Cake and Communion

 

Belly laughs echoed through that historic Infantry Barracks home that Wednesday night, as they had so many times before. The cracks in the walls had been painted over for decades; generations of women married to military men had made meals, washed clothes, laughed, cried, and loved well in those homes.  In that soul-healing moment we declared that in our own way, we were having church. I laughed, “Can Communion be done with cake?”

Just the Sunday before,  we had taken Communion bread and cup– which is never separate from our calling to motherhood.  Wrestling with our children, our sins, our righteousness- spilling over the pews, spilling out of our souls. We whisper teaching through the Holy Moments, reverence and regular intertwined. “This is my Body”-“Don’t poke him” “Broken for you” ” Mommy, I have to go potty!”, “Do this in remembrance of me”… We took communion and lived in community.

We ladies of Fort Leavenworth saw one another nearly daily, but on Wednesday nights we rushed to put the young ones to sleep and gathered at the oldest home with cake. Someone was always celebrating a birthday, an anniversary, or something cake-worthy.  We made a cake with strawberry and pink insides to reveal that the baby I carried would be a girl. Over cake and exhaustion, in our own way, gathered for church.  We recounted more than just the happenings of the week– we shared our deep wounds and great joys. A journal recounted what made us laugh the hardest and stirred our souls.  It wasn’t a Bible study, yet verses and God’s Word poured out.

We recorded our victories, our prayers, our pain… because we showed up.

A few months later, I called them from a hospital room to tell them Jonathan was bleeding from the brain and we feared in was a tumor. They could not get to me, but how they prayed. Christina made a cake. They made certain that dear friends were with me. From across the country, sisters showed up. Jessica came from California with a burrito and chips. Sofia brought cake and tacos. Jen started prayer chains that went worldwide. Donna began the meal train and the church fed us well.  Boxes from Sisters poured in. Too many names to write here etched onto our hearts and into our story. The Ranks of the Women stood ready– these mighty, wondrous women.   My body and soul were restored.

Nearly a year since our last goodbye, Jeanette, Christina, and my little family gathered in the kitchen for cake. It was time for them to meet the daughter they knew would come before I could confidently hope for it. Prayers and hope were now evidenced in joy- Elizabeth Joy.

Jeanette’s in-laws flew to keep the children so that she could come for the week. Christina loaded the children and drove from Kansas to Virginia, left the kids with her parents for several hours and drove the hour to my home.  As we opened the door, the boys yelled for joy. Elizabeth looked at each face with a smile and a furrowed brow– I can’t help but think she knew the voices that laughed and prayed over my belly each week. After all, they knew I was pregnant before I did. She was loved, prayed for, and promised.  Elizabeth even got a taste of cake, as it should be.

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We gathered. We ate. We remembered what God has done in our lives. We dwelt in each other’s homes, lives, and hearts. We asked the hard questions and worshiped the Living God. We put in the effort, the time, and the calories. That is the secret to these deep friendships– you forge them. They are worth the work, the time, the calories and the risk.

IMG_2426 We told of our marriages and the men we love who serve in harm’s way. Harm’s way can mean the pathway littered with laundry that only made it NEXT to the hamper. We spoke of disabilities, cancers, ministries, shoes, and how tall our babies have gotten.  We opened the laughter journal and howled. We read through last year’s victories and marveled at what God has done.

The Bread of Life sustains us. We are lucky to be alive. Indeed, we live a life more abundant.

We hold one another, knowing God holds us in his palm. We feed one another, encouraging one another to hunger and thirst for righteousness. We bring joy to one another, for the joy of the Lord is our strength. We fight together, for we are wives of warriors.  As we do the hard things Christ calls us to, we serve Him while serving one another. The arms of Christ wrap around the children when they struggle.

The hands of Christ fold loads of laundry, wash dirty dishes and move furniture.

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We are states away now, waiting for our next chance to be together.

Until then, we remain the Body of Christ- and the Body eats cake.

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My Second Rodeo

The security guard examined my face, squinted, and then turned back to the computer screen. This scrutiny continued for a few more moments. “You don’t look like your ID”, she said. “It is your name, but you don’t look the same.”  I chuckled. “Well, I’ve had a three children and two cancer diagnoses since then. I’ve changed a bit. ”

She handed me an ID badge as Jonathan informed her of our name. “I’m here to see William on floor 10. He was bleeding.”

