on 'olks and forkheads

"Can you make mine 'olky?" Tera asks.

She's standing behind me, so she doesn't see my smile.

"I like 'olky eggs," she adds, for good measure.

When will I tell her that eggs have yolks, and not 'olks? Never. Someone else will have to spill the beans, because I cannot bring myself to correct that word.

I couldn't correct Zac, either, when he used to refer to his "forkhead." It was just too cute. Sure, I had visions of a future-him pointing to his forehead and mentioning casually, to his teenaged friends, "Man, I ran into the door the other day and banged up my forkhead," and having to endure their snickers, but still, I could not bring myself to correct that word. He didn't discover the truth until he was about ten. And that was way too early for me.

I've always let those words stand. A much younger Tera would sometimes note my tiredness and pat my shoulders or my head. "Does that feel ya better, Mom?" she'd ask. I'd nod, and let the more-interesting sentence stand. Or she'd offer to read Good Night Moon for me, and I'd hear, "Potanonna time, they was three kittens ... and they all is gonna be died. Amen." After the first time I heard that rendition, I never wanted to read Good Night Moon to her again because I didn't want to ruin her version.

At four, she practically taught herself to read, and she learned the truth about Good Night Moon. She learned that the kittens didn't die, and that the book didn't end with an "Amen." And something saddened inside me. But she was still young enough to not realize that "We should get arid of some of these clothes in my room" contained a wrong word. So I let it stand. Everytime she thought we should get "arid" of something, I treasured her mistake.

She makes so few anymore. She's such a smart girl, with such a broad, tangy, impressive vocabulary. So when she asks for 'olky eggs, I crack two into the pan and I don't say a word.

It just feels me better.

once more

"Cut my hair," she says, with that all-purpose, pleading tone, the one she uses for popsicles and new shoes and just one more game of cards.

I don't want to cut her hair. She's twelve ... almost thirteen, and that means she owns an opinion or two. I'm not as this-or-that as I was last year, or the year before. I can't get away with bordering-on-funny anymore. She rolls her eyes and looks out the window at nothing--hoping, I sense, to distance herself from my corniness.

"No," I say. She doesn't know the words I hold back. It might be the last time, Tera. You might look at my handiwork, roll those eyes again, and sever this connection with finality.

"But, Mom--you do a good job. I like your haircuts," she says with soulful panache.

I don't say a word, but the room is thick with my worry. I'm not ready for a last time, I think.

"Just this one more time," she says.

"What if I ruin it?"

We're both surprised. She's not used to seeing me uncertain; I'm not used to dropping that veil and stepping out into the light.

"You won't," she says. Now I'm twelve, and she's the mother, buoying me in all my sinkable spots. "Just try. If we don't like it, we'll go down to the salon."

When did she become so rational?

My feet drag on the walk to my bathroom. Bending down to retrieve the black box from under the sink, I sigh. She's getting her way. And I'm afraid.

She hoists a kitchen chair out to the patio, plops herself down, and tells me how it's going to go. "Two inches," she says. "Maybe three. Just to here."

I watch her slender fingers clasp a spot on her almost blond, almost brown hair. "And if you go a little shorter, don't worry. It will grow."

I used to be the one to say that. When she was three, and four, and seven. "It will grow again, honey. Nothing to worry about."

I hold the scissors in the asked-for spot, draw a breath, and cut away a summer/winter/fall's worth of growth. Guide my hands, I beg the sky.

She giggles when I hand her the first silky clump of just-freed tendrils. There's still a little girl there. But it's the almost-woman I'm worried about. Will I pass her test? Will there be a next time?

Fifteen minutes pass. I've cut what I can cut, and I can't stall the verdict another minute.

"Go look," I say.

She looks. She stands in the living room surveying her sassy locks in our giant mirror ... and grins ... and tosses her head. "I like it," she announces. And then she's running upstairs for a shower, and her first go at the blow dryer.

I exhale.

She's not through with me yet.

sing with me

She sits close to me tonight. Closer than usual. Sometimes, on some Wednesday nights, I can tell her mind is elsewhere. Those times, she's not enclosed within the four walls of this church. She's running free.

