Dark Days and the Beautiful Ladies Three

I have a confession. 

I'm not always happy.  I'm not always happy and my house gets messy.  I'm not always happy, my house gets messy and I lose my temper with my kids.  I'm not always happy, my house gets messy, I lose my temper with my kids and sometimes it gets really dark around here. 

To give a little context, earlier last year, the flurry of hospital stays, Dr.'s appointments, therapy sessions and nurse visits came to a sudden halt.  They began on February 26th, 2013 and ended on January 29th of 2015.  In the span of two years we'd spent a month in the hospital, had gone to 83 various Dr.'s appointments, had about 30 feeding therapy sessions in our home, and had had the home health nurse visit maybe 15 times or so.  I'd spent hours: hours working with, ordering and planning out the details of the new medical supplies our daughter relied upon; hours administering medications, measuring intake/outtake; hours caring for, fearing for, listening for and watching out for this one little one.  The older three danced around the circumference.

But then it stopped.  Her weight goals had been met.  Her heart was not in imminent crisis.  Her therapist proclaimed her a texture expert.  Her tubie was pulled...removed.  Nearly as quickly as it began, it ended. 

And it was wonderful!  We rejoiced in the answered prayers, in the health of our little one and in the hope for the future of our family.  We marveled that we'd come through it with the accolades of Annika's GI Dr:  "Congratulations to mom-dedicated mother of 2014."  Those words are the most precious award I've ever received.

But now to real life.  People asked how our family was doing and all I could describe was that we were living in an emotional aftermath.  We sat in shock, surrounded by a lot of anger, some sadness, digressions in kids' behavior, the reality of James' chronic pain and a heart condition in Annika that was here to stay.  I had a hypersensitivity to noises which caused me to panic and cry whenever anyone was hurt, or even if I thought they were.  When the kids were playing and I heard screaming outside, I looked at my neighbors' faces to gauge if it was an emergency or not.  We knew that 2015 had to be dedicated to spending quality time as a family and to try to heal from the trauma of the past two years.

That February, I started going to individual counseling.  If there ever was a time in my life that I needed therapy, it was then.  I felt broken and I needed an experienced Christian lady's perspective.  Can I say these visits were wonderful and horrible all at once?  I'd hoped to talk about the past two years, but that's not the way it works.  No, it all gets threshed up.  Suddenly, all the sadnesses of my life clattered through my mind.

Genuinely, I am so thankful for those months of recollection and correction.  Sometimes I came home and stared at the wall.  Sometimes I mulled over a given topic all week.  I was awoken to my false thought patterns and was given new tools to cope with my anger, which was a huge issue at the time.  For five months I went, and I anticipated Wednesday nights - a time of painful growth and beauty.

However, in May, my spirits spiraled.  So many dreams lost: The health of my husband and daughter, international missions...a bleak future is all I could see, actually, I could see no future, and I felt crazy from post traumatic stress symptoms.  I've been discouraged or depressed for a few days at a time before, but this time the days kept going.  I woke up each day with a blankness in my heart and mind, a tastelessness for life.  May turned to June.  School ended for my kids and the days even more blank and void and purposeless.

"Why, my soul, are you downcast?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God."     Psalm 42:5

The words hit a wall.  The question remained, but the hope felt hopeless.  The future praise, stale.  My mind knew right, my deadened heart didn't care.

James, gave me lots of space, but I know he worried when his wife wasn't snapping out of it.  A walking zombie.  In my peripheral vision I saw him watching me, but I only felt hopeless, lost, alone and disconnected. 

One Sunday in June, a dear friend came to town.  She saw and sensed that things were not well.  She witnessed my screaming panic when a child was reported as injured (he turned out to be just fine).  And she prayed.  She had brought along her friend for the visit and she also prayed.  I know my name headed their prayer lists.  I thanked God for sending a prayer warrior my way who knew me so well, and another who didn't but who saw an inside glimpse of the difficult home battles James and I faced.

They left, and I was encouraged, but walked on in sadness.  I knew God had brought them at the perfect moment, but saw no change.  I didn't feel God.  Can I say God wasn't there?  No, I can't.  He was there. Was he not listening to my cries?  No, he was.  Was my rebellious heart unwilling to listen to him?  I don't know the answer.  But I didn't feel anything.  I knew it was a good thing and a loving God who sent a friend of 18 years from across the world to walk alongside me right when I needed her.  Beautiful Lady Number One.