“Well, HE knows who he is,” she replied, smiling.  We thanked her and walked to the elevators. I was amused, if not pensive. At that point I had been running on three hours of sleep and had two kids in tow. At least someone knows what is going on. Onward and upward.

William’s recovery from surgery HAD progressed well over the past week, so I thought we were in the clear. Unfortunately, his pain became severe at night. At 1am on Tuesday morning, I found more than tears. His face and carpet were covered in blood. A few frantic calls later and a drive to the hospital  later, William was checked in for observation and fluids. We never expected him to stay for 36 hours.

Our family met in the hospital room, regrouped, and then I traded places with my husband. He will be spending the night with Jonathan on Friday for chemo treatment and had been up with William for 36 hours at that point. I left him several bottles and insisted that he go home and sleep. I settled in with William to party like it was 2014. It’s been a while since William and I had our all-night parties in the hospital.

I decided to scroll down Memory Lane…

 

 

 

Okay, so we have both changed a bit over the last four years. Like most people, stress has shown itself. “Time marches on and eventually you realize it marches across your face.” -Dolly Parton as Truvy, Steel Magnolia.

 

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I’m in fairly good company.

I may be a bit rusty– I only had a few nights with Jonathan in the hospital after his brain surgery– but this wasn’t my first rodeo. I’d spent 6 months living in a hospital room with William during leukemia treatment. Now I was back in the saddle.

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I still can’t figure out how to get William to sleep in a hospital before 1 am. However, music, cuddles, and walking the hallways in circles for hours finally worked. He slept 4 hours total in 2 days, but it was something. However, the baby slept through the night for the first time, Jonathan had a great day at school, and my man slept 8 hours.

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The bleeding stopped and we were released. We arrived home in time to get Jonathan from school, but we missed an important meeting with the Director of Special Education regarding William’s schooling. I’l call it a win.

Here is the thing about a rodeo… I know the ropes, but a rodeo is being dropped onto a raging animal, trying to hang on for dear life as much as possible, and to avoid injury as everyone watches. Yes, this is my second rodeo, indeed.

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As for not looking like myself– I certainly hope not. I hope that with each year I am less like myself and more and more like Christ. Our appearance may change, but out identity and the Name we claim never changes.

In the eternal timeline, what feels like long-suffering may just feel like a victorious 8 seconds. Until then, we trust Jesus and hang on. I just heard a crash, so it is time to do some wrangling. Yeehaw.

Just Stop Swimming

I’m sorry that I have been quiet lately, but it is hard to talk from underwater.  Our family’s matra used to be from Dory from Finding Nemo: “Just Keep Swimming”, but at this point that seems laughable.

I call the stand Exhibit A– the swimming lesson blogs from last summer. Swimming is NOT our strong suit.

Trying to force a child to learn survival skills as they claw, cry, and cling to your neck and thrash against a very pregnant belly seems counter-intuitive and counter-productive. While other kids blew bubbles and kicked in their adorable swim suits, my children caused a scene like drowning cats until I called for help. (God bless Lynette and the grandmothers of the church!)

 

 

That little bit took nearly 45 minutes to write as I fielded the disaster that is our home right now. There is so, SO many great things happening and I am truly thankful. However, the storm is raging literally and figuratively. It has rained nearly every day for a month.

Between my home and our church is a 4 lane highway-bridge. The recent rain and flooding has damaged it severely. The word went out:  due to the storms and damage, we would need to find another way to get to Worship.

The storms are indeed raging. My children are not well. Dear friends have informed me their children have been diagnosed with cancer. Military moves and goodbyes are in full swing. I’m ironing shirts for my husband so he can attend funerals as parents bury their children. My dear friends who often rush to my aid have been home sick and in ERs. This week, the winds are howling. The usual path to worship is blocked, but we must find a new way to worship. The paths to genuine worship will often be blocked and difficult.

To keep the kids alive and well, my body has been forfeit. The Living Sacrifice of laying oneself down is a painful, relentless discipline. Medications require fights and literally pinning an exceptionally strong, raging child down. School has been missed.  Lightning McQueen cars went missing. The baby is cutting teeth and is miserable. My awesome mother in law who was here for three weeks finally had to go home. (Her next trip is booked already, Praise God. More reinforcements arrive in a week!) The tears, milk, and medicines are spilling daily in the same way the rain is beating down here, on top of the flooded areas.