But tonight she leans in close. It's not that she's snuggling--which she also does sometimes--it's more that she's just ... leaning. For a minute, I can't figure out why. But then I catch the faint sound of her voice imitating mine. She's leaning in to hear my harmony.

I don't say anything. I just lean into her right back. And I raise my voice a notch. My soprano-preferring daughter has accepted the fact that God gave her an alto voice--a pure, lovely, enviable alto voice. And tonight, apparently, she has set herself to learning.

We sing about God's fame, and then about His faithfulness. We remind ourselves that He's eternal, and good, and ready to save. And then we sing about the journey of life, and the fact that He saved us from a lot of pain and ugliness.

Travelin' Light

I was doubling over
The load on my shoulders
Was a weight I carried with me every day
Crossin' miles of frustrations and rivers a ragin'
Pickin' up stones I found along the way
I staggered and I stumbled down pathways of trouble
I was haulin' those souvenirs of misery
And with each step takin' my back was breakin'
Til I found the one who took it all from me.

Down by the riverside (Down by the riverside)
I laid my burdens down, now I'm travelin' light
My spirit lifted high (I found my freedom now)
I found my freedom now, and I'm travelin' light

Through the darkest alleys and loneliest valleys
I was draggin' those heavy chains of doubt and fear
Then with one word spoken the locks were broken
Now He's leading me to places where there are no tears

In all the right places, my daughter listens, learns, and then sings. And I'm aware that this half-hour of worship is a metaphor for an even bigger truth. When the music fades away and the teaching is over and we turn off the lights in this room, this girl will continue to watch, and listen, and imitate what she sees in me.

Father, help me fill her life with Your song.

not too late

She was sleeping when I began slicing onions and celery and a Granny Smith apple; when I crumbled one tube of maple-flavored sausage into my heavy black skillet, and stirred, and watched the heat rising in savory wisps.

She didn't see the coming together of a fresh batch of homemade poultry seasoning--all those spice containers gathered in a huddle around my mortar and pestle, and the careful measurements of half-, and quarter-, and eighths of a teaspoonful of rosemary, sage, thyme, oregano, pepper, and nutmeg. She didn't get to see the turn of the pestle as it crushed those herbs into one pungent, indistinguishable spice.

She missed all the rest of the stuffing-making steps, too--the chicken broth poured slowly over that mound of seasoned bread crumbs, the three cubes of melted butter spilled in golden dribbles over the mixture, the last dash of salt, and the final twist of freshly ground peppercorn.

But she is there when I stuff the turkey, and oil him up, and lift him to the pan. And I'm glad. For at the last second, I need her extra pair of hands to widen the opening of the cooking bag.

Bag closed and bird in the oven, she asks, "What do you need me to do next?"

I love having a daughter. As weeks become months and months disappear into years, she is slowly becoming my second self. On days like today, I can give her a general suggestion and she knows how to carry it straight on to finish.

"We need to set the tables," I say. And without asking any further instructions, Tera wipes first one, and then the other table, covers them both with tablecloths, and begins to carefully set out the china from its rest-of-the-year hiding place.

While folding whipped cream into a big bowl of marshmallow-flecked fruit salad, I watch from the kitchen as she arranges the candles on each table. She moves the tall, glass-enclosed pillar an inch to the right, then two inches to the left. After a few long seconds of thought, she brings a votive to join the pillar. As a final touch, she sets a tiny pilgrim man in front of one arrangement, and a tiny pilgrim woman in front of the other.

"Will you put on some music?" I ask. She sorts through the CDs piled near the player and selects one. I'm glad when I hear Fernando Ortega's voice.

I cut an inch from a head of garlic, nestle the tangerine-sized orb on a square of foil, and drizzle olive oil over the exposed cloves. Tera watches me twist the edges of the foil upwards and curl the tip, and set the packet in the oven for roasting.

"Did your Grandma teach you how to do all this?" she asks.