Two weeks later I gave up, not on God, just on joy.  I remember it clearly, another Sunday, Father's Day, 2015.  I pulled my body along to church with the husband and kids, but knew I was done.  I couldn't fight or try any longer.  I was going to settle with feeling hopeless and give up on the too difficult battle to make my heart feel any other way.

I sat through Sunday School class as usual.  It ended.  Time to go to church.  But before we could go, she appeared, Beautiful Lady Number Two.  Another friend, one I've known for maybe 6-7 years.  She told me that she knew she needed to pray for me.  And she did.  In that classroom I stood with tears streaming down my face as she prayed for me and asked God's comfort as I mourned the loss of a dream for international missions.  She knew the sting of "not now" and understood the pain.  And God knew that I needed an understanding friend right at that moment.  I marveled at his goodness in sending one.

Church.  Misery.  The songs spelt out pain.  I sat in my seat with my journal during the worship songs and finally wrote out my complaint to God, every detail of my anger and frustration and loss.  I don't remember the sermon.  But at the end of the service, I sat with a sleeping child in my lap.  We sat as we waited for everyone to leave.  I stared into nothingness.  Lost. 

And then it happened.

Beautiful Lady Number Three.  She approached me from behind with her husband.

"Hi, I'm Mel."

"Hi...."  I assumed I had met her in the nursery or something, I'm so bad with faces.  I waited for her to say where we'd met but...

"You don't know me, but, I can I pray for you?  I recognize that look on your face, and I really feel God calling me to pray for you.  Is that okay?"

Stunned.  Utterly stunned.  Choked up and crying.  I kicked James to give her a rundown on why, perhaps, I might need prayer since I was unable to talk.  He spoke of Annika's heart condition and maybe something else, I don't remember. 

But she prayed.  And when she prayed, hand on my shoulder, she prayed for each of those things I had just written down in my complaint to God in my own private journal on that day of resignation.  She prayed as if I had been sharing my heart with her for an hour beforehand.  She prayed as if she knew me.  A total stranger.  One who "happened" to be visiting our church that day. 

And THAT is the power of a loving God.  A long-time friend from across the world, a friend from home, and a total stranger - all called by God to pray for this lost girl.  

God used them all, in progression, to whisper in my ear.

First, 
"I love you."
Then,
"I am with you."
And lastly, 
"I know you."

That message of "I know you," pulled me out.  A total stranger praying exactly my heart.  Only God could speak those words to me through her.  

Psalm 42 describes tears, lost times, wished-for joy, condemnation, mourning, and suffering.  The psalmist felt forgotten by God, swept away by God's waves and breakers.  There are seasons.

"He reached down from on high and took hold of me;
he drew me out of deep waters...
he rescued me because he delighted in me."  
Psalm 18:16,19b

Psalm 18 paints the story.  He delighted in me enough in those darks hours to tell of his love for me, his presence with me, and his knowledge of my intimate thoughts.  In his delight, he drew me out of deep waters.  He took hold of me.

My only part was to see and take hold of his hand.

On Rest (Written in February but not posted til now....)

I've been seeking rest.

I'm a little bit on hold, "until we get past this."  The problem is, there's always a new "this."  Sometimes it's big, sometimes it's unnoticed-a dripping faucet-but I can't rest.  I have to recover instead.  Or figure out the new thing.

In the past year I've dealt with depression, a traumatic experience with an unconscious child, a month of the flu in our house, my Grandma passing and now 11 nights of RSV scariness in the hospital.  Thrown in there, we've also had Annika on low-activity monitoring because she was showing more symptoms of heart failure and we were attempting to avoid "an emergency 911 situation."  That was October-January.  It's hard to rest when you can't let your 2 year old become too winded, ever.  Those are the big stress boulders.  Only slightly smaller, is the misbehavior of my other kids, and how to navigate each one's needs in the midst of the constant stress.

I know it's typical for kids to be unappreciative of their parents, but when I'm faced with: someone groaning about breakfast; someone being too overwhelmed to do schoolwork; someone yelling at me that they will not, cannot, EVER go to time out and continue to whine and whine and protest no matter what I tell them to do; when my every decision feels fought against; when someone will not put on that shirt; when they constantly tease and bicker - rest feels impossible.