 

 

In their distress, the children are clinging to me and crying out. My body bears the marks, the stains, and the faint smell of spilled medicine. My muscles are sore and my soul is tired. I feel lost and like I have lost my mom-sense. As my mother says, I cannot differentiate between normal and an emergency anymore because emergencies are my normal. If I appear strong at all, it is only because I am gripping onto a strong anchor with all my might.

 

 

The only thing to do is to act like my children.

When everything is painful, confusing, and seems hopeless, they find the one who can help and hold fast.  In my frustration and exhaustion, I have been trying to tread water and swim against the storm. How foolish can I be? When will I learn?!

I can hardly get groceries and meals made, let alone get the kids to eat. Try harder. Look for meal plans. Organize! I tell my self.

The laundry is piling up. The sink is full of syringes, cups, measuring cups and dishes that taunt me. I’ve done twice the usual loads this week, but they taunt me. You don’t have enough. You aren’t enough.

The children weep and fight me as I try to soothe, protect and help them. They refuse the water and sustenance that they need because it hurts and wasn’t what they wanted. I do the same to God.

It is time to embrace Rock Bottom.

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I need to cling and hold fast to the Rock- to Jesus. He is not weak or broken, as I am. He doesn’t get weary of holding me. He sits with me and lets me cry as we walk through this together. I can’t fix things and end it for my children, and He doesn’t for me– but we both sit with those we love and struggle together.

That is where real faith is built up. I can’t just keep swimming. Instead, everyone in this house is clinging to something stronger. I am so weak, angry, exhausted and frustrated. I don’t want this life or this pain for my children. God has no problem with me yelling into the hurricane that beats down on our family– as long as we cling to Him. He is the Rock, the Anchor, and the Holy Spirit is the voice in the storm.

Hold Fast. Trust. Believe. Endure. Press on. Just Stop Swimming.

 

Austin, Texas- the Silver Bullet

This week I discovered that a phrase that is a conversational silver bullet. No matter what the suggestion is, how many ways I can say I’ve tried it or no thanks, the thing to say is “I grew up in Austin, Texas.”

Anyone with a disability or lasting illness will tell you that suggestions and advice are now a part of life. Flooding your house slowly, like a steady drip-drip-drip or rushing in unwelcome as Hurricane Harvey,  what is meant to be refreshing can feel deadly. How to respond varies based on the person, advice and day, but I have struggled to find a grace-filled way to get people to realize they are hurting, not helping.

Then it happened. After a LONG Monday I went to a workout class with the glorious Lynette (of swim-lesson helper fame from this summer. God bless her and the horse she rode in on!)  The wonderful teacher, whose husband is a cancer survivor, made suggestions and reported of studies of the benefits of cannabis oil. This was the third time it was suggested in 24 hours.

I was sweaty, tired, and had slammed a protein shake that my sick child wouldn’t finish rather than eating dinner with my husband. As she regaled me with stories of how it cured tumors that didn’t respond to treatments and gave advice on how to get the synthetic version (all from genuine care and love), I told her that I was well-informed, talked to our doctors, had researched about the benefits, and  I had heard about the successes, especially with epilepsy– because I’m from Austin, Texas. She laughed and agreed that I must surely know about cannabis, then.

This had to be a fluke, right? But it KEPT WORKING. Stating what we have tried, researched, etc. doesn’t work… but flippantly stating that I am aware of the new holistic-herbal-cannabis-etc. treatments because I grew up in Austin somehow fills people with confidence like an empty stomach filled with organic tofu or a Torchy’s Taco.

Could this be the key? Could I now buy milk without a comment from someone noticing my kid with cancer or Down Syndrome? I dreamed of walking down an aisle toward checkout as easily as a bearded man wears a leather mini-skirt down 6th Street during ACL weekend.

I’ve now realized how well prepared I am for my life, thanks to my frequent moving throughout childhood and finally resting for 10 years in Austin.

I’ve learned to embrace and live in the place that seems weird to everyone else. It’s normal to me; I grew up in Austin, Texas.

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My kids need music to learn, calm down, and find joy during hard circumstances. Thankfully, Austin is the Live Music Capital of the World.  Regardless of the beat of your drum, you can find it in Austin. Music therapy is a way of life.

We sit in waiting rooms with people from all walks of life without getting uncomfortable.  I used to go downtown for college credit courses on the Dillo trolley, often flanked with homeless transvestites in black leather get-ups that would make Cher impressed. You don’t have to endorse every life choice to  see someone’s humanity and be kind.   (Nice stillettos, Steve!)  The years after September 11 sparked lively debates about war, WMD and oil on those rides on the way to Civics 201.  That’s the education one can get in Austin, Texas.