I think of all the recipes my grandmother passed on to me--Poor Soup, breaded tomatoes, red beans ... the list goes on, each memory more homey, more bacon-grease enhanced than the last. Kalamata Aioli isn't on the list. That one I figured out for myself. The stuffing recipe is my own concoction, too.

"No," I say. "But Grandma taught me to love the kitchen."

Tera leans against the counter, resting her pretty face in her hands. "When I get married, I'm going to have you come over and make our Thanksgiving dinner."

I look at her, and just as I do, Fernando Ortega's voice rises from the living room.

Out of time
We're running out of time

How old was I? I try to remember the first time Grandma handed me the spoon and began to transfer her love of cooking. Was I Tera's age? Younger?

"No, you won't do that," I say. "Because you're going to do the cooking yourself."

Tera laughs. "No way. It's too much."

"No, it's not. You're going to be a great cook."

Out of time
We're running out of time

I glance at the counter. What's left to make? Green bean casserole.

"Wash your hands," I tell her. "You're about to make your first Thanksgiving dish."

Her eyes widen. "What am I making?"

"Green bean casserole."

She draws in her breath. "No! Not today. I'll make it some other time. Not on Thanksgiving."

But I'm looking at that hourglass. "Some other time" won't happen. And next year, she might not want to stand here in the kitchen with me. If I wait, I might miss my chance.

"Today," I tell her. "You're making it today, and it will be wonderful, and everyone will love it."

She did ... and it was ... and everyone loved it.

all's right

My daughter sits at her computer, headphones in place, hands flying over the keyboard as she types in a homeschooling schedule for herself. Tera is most happy when she's in "secretary mode." I couldn't say no when she asked, awhile ago, "Mom, can I please make up my own work schedule for school?"

So she sits there, oblivious to my own flying fingers in my office fifteen feet away. She's oblivious to the sounds of the Seahawk's game drifting from the living room below. She's unaware that I can hear her singing along with her new favorite CD.

Tera's happy.

My son is walking around his Bible College campus, wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and black slippers he bought at the Murrieta Walmart. "I love being able to walk around campus in my slippers, Mom," he told me when he called a half-hour ago. He also told me that he nearly drowned yesterday while surfing in Oceanside--information I could have done without. But I'm reminded that God is in control of my child, and once again, He's done His job well. Zac tells me all the details of his surfing incident, tells me how good it felt to sleep in this morning, tells me there are no classes tomorrow, tells me what he's going to order at Jack in the Box when he runs across the street for a bite.

Zac is happy.

Dave is in our bedroom, prone, watching that Seahawks' game in his usual Sunday afternoon garb--flannel pajama bottoms and his favorite gray robe. "Beautiful!" I hear now and then, when his outburst defies our bedroom door and drifts upstairs. He's full of spaghetti and meatballs, and if that wasn't reason enough for lying around, there's also the fact that he's been up since 4:00. While Tera and I kept sleeping, he rose in the dark and worked a bit more on his sermon notes. After a long and busy morning, he's earned the right to that robe, and those pajama bottoms, and the nap I know he'll fall into soon.

Dave is happy.

My family is safe. My heart is full. My house is warm, and filled with the scent of wood smoke, a hazelnut candle, a fresh pot of coffee, and just a hint of spaghetti sauce. God is in His heaven ... and all is right with my world.

on 'olks and forkheads

"Can you make mine 'olky?" Tera asks.

She's standing behind me, so she doesn't see my smile.

"I like 'olky eggs," she adds, for good measure.

When will I tell her that eggs have yolks, and not 'olks? Never. Someone else will have to spill the beans, because I cannot bring myself to correct that word.

I couldn't correct Zac, either, when he used to refer to his "forkhead." It was just too cute. Sure, I had visions of a future-him pointing to his forehead and mentioning casually, to his teenaged friends, "Man, I ran into the door the other day and banged up my forkhead," and having to endure their snickers, but still, I could not bring myself to correct that word. He didn't discover the truth until he was about ten. And that was way too early for me.

I've always let those words stand. A much younger Tera would sometimes note my tiredness and pat my shoulders or my head. "Does that feel ya better, Mom?" she'd ask. I'd nod, and let the more-interesting sentence