I feel like I'm drowning.  I can't even think clearly.  The quiet evenings to ourselves don't start until 9 at the very earliest and, by that time, we're wasted.  We can't put together cohesive sentences or even focus our eyes on anything.  We just droop around and drool.  No.  Not really.  But sort of.

I read this and think, "Ok, then.  Get a grip on your kids.  This is the real issue here."  Maybe it is.  But I don't think we're alone in this.  I think there are seasons of THIS IS TOO HARD with our kids.  There are so many times, lately especially, when I throw up my hands because I have no idea what to do! 

I think because of all the "bigger" things happening, I lose sight of the "smaller" things, the ones which really matter.  I wake up in the morning and throw myself into autopilot.  Home school, cleaning, feeding Annika (she still requires a lot of time and assistance), cooking, cleaning, refereeing, and did I say cleaning?...getting it all done.  I just go.  And in my going, I sort of forget to plan and to really think!  I forget that these dear little ones are my number one ministry right now.  I forget that they are my calling.  I forget!

I forget that, while I'm going and pushing through and hoping for that future rest, the days are flying by and they're growing up.  And because I'm not quite rested, right now, I'm not quite giving them my best.  In fact, sometimes it's my worst.

That's the challenge.  That's the call.  To rest now.  To find rest now.  That future calm may not come until you find yourself in Heavenly eternity with your Creator.  I might not have a week of solitude, ever, but I can play my guitar and my piano every day.  I can sing.  I can get up early and read or write.  I don't.  Not often enough.  But I can, and I should, because it's rest for me, and as I rest, I can give more of myself.  And I can think. 

The Dreadful, Terrible Night

Last night I had a dreadful, terrible night.  It was one of those nights that went wrong in the evening and stayed wrong when I went to bed, and so I lay there with swirling thoughts of condemnation.  I felt dreadful.  It was terrible.

It was one of those times when I thought so much had improved in my heart and I was flung back into the reality that I am still so very much depraved and crooked and wrong and that there is so much I cannot do to fix myself.  I felt terrible.  It was dreadful.

I didn't sleep until after 2 and forgot to turn off my 6:30 alarm.  Soon the kids started coming like energetic waves.

I picked up my phone.  My morning verse of the day read like this - Jeremiah 29:11  "'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.'"

This verse hangs in my kitchen.  It's a popular one.  We like the idea of God knowing his plan for us, of God prospering us, of God protecting us, and of a future hope.  I like that too.  It sounds really nice and not dreadful or terrible.

But we miss a really important part.  This verse is part of a whole of chapter 29.  We don't read the whole story and miss the big picture.  This verse is spoken by God to his people who have been carried away into exile.  They have been carried away from all that they've known and loved into a new, strange land.  They are prisoners.  If that's not dreadful and terrible, I don't know what is.

But what does God tell them to do?  He tells them to embrace the exile.  What?!  Embrace the exile?!  He tells them to build houses, to settle down, to plant gardens, to marry, to seek peace and to pray for the city of their exile. Doesn't that sound like they're supposed to be joyful in trial and to love their enemies?  What?!  Moreover, they're to embrace this dreadful, terrible time, as if it's okay?

God then casually comments that after 70 years, the exile will end.  70 years.  My heart sinks.

And this is when the verse comes in.  He tells them this, that after 70 years "'I will come to you and fulfill my gracious promise to bring you back to this place.  For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.  Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you.  You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.  I will be found by you,' declares the Lord, 'and will bring you back from captivity.  I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you,' declares the Lord, 'and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile.'"

God doesn't simply pile promises and goodness and prosperity upon us.  He wants us to look for him, to cry out for him, to pray to him...with all our hearts.  And he promises to be found, to find us, to bring us back.

These last years, I've felt very much like an exile.  My rug of comfort has been pulled from under my feet.  I'm faced daily with my husband's chronic pain, the uncertainty of my daughter's life, a blurry future, and the plans to move overseas are on an indefinite hold. 

Sometimes I feel shackled.  And sometimes I have dreadful, terrible nights like last night where it all feels hopelessly impossible and I know I'm terribly inadequate.  I'm stuck doing what I didn't plan to do and going nowhere, at least from a lost perspective.