We’ve learned to use our natural gifts to have a good time. Barton Springs isn’t a traditional pool or water park, but it’s a landmark. It’s 68 degrees and endangered salamanders have free reign, but it’s what we’ve got. It may not look like your pools, but  it’s great. barton springs

 

I can stand alone and hold fast to my convictions? I went to Texas A&M, but I grew up in the rival city of Austin, Texas. I learned to keep my thumb up in a world of “Hook ’em Horns”… and to win and lose with grace. LIFE SKILLS.

I’ve learned to adjust my expectations. Watching my favorite small businesses, restaurants, and landmarks being overtaken by trendy commercial shops and “progress” prepared me for raising kids that aren’t at all what I pictured.

I learned to find new routes and ask directions. Most major roads have at least two names, after all.

We learned balance in diet. Yes, natural and organic is healthy and helpful, but there is no shame in a steak, a well-done breakfast taco, or a chicken-friend steak from the Hills Cafe.  Some follow dietary restrictions religiously, but I find it’s okay to loosen our Bible-belt every now and then.

I’m used to what it feels like when people try to move in and mold you into something a little different because they see different potential. I’m looking at you, Californians.

We know broken isn’t necessarily bad. As a family, we have been “broken” in many ways. Our kids may seem broken. Our spirits can feel broken. Brokenness can be a unique and authentic place to gather for a great time, if you come with the intention to have a good time.

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We know that you can be straining to reach a new destination with all your might, but you may have to wait. Those milestones may take much longer to reach and come with great frustration. The roads that were once fun to cruise on in my grandmother’s sweet 1992 Mercury Sable when I was 17 are now jammed with traffic.  We can still reach the destination, but it may need a back road or a lot more patience.

 

Lake Austin, Lake Travis, tubing and boating taught me to have a buddy in case things get hard.

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If you’re sinking, you don’t need someone to yell instructions from the boat or offer suggestions. A good lifeguard gets INTO the water, instructs the struggling person to be still, and pulls the person to safety when they are drowning.  The person in distress rests while the able-bodied buddy gets help, calls for an ambulance, or figures out the next step.  Moving an injured person can do more damage, even if you are trying to save them.

Likewise, any suggestion or instruction offered to a person in distress can be harmful. Instead, ask the person if they need help and ask WHAT they need. Come alongside and listen. That is like offering a life vest for when they are ready to swim again. Any advice given before listening and grieving alongside someone is like throwing a breaststroke instruction manual ( or diet book, or oil, or therapy, or new cure, or research, or video, or faith-healing, or story about someone who had it and died) on a person treading water in a hurricane.

Most of all, I’ve learned that no matter where you are in Austin, there is something that can make it great.  Good can come from disability, but it isn’t good. It isn’t fun.  A childhood filled with therapy, medicines, oncology, and moving isn’t a good place to be but we can ALWAYS find the good. There is something to thank God for, to be grateful for, and someone else to encourage. Our story is unique. There is no place like it, and it will keep people coming back to visit if you give them a great show and a smile.

As KVET said every day before the star spangled banner played at high-noon, “It’s a great day to be alive and living in Austin, Texas.”  Even f it isn’t a great day, we are alive and living. Weird or not, we will be unique and worth returning to. Trust me, I’m from Austin, Texas.

 

 

Miranda Magic

The long-awaited day is here. The moment I have anticipated and others have cheered for; my home stands quiet, semi-tidy, and occupied by only females. I have taken a leap of faith across the canyon of Good Decisions and Best For Everyone, only to reach the other side with a smack that knocked the wind right out of me.

An hour ago I put William on a plane with one of the women I respect and cherish most in this world. My sister in law, Miranda is a remarkable woman who serves God well. She is also a mother of five and understands the feelings of trusting God but wondering how on EARTH this could be the plan.

She arrived on a Friday evening, descending to the ground like Mary Poppins. A magic fell on the house. I laughed. The baby cooed. WILLIAM SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT. I say again, WILLIAM SLEPT. I checked repeatedly to see if he was still breathing. He stirred and moved in the night, but he wasn’t snoring or hitting his head. GLORY.

The next day felt like Cinderella and her animated animal friends were helping around the house. She did the laundry and dishes. She snuggled Jonathan. She smooched the baby and changed diapers. SHE GOT WILLIAM TO PEE ON THE POTTY AGAIN. She was even here over her birthday. She spent her BIRTHDAY helping wrangle kids because she loves us.

