My Mom is god

This is perhaps the most meaningful and humbling note I have ever received.  I found it in my daughter's school journal, sent home by her teacher at the end of the school year.  According to Maryn, the students were given a writing assignment to complete each morning of kindergarten.  Sometimes they would be told what to write, and other times they were free to choose the topic.  I'm pretty sure this is an example of the latter.  Although her teacher had corrected my emerging young writer's "god" to "good", I wonder about the original intent.  Aren't parents the first images of God a child has?  Isn't our goal to model God's love and affirm that our child is a beloved and good creation of God?

Ah, this is what cuts me the deepest in parenthood...the sense of failure at this primary responsiblity to train up a child in God's way, in God's love.  So many times I become like an Old Testament god full of wrath and punitive retribution.  It becomes all about the law instead of the Spirit, until the rules and my standards become gods in themselves.  I forget the grace I have been shown.  I forget to share that gift with those closest to me, whose eyes are always watching, always learning.  But, oh, the grace they show.  When I least expect it, they are reminding me that I am good, instead of the other way around.

She is just beginning to see herself as separate from me, although sometimes the line is blurred as we are so alike in temperament.  I want to be a reflection for her of the beauty and creativity and love of God.  I want her to see her worth not only in my eyes, but in God's.  I long for her to dream vividly of what her world can be, full of faith and meaning.  I hope that she will connect her life to the ongoing work of redeeming creation, to help bring about the Kingdom of God here and now.  I want my work and ministry to be a model of that, but sometimes all the little "g" gods of success and busyness get in the way.  I become impatient and too quick to judge.  But I thank God for grace, particularly shown through a little blond-haired blue-eyed angel on earth that sees no distinction between good and god and me.

Dream On

My daughter is a slow riser like me.  She often crawls into my bed, still groggy, retreating from the joyous singing of her brother, a morning person.  As we snuggle, she eventually wakes up enough to ask, "Wanna know what I dreamed?"  And of course I do.  Her dreams are vibrant and detailed, and I'm always amazed at how much she remembers.  My dreams usually vanish as I open my eyes.  When I recently had to keep a dream journal for a class, I realized that the majority of my dreams are focused on anxiety (at least the ones I remember).  I am losing teeth, getting lost in narrow passageways, and running late trying to get somewhere (sometimes without any clothes on).  Her dreams are ones of connection and beauty.  She describes colors and storylines with multiple layers.  They are silly and sweet and usually about the two of us spending time together (although sometimes we take the form of fish or unicorns).  There are plot twists and happy endings, and the retelling takes longer than I imagine the dream actually lasted.  She is my artist, my imaginative storyteller, painting pictures with her words.  Each night when we say our prayers, the kids put in their requests for specific dreams, a wish list to God to fill their slumber with visions of Harry Potter, mermaids, and puppies.  The requests are often answered, and I shouldn't be surprised as the Bible points out that God is in the business of dreams.

My girl is full of dreams even in her waking hours.  She keeps an evolving list of what she wants to be when she grows up: a vet, a pet store owner, an artist, an author/illustrator, a mommy.  She wants to juggle all of these careers at once while driving her pick-up truck (which she has imagined down to the finest detail).  Once she gets an idea in her head it's impossible to shake, so we are off on a search for a watch with purple flowers and a pink band or mermaid sunglasses.  Shopping for clothes is often a nightmare as the selections don't always match the clothing she has designed in her mind.

She has yet to learn that our dreams don't always match reality, and that's a lesson that I don't want her to have to experience.  But it seems that is what growing up is about.  We shed our dreams and pick up more manageable goals.  We surrender fantasy and imagination for a dose of the practical.  It's been a constant tension for me--how do I nurture her spirit while also helping her to develop the coping skills for when things don't go according to her plans?  How can I recapture my own sense of wonder and dreaming so that we can share the beauty of the world as she sees it?

It's interesting (and probably not a coincidence) that much of what I'm reading these days talks about the necessity of play for us all, and the intersection between play and spirituality.  Stuart Brown and Brené Brown both speak on the importance of spending regular time doing things that appear meaningless.  That's counter-cultural in our world that teaches that success is all about doing, and the measure of our importance is how busy we are.  Who has time for play?  But to my children, everything is play.  How many times do I implore them to stop playing around in the bathroom and brush their teeth?  How often do I tell them we don't have time to play around, we have things we need to do?

But perhaps they are on the right track and I'm the one who needs to wake up.

Scripture says that unless we change and become like little children we will not enter the kingdom of heaven (Matthew 18:3).  And I think, maybe that's what people mean when they say to cherish these times, that I will miss these days of my kids being little.  I get so frustrated thinking that I'm not succeeding in teaching them all they need to know, but maybe it's the other way around.  Maybe I'm not letting them teach me all they know.  What am I missing out on by thinking that my way is the real truth that they need to embrace?  Perhaps the truth is that the kingdom of heaven is here in their wonder and joy, in their faith that things will be taken care of, in their certainty that they are loved and special, in their belief that God is with them and cares about their dreams.

What would my dreams be if I truly lived like that?

A Gift

Today, I wear a Mother's Day gift from my sweet girl.  Like many such gifts, its value is not in the materials themselves, but in the pride and love in which they were fashioned.  I don't think I'll ever forget the look of excitement on her face as she told me about making the necklace, and the brief bit of concern that she wasn't supposed to tell me the secret, but "Oh, if you really want me to, I'll tell you" and then she was off in a flurry of words and gestures and detailed instructions of how she had shaped the clay and added the ribbon and bead.  She couldn't wait for me to see it.  And neither could I.  She was so proud to hand it to me and explained, "I put my thumbprint on it" and I felt the groove with my own thumb and told her that we would always be connected as I could touch my thumb to hers whenever I missed her.