How thankful I am for the hope of this morning and God's steadfast love which never ends-with new mercies each morning (Lamentations 3:22-23). I am exhausted, but I embrace the fact that God is working through all of this mess.  He uses me when I am nothing and am not at all who and where I want to be.  He tells me to embrace it, to live in it, to seek him with all my heart. 

I'm starting to understand how it is he takes our ashes, mourning and despair and turns them to beauty, joy and praise (Isaiah 61:3).  He speaks through us in the dreadful, terrible times and calls us "oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor" (Is. 61:3).  Without that, I couldn't go on.

Dancing in Heaven

So much has happened in these last weeks, that I almost don't know where to start.  But, first and foremost, I wanted to share the words that I wrote for my Grandma's funeral.  

Most of you probably know that I wasn't able to go to the funeral because my youngest was in the hospital and, at that point, we didn't know if her medical situation was going to go north or south.  Praise the Lord, she ended up improving!  We didn't know that, though, so didn't want to risk the possibility of being caught three hours away on the other side of the mountains if there happened to be inclement weather.

My Brother, Brian, did a marvelous job reading this - and really, I might have asked him to do it anyway because I don't know that I would've been able to get through it.  I was able observe the service via skype (thanks to my brother, Andrew!) with my sweet friend, Tassie, by my side (fully robed and masked since Annika was in isolation).  The hospital staff was kind enough to give the space we needed, and Annika kindly slept through it all, so it was uninterrupted.

Life is sweet.  So precious.  So fleeting.  As I read through the box of letters and mementos saved by my Grandma, I was struck by how I was reading through the precious moments and memories of a whole lifetime.  A whole beautiful lifetime.

Annika, who is three, drew me a picture of Grandma dancing in Heaven.  What a joy!

************************************************************************************

Written on 1/21/16 - The day Grandma died

My grandma, Margaret Helene Larson, died today.

I am in shock and disbelief that this is really happening.  Of course, I always knew the day would come, and it was expected in the end, but in spite of it all - I can’t believe she’s really and truly gone.

Just three short weeks ago I was there.  I could hug her frail body and bring her hot tea and lunch.  I sprayed her wild hair down and combed it so she wouldn’t worry about it looking a mess.  I laid out her clothes for her to dress after her shower.  When I walked into her room, it smelled like my grandma - like her houses had smelled.  We sang loudly the happy birthday song to celebrate 95 years.  She bemoaned the fact that her great-grandkids were only seeing her as “a crazy lady,” and told them so.  I will make sure they get the story straight.

She was declining in body and forgetful as anything, but still compassionate enough to hold my hand and comfort me about my little one’s heart condition.  She asked me five minutes later what I was crying about because she had forgotten but, in the moment, she understood and knew and pointed me towards Jesus.  We talked of her times in North Dakota, of her horse - Peggy, whom she rode to school, how she brought potatoes and put them in the wood stove for lunch.  I asked her what her favorite food was as a child and she told me there wasn’t much to be had because it was the Great Depression.  She spoke of a man who worked for food and board on her family farm.

When I rubbed her back, she groaned with joy.  When I told her she was beautiful and a gift and thanked her for all she had done for me, she cried.

My Grandma was a beautiful soul.  We called her Marysville Grandma, Ephrata Grandma, Afraid-of Grandma, White-haired Grandma, White Grandma and More Grandma.  Whatever whim of a name a grandchild would come up with, she accepted with grace and loved us in her gentle, vivacious way.

I have so many memories, from eating beef barley soup with a stack of bread and butter, to her teaching me how to play cribbage.  I remember arriving early on the train, walking through Ephrata and along the windy hill next to the canal.  I wandered through her orchards, ate too many cherries, and had little, practical conversations along the way.

I am one blessed granddaughter!

She impacted me in more ways that I can say.  In a big way when she paid for much of my tuition to attend a Bible School in Sweden.  There I met my husband and was introduced to the missions organization I later joined.  We now have four beautiful kids.

Grandma also taught me a lot of sense, like the time when she told me to be sure and wear a bra all the time so “they wouldn’t hang down really low.”  We were stopped at a red light in her car.  A lady was crossing the crosswalk in front of us, clearly braless.  I was 14, very embarrassed.  I think I agreed to always do it, but didn’t make eye contact.

