids while supporting the family, live simply and happily with 3 kids & a husband in a 2 bedroom house.  Women who I see around my little town, but barely "know"and who I'd like to know more.

Yes, brave souls gathered around my table tonight and I was deeply nourished.  I cooked from Bread & Wine 'a love letter to life around the table with recipes' by Shauna Niequist.  Bacon-Wrapped Dates, Mango Chicken Curry and Blueberry Crisp my 11 year old son made as I chopped, set out & gathered all the dishes.  It was holy work, brave work walking into new waters with food prep.  I walk around my life feeling stupid more than I'd like to admit.  Seeing more of what I can't do than what I can.  The wounds of failure in the classroom as a child follow me everywhere.  And even tonight as Sherri offered to stay & wash up the last dishes with me I confessed I wonder if I'll ever be a professional.  More feel like and be professional at anything.  Just because I have a degree and a Health Coach Certification hasn't made me feel grown up or competent or given me legs to stand in the world and offer something.  Like have a real salary.  Maybe that comes at 40???  I still have a few years, right?

My Mom is a deeply professional woman.  She invites respect and a listening ear.  She loves deeply, she prays for us, her 3 daughters, our husbands, her 8 grandchildren as she swims an ungodly amount of laps in her Master Swim class.  She has survived much in her lifetime.  Conquered fears, walked into new territory and figured it out starting with just a VW bus and a bit of pocket money her and my Dad. Living in Canada in a tent.  Getting both of them through graduate school.  Hosting parties, celebrating us and those we love along the way in a warm, loving home.

She is the one I watched.  And she is the one that I find myself immulating in these days of healing from what I do not know, of seeking to find footing in this fastly changing internet, screen relationship world. Invite others in.  Give a big hug at the door.  Smile.  Food.  Put on music.  Clean the house.  Wine, beer and water.  Explain the flow of the meal, pray and let go.  Talk & guide but not too much.

I fell asleep whispering thank you, father...thank you.

For in him we live and move and have our being.  In him we are being made whole.  In him, I am gaining confidence to live my one life well.  In him I am coming alive again as I ask a friend for help with my clothes in my room that are in piles and eating me up, as I raise my hand and ask.  invite.  seek a different way.  not perfect, just more whole.  More real, tangible like figs stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in bacon and baked to a crisp.

I pray that you too, today will sink your teeth into something real, something yummy.  And sit down when you do.  And if you feel even more courageous, invite someone to share it with you.  Who knows, you may be a part of their healing journey to wholeness as well???

Shalom,

Amanda