My favorite part, though, is that she called it her "fumprint".  In her self-consciousness, she would hate for me to point that out, so I had to work hard not to smile at the cuteness.  She has always been a verbal and vocal child, very precocious and advanced for her age, so I hang on tightly to these reminders of how little she actually is.  She has lost so many of her former mispronunciations as she has grown, and she has alternately created and dropped her own made up words and sounds to express herself.  Now I can understand why my mom loves to remind me of how I used to call construction paper "instruction paper".  For parents there is a sweetness in seeing the imperfections, a reminder that there is still so much time to learn and so much to embrace in the reality of how things really are right now.  This gift and her words are a reminder not to rush into the future, but to slow down a moment and put my fumprint against hers and try not to be shocked that the sizes are not so very different as they once were.

Maryn and I are made from the same mold, it seems.  We both struggle with perfectionistic tendencies and are crushed to think we have failed at something.  But I'm reminded that sometimes our strengths and weaknesses are different sides of the same coin.  Although she is very verbose, when she is feeling intense emotions, it is difficult for her to find the words.  She will yell and grunt and point no matter how many times we remind her to "use her words".  Although I've developed other tools in my many years of experience, my tendency to withdraw or be passive-aggressive is not helpful either.  But we are both quick to pick up on how others are feeling and to show empathy and compassion for them.  In the same way, we are disappointed when the reality of life doesn't match up with the picture we've created in our head.  But that imagination helps us to dream new things and work to make them happen.

I like to think that this is how God looks at us.  Not as a mess of failures that need to be corrected, but that the Holy One is gently smiling in love at our offered gifts, imperfect as they are.  God sees a child, created in the Father's divine image, enough as she is, and yet with so much potential for continued growth.  So I will hold on to this fumprint as a reminder of my girl that is so like me and so loves me in spite of my failures and whom I remind every day that I will always love her, too, no matter what.

For my girl, who is now six

They say we'll miss these days, and although I argue that there are many days I won't miss, I do recognize the bittersweet twist of these moments as they pass.  It will never be quite like this again.  I have already forgotten the feel of the baby days that went by in a blur of exhaustion, and when I see her toddler pictures, it's like looking at a stranger.  It's hard to remember a time when she wasn't fully who she is now...clever, funny, articulate, demanding, feisty, and thoughtful.  How did we ever relate before she could tell me the stories of her day as we snuggle together in her bed? 

She is six now, and it seems so big and momentous.  We are out of the infant, toddler, preschool stages into the real essence of childhood.  She can read and write on her own and has chores for which she's responsible.  It's odd as I can distinctly remember being six and what it felt like to be navigating a world that was ever-expanding.  She loves for me to share my memories, and she laughs, because my life is different from hers, although we are more similar than she realizes.

We have already begun the dance of clinging and letting go.  She takes a step away, testing her independence, refuses to hold my hand in parking lots, and yet she won't let me leave her side at bedtime.  She argues relentlessly with me over insignificant details, pushes me away in anger, and then begs for time together, just the two of us.  I look into her eyes and it's disorienting.  They are my eyes, and yet behind them is a spark that is purely her own.  We are alike in temperament but I'm reminded each day that she is her own unique creation.  We are connected, but not the same.  She is learning that, and is teaching me, too.

The days are long, but the years are short, and these are the moments I want to remember forever:

Always My Baby Girl

A blog post for Maryn.

You have always loved babies and often ask when I will have another.  Oh sweet girl, you will forever be my baby, and there will not be another to take your place.  Even as you've grown, I still carry you to bed in my arms  like the baby you were.  Now, though, your legs dangle so far down, you usually get the giggles at how I struggle with the size of you.  When I check on you as you sleep, I smile at how you lie perpendicular in the bed, sometimes with your head hanging off the side.  When you've tried to sleep with me, you do the same, your feet pushing into my stomach, and I remember the baby that did flips in my womb and kept me awake at night with all the kicking from the inside.  I knew you would be feisty then, and you have not disappointed me.

You long for me when we are apart, and I think back to your traumatic emergency delivery when I feared I was losing you.  I sobbed uncontrollably until I went under and then emerged minutes later to find that you were "perfectly healthy", thank God, and I couldn't wait to hold you as we were separated.  Apparently, you couldn't wait either, and I could hear your loud cries down the hall as they rolled you to my room after recovery, and when I held you, you stopped crying and found comfort in me.  It still amazes me that I can be that peace for you when I often feel like such a chaotic mess inside my own head.

You cling to me, and I find myself no longer holding back, but hanging onto your gifts of love and trust.  I see so much of me in you, but have so much hope that you will surpass the barriers I've built for myself.  You are strong and brutally honest, not afraid to tell it like it is, and yet you have such a sensitivity to the feelings of others and long to make peace and soothe hurts.  You make me laugh with your silliness and impress me with your cleverness.  You show me who I could be if I were as brave as you, and you make me want to be more.  The gift is how you accept me for who I am.

Girl of my heart, I have so many dreams for you, but my greatest hope is you will always know how loved and cherished you are.  You will always be my baby, even as you grow into a woman and one day relinquish your hold on me.  I will try my best not to fight that letting go, but to bless your independence.  May your beautiful gifts touch the world as they have touched our lives, and may you always see the art in God's creation as you make your own.