Grandma was a hard worker.  She got up early and got things done - “Work first, then play,” I remember her saying.  And she didn’t seem to forget the play.  She was ready for a game or a laugh or something silly.  I remember her hauling sprinklers around the orchard just as clearly as I remember the glint in her eye when she was winning at Shucks and her willingness, almost joyful determination, to proudly pose for the “swimsuit edition” of the family calendar.  I think she was 78 years old at the time.

Grandma loved Jesus.  She wasn’t preachy about it, but lived a quiet, faithful life.  She held to the rhythm of reading her Bible, her devotional book, and writing in her journal each night.

The Grandma I saw three weeks ago was the frail, dying Grandma.  She’d lived a hard, strong life and she’d pushed into the challenges.  But the body gives up: weak and frail.  And she was tired.  She’d run her race well - her children and many grandchildren can attest to that.

I’m happy, so happy, to think of my spunky Grandma finally now released from the chains of her weak heart and bones and body.  I can’t imagine how it feels to enter into glory, or what it looks like - but the thought of my Grandma standing before the throne of God as He says to her, “Well done, my good and faithful servant,” brings my heart joy and I smile amidst the tears.

Candidly

One of the great encouragers in my life encouraged me to write with less object and more journalistically.  This idea scares the heck out of me because I'm not exactly sure what's going to happen at the end when I start at the beginning, nor am I convinced that the overflow of my heart at this very moment will encourage any one else very well. 

And this is my goal with this blog.  To somehow walk together with others, or at least have others walk with me if they never talk to me, as this life unfolds, and to see-together-that God is faithful and that his arms, indeed, surround us.  With the route I've been taking, I'm only writing every couple months.  That's not exactly walking together.  Maybe a more candid approach will allow me to write more easily and frequently.  I don't know.  I'm worried that things might take on a more sad tone, because that's how it is a lot.  Or an overwhelmed tone.  Or a stressed one.  But even if it does, I'm hoping that the clear message of a loving God shines through.  And an inner joy, peace and hope.  That's what I hope and pray for anyway.

So where do things stand?  Today, this week, is a strange one.  Last week saw us anticipating a phone call announcing that Annika would have surgery on her heart.  The phone call amounted to, "Wait.  Not now."  We received the call in the middle of a 12 1/2 hour drive, one which usually takes 6 1/2 hours but was long, long, long because of Thursday's mudslides which blocked off California from itself.  Or at least rerouted all of us to the same small route.  It was grueling.  And the way home, when we expected to zip on down the beautiful coast and get home early, we traveled the wrong direction for a while and than realized that our gas tank was empty.  No problem?  Right.  We scooted around Monterey searching for a gas station and after visiting three, all without power, decided to head south a bit more and hope for power there.  But no.  Not there either.  Ultimately, we heard there had been a power plant failure and so decided we were stranded just where we were, in Carmel-by-the-Sea.  I laughed at this crazy life and didn't think it was all that bad.  The kids rejoiced and ran in the surf til their clothes dripped and studied the properties of sand and water as they built a sand castle meant to outlive the waves.  We made it home by 11:00 pm.

Most days in these last two weeks I've had to gather them all and frenzy feed and dress and brush and clip and tie, and toast and pour and wipe and punish and say the same old 5 steps to each of them individually more than once and get them out the door early.  And I've barely come home until just before James.  He beat me home today and found a kids' breakfast still on the table.  It's been a running sprint marathon.  One day this week, we stayed home.  And I made certain that we stayed home!

So in all of this, I've felt a little bit crazy.  I mean, not just that it is crazy, because it is, but a really me kind of crazy.  As in, I am.  Or am I?  Or...wait.  What?  That kind of thing.  I told my husband that I'm touching a psychotic place I've never been and am relating to people I never could relate to before, and he didn't really deny it but pointed out that I've never been in this place of stress before.  The fears and the waiting to find out if my little girl is going to have surgery on her heart....to have it sprung on us so unexpectedly, to be told it was probable, and than to swing the other direction of doing nothing and the fears that go along with that (is it okay to wait??), well...I've once again found myself prey to fear everywhere else.  I used to be fun, but now I fear.  I see the worst case scenario when my kids play and try to protect them.  Every little symptom in the household might possibly lead to death (and WebMD confirms it).  I live at the Dr's office.  In fact, even today a lady at the pharmacy whom I don't know said, "Oh, how nice!  You don't work here any more, but you still get to be here all the time!"  Should I have not brought her in for that double-ear infection?  Or, the other one, three times in the last month and a half for her three ear infections?  Is my paranoia real?  Or is my reality making me paranoid?