OH, the Miranda Milestones. While she was here Elizabeth not only continued to say, “Momma”, but added “Dad” and “Anda” to the list. She also rolled over. It was a joy to see her enjoying a chubby baby again.

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This morning Jonathan headed for an in-depth MRI and an overnight chemo treatment. William headed to school while we packed and anxiously prepared for the flight. After trekking across the airport parking lot and using three elevators on an adventure that surely required Sherpas, I watched her skillfully push stroller-strapped William  through security.

ALL THE EMOTIONS hit at once. I prayed for Miranda. I prayed for TSA. I prayed for a miracle. I prayed that there would be no pooping, no sneezing, no meltdowns and no underpants wedgies.

Within an hour she called with a tale of woe. The Family Restroom was out of order, so she went to the handicapped stall, which is the only one that fits the stroller inside while a caregiver… tinkles. It too, was out of order.

At the opposite end of the terminal she waited for yet another bathroom. The door to the family restroom opened, revealing an elderly couple. With the help of a wheelchair and a walker, these two emerged with a cloud of cigarette smoke billowing behind them as if they were opening in a Grateful Dead Reunion Concert.

But wait, there’s more. There always is. The door was being repaired, causing a loud siren to wail and the flight was delayed. Through it all she remained steady and smiling. William became quiet and snuggled in, once again feigning a false sense of security.

Miranda called with a positive report. Several people complimented William’s flight behavior. He was downright exhausted. He did well, aside from being totally unnerved at looking out the window and seeing clouds at eye level. The stroller was only lost for a moment. I was so pleased to hear a great report!

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Then she said something that reminded me of one thing I completely forgot that is necessary for the care of William.

“Maybe it’s that I’m comfortable around people with disabilities, but I didn’t realize that so many people would look at him with pity or a double-take, if they notice him. No one will make eye contact with me. The only woman who looked him over without an expression was a mom who also had a son with Down Syndrome. I know it is human nature, but it’s amazing. ”

HEART. WRENCHED.

I forgot.  On a few occasions others have pushed Will’s stroller for me so I could care for Jonathan and often I received similar comments. These sweet Mommas weren’t used to the visual look-over that we receive, or the looks of pity that often come from older folks.

Perhaps it is that I usually have a brisk double-stroller pushing-pace or a large belly that bids others make way, but I usually wear a fixed smile like armor when we are out in public. In Will’s first year I took it very hard, especially with Jonathan in my other arm. Ages two-three were plagued with delayed speech, communication challenges, and behavior common for children overwhelmed by autism. I took the Snake Mentality. Make them more scared of you than you are of them.

Clearly people look in awe. We’re adorable. (Pay no attention to the child picking his nose, melting down, displaying the crack of his booty as his pants fall down, etc…) However, your people will find you. For example, the flight attendant had a ten year old with Down Syndrome, and made friendly conversation. The teachers, family members, friends– those who have gone to battle alongside those in our tribe will give the nod that Jeep drivers are said to give. “We are your people. You are one of us.”

Over the last 7 years, many friends have lifted burdens from my shoulders. Miranda and her husband Dale have taken William into their home for nearly two weeks. He will have undivided attention from 5 COUSINS and a dog. He will have playdates, he will swim, and he will be away from a crying baby and the Cancer Cloud. It’s the best thing for him.

It took an hour for my teething baby to settle into a nap, but here I now sit. This is the quiet I longed for and secretly feared. I imagined I’d eat chocolate and slide across wood floors in white socks and button down, a la Risky Business. I imagined I’d nap. I piously pictured myself reading scripture in prayerful meditation all while ironing, cleaning, and restoring some order to my chaos.

Instead, here I sit next to a bowl depleted of leftover fried rice, trying to calm a teething baby.  The deep wells of my heart have been stored up for a while now. This month has been searing and sanctifying. There is HARD work to do and to-do lists piled up, but I must do that hardest thing: be still. Listen to the raging waters of my soul. Hear the sacred screaming of give the pain to Christ rather than idolize it or wear in like armor.  If all else fails, I know Miranda will be back in two weeks. I hope she brings her magic.

 

The Edge of Seven

Jonathan turns seven next week and the boy has PLANS. By that I mean he picked out his cake mix and sprinkles on the last grocery run. Suspecting (correctly) that sleep-deprived forgetfulness is on the rise, he kindly reminds me quite often  “Mom, it’s almost time for birthday cake.”    In the regular chaos of life, I occasionally find a mixing bowl mysteriously put out on  the counter. When I ask if the mysterious invisible children “No one”, “Not Me” or “I’m Not Sure” did it,  he says, “Almost birthday time! ” He completes his exchange by raising an eyebrow, cocking  his head to the side as if to ensure the acknowledgement of expectation.

He also enlisted help from his Dad, who knows love notes are the key to wooing me.

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( I remember, Son. You were nearly 9 pounds and almost killed us both. That deserves cake.)

Rather than make a gift list, he insists that he should shop and pick things out himself, like a Big Kid Who Is Seven. Asking for money and gift cards?n Are we on the edge of teen years?

Living On The Edge sounds thrilling, frightening and exhilarating. It is a place on anticipation. We wait for sunrise to triumphantly tear through darkness each morning…literally.  Over the last few years, William has not been able to sleep through the night. William’s facial structure causes sinus/ear infections, sleep apnea, and other issues. Three years of medications, appointments, sleep studies, and every remedy under the sun.

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In the last seven months he has awakened between 2:30-4:30 am. In those moments, we long for dawn to break and for the day’s schedule to begin.  Often, we go turn on music and let him dance. It fills him with joy and keeps him quiet enough for the other children to sleep. This morning, at the edge of sunrise, we were on the Edge of Seventeen.

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Once Elizabeth woke up, William ran to her to say good morning. During her breakfast, he was on the edge again.

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By 6am, my sanity was close to the edge. Then, as children often do, they filled the mundane and stressful moments of life with heart-tugging moments that make it all worth it. Character, kindness, and joy shine through.

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A few hours later BOTH the boys were prepared for school. Their little feet stood at the sidewalk’s edge so they could peek around the trees and watch for the bus. This is the first opportunity since September– and we went through our usual routine. We pray. We go through daily reminders. Then we huddle up, put hands in, and give our family cheer.

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The day continued with appointments that went to the edge of the work day. Dirty dishes pile over the edge of the sink. Exhaustion has put us all on edge– and a few of us right over it. Here we sit, on the edge of tomorrow. We are full on anticipation, full of hope, and on the edge of seven.

 

Why We Weep (according to a 6 yr old)

There are some things parents do, no matter how many times we swear we won’t do it. We ask ridiculous questions and say ridiculous things. Today I fell prey to one of the basic blunders. No, it wasn’t challenging a Sicilian to a battle of wits when death was on the line… ( a reference from The Princess Bride)

I asked a question that has sparked outstanding answers over generations. Why do we weep? Ah, the glimpses of our greatest pains and triumphs? The joys of wedding days, the sorrow of death, the release of endorphins after a near death experience. Why do we weep in this house? The inspiring answers could be endless…

WHY are you CRYING, Jonathan?

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  1. I want a family movie night! (5 minutes before bedtime) Make time go slower!

I can do MANY amazing things, but controlling time is above my pay-grade, Son. I shall now pause for 10 seconds to emphatically sing the chorus of “If I Could Turn Back Time”.

2. Elizabeth is crying

Well, I suppose a brother is born for adversity.  As Dolly Parton said in Steel Magnolias, “I have a strict policy. Nobody cries alone in my presence.”Yet it was only last week that Jonathan comforted his baby sister with, “No, no Elizabeff. There is NO crying in baseball!” How short our memories can be. 

3. I don’t want to eat my quesadilla or the crust!

(He ate it…and they don’t have a crust.)

4. Why does the Green Lantern have to be GREEEEEN?

5. The shower water is too hot, too cold, too warm, and too wet.

Right-o. isma

That was just the last three hours. The other two were equally emotionally stable. I say, “Row well and live”, they drive us straight into an iceberg.

This week has been one for the record books, my friends. Tears may be no more in Heaven, but there is weeping and gnashing of teeth in Hell. Right now, this house looks…less than heavenly. There are more indiscernible explanations through sobs happening in the kitchen than in a girls’ bathroom at a middle school dance.

 

This week was a breaking point for all of us. Schedules are filled to the brim with doctor’s appointments and new strains. There has been weeping from teething, weeping from over-exhaustion, weeping from deep pain, weeping for the joy of prayers answered and sleep finally coming to those who need it most…

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Crying doesn’t have to make sense. It doesn’t have to be logical. At least, it certainly doesn’t in this house. I am confident that before long, we will be laughing until we cry once more.

“Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion”… even if the Green Lantern has to be green.