I've learned my own stress signs.  My hands go to my face.  I breathe out slowly.  Multi-tasking becomes difficult.  And when it's really bad, I hyperventilate.  I'm at the face/breathing stage these days.  That had passed.  But it's come again.

I guess that's how it goes with life.  You never get past the struggles.  This fallen world is too trouble-full.  It's learning to cope with them.  Live in them.  Blossom.

Jesus give me strength!  Walk with me as I walk with you.  Fill my heart with thoughts of you, especially when fear comes knocking.  Let your word be the word I turn to, and not the advice and thoughts of people.  May your peace surround my mind and heart.  May my thoughts and words pour out to my husband and children and neighbors and friends as an outpouring of your love.  I read these words that I've written and feel the whining, complaining cry of my own heart, but Jesus, make it yours.  Use it for your glory.  I don't understand always why and how you direct, but, Father, I do trust you.  Use this weak, broken vessel as you will.

The Vise

This is not the first time it's happened.  I can remember other times more clearly than most.  It's like a hand, first coming and caressing my soft-pumping heart. The fingers flirt with the movement until my heart is tamed to the idea.  Then they grab hold, still gently, but like a vise.  Ever slowly the fingers tighten and tighten their grip and, unnoticed by me, turn from flesh to steel with each gripping movement.  A stealth move like no other. I don't recognize the attack, even after I've been taken captive.  With every pump those steely fingers burrow into my heart, a slow creeping pain.  But, even still, I don't notice.  I accept it.  I embrace it.  It's a part of me.  It's who I am.

Anger, bitterness, fear, hatred, lust, envy, pride - this vise, this tactic of the enemy, comes in a variety of colors.  But for me, this time, fear grabbed hold.  It took control.  My captivated eyes fixated on the fear and, when they did manage to pull away to look on something else, the contagious fear stuck to my eyeballs and infected everything I saw.  I panicked about small things.  I treated my kids differently.  I waited for the fearful thing to happen, expected it even.  It was difficult to hear the voice of God.

But I heard it.  Two days ago.   I had some hours to myself (how important lonely hours are!) and I was angry because my fearful hopes and expectations for the day had been dashed, and I sat alone with the sickening feeling of a hard kick in the gut and I wept.  I was supposed to spend the evening knowing results and how to move forward and instead it was more waiting and....it dawned on me....more fearing.  Had I been so fearful?

It hit me like an anvil dropped from a 30 story building.  Crushed to pieces.  My hopes and securities had rested in my own knowledge and the feelings of control I would gain from it.  I had clung to that string of hope thinking I could kick the fear in the face once I knew.  It was all about me.

In my selfish aloneness He met me and whispered in my ear that He already knows-and that's enough.  That in my waiting I had not been asking Him enough, but had let each nail-scraping day pass by in tense expectation.

If I am to live in relationship, in friendship, and to walk with this Jesus who created and knows my heart, I can't forget to talk to Him.  I can't leave out a section of my heart.  I can't give it away to someone or something else. 

No wonder His voice felt small.

God is greater than all fear.  In fact, He casts it out.  This life, this world, is a warzone.  This enemy of God doesn't give up in his prowling quest to overthrow the people in it, most especially those belonging to God.  He sneaks and swerves and worms his way into our hearts and eyes and minds and he's on the constant move, squinting his eyes towards the tiniest chink in our armor.

So make it secure.  Talk to God.  Read His word.  Spend the time in quietness so you have eyes to see when the enemy has pervaded.  Let Jesus shatter that vise.

Sanitary

We're staying in a house surrounded by dirt.  My kids have been bathing almost every day because when they walk through the door they're a few shades darker than when they walked out the door...and it's not from the sun.  You can see their eye holes in the original color.

It seems, no matter what they, or we, do we come back dirty and itching, too.  The first day we arrived, we woke up eager to explore the mountainside.  We boldly headed down the trail in our shorts and flip flops and ended (30 minutes later?) with two crying kids.  One had stepped in poop and couldn't bear to continue the explorations and the other had discovered that all the leaves are spiky and that there are many, many burrs here.  Neither of them wanted to explore again.  Ever!  The other two were still game to leave the house in future days, but they were not thrilled about everything having spikes and burrs on it.

I'm proud to report, however, that just a few days later, we have all continued to walk out the door and the one who had given up all exploring for ALL time is the one who discovered the tarantula on our walk tonight and was excited about it.  The difference is we know what we're facing and are better prepared for it.

Also, a couple days ago, the kids made an important discovery.  There's a hill, actually, the whole thing is hill-so the part of the hill right next to the house turns out to be the perfect place to geronimo down on the two year old's tiny pink tricycle.  The two year old hasn't done it, but the 4, 6 and 8 year old have been wild about it (we did let the 2 year old give it a small go on the barely-bottom part of a hill and she rapidly let go of the handlebars and crashed...not a problem keeping her off the behemoth now...).  Only one kid has crashed and cried, but only minor injuries incurred.  Anyway, the proper way down this hill is to drag your feet along the whole dusty way (and we're talking 250 meters here?) so you can maintain control and not careen into the tall brown, burry grass on the sides of the pathway.  They haven't all managed it every time.  Little pink tricycle is most definitely seeing more action then ever in her short life.  At any rate, they come back dirty.  But it's AWESOME!

My kids are urbanites.  Have I mentioned that?  They are.  When we started driving in the hills and there were no more houses in sight, the two year old started fearfully wimpering in her carseat.  She calmed a little when I held her hand.  When we walk through the woods, it's scary for one or the other of them at some point in the walk.  When they see more than their accustomed 5 stars, they are in awe.  They are surprised at dirt roads and hills without guardrails.  They are used to seeing dogs on leashes or behind fences.  Any sort of loose animal spotted anywhere is scream-worthy.  Muddy hands must be immediately washed because they're...muddy.  I never dreamed I would be raising urbanites, but here we are.

At home, we have dirt, but it's boxed in and manicured for the most part.  The kids can't mess with the plants and bushes too much or the neighbors become upset (HOA...ugh).  If there is a loose cat, it will discreetly disappear one day to the animal shelter lest it leave a mess in our allotted dirt.  We can't be too loud or fast or leave a mess so we don't disturb our neighbors.  It's just the way it has to be in close communities like ours.  Mostly, people don't want mess.  They want peace and quiet and beauty.  I get it.  But is that the way to peace of heart and mind?

I notice this in more than my little community, however.  It's all the rage to look and be perfect.  If you have problems, go to the proper place and deal with it.  If you have mess, shut it behind your doors and don't talk about it.  If your face or body doesn't look right, fix it.  The last thing you should do is engage with people!  Don't smile at them on the street or dump your emotional dirt if you don't know them well enough or they don't want to hear it.  Keep it clean.  Act your role.  Do your part.

But what if?  What if we walked out our doors prepared for the dirt and the spikes?  What if we stopped worrying about what we want and don't want, what we can and can't do, and started looking at and listening more to the people around us and what they need?  What if we stopped paying so much attention to our screens and diverted our eyes and hearts and ears to people right next to us?  What if we didn't cry when we stepped in life's poop and came home with spikes and splinters and burrs?  Or, if the tears came, what if they were for the pain of others rather then our own? What if we expected the dirt and rashes?  What if we looked for them instead of walked right by and around?

What I'm asking is this:  Why do we try so hard to cover up our mess?  Why do we pretend?  Why are we too busy to listen?  Why do we never have time?  Are our hours so well spent that we don't have time to stop and be real with ourselves and each other?  Why can't we live with the dirt?  It's not going away.

How about this?  How about we all jump on our little pink tricycles and careen down the dirty, scary way?  We might get hurt.  It might make us cry.  Our shoes will definitely not last as long.  But, I promise you, it will be AWESOME!

I mean, dirt.  It's where we came from, isn't it?  We can dress it up, and ourselves, all we want, but it's still there.  We can manicure our parks and plant trees perfectly aligned, but underneath it's still dirt.  I get lost in the pavement of the city.  I miss the simplicity and brown bareness of the earth.  And so, here, away, I am excited when it's just God's beautifully landscaped world around me.  Just the dirty dirt.  And it's okay that it's not perfect looking.  It just is.









P.S. (In case you didn't gather it on your own, your little pink tricycle is the Bible, God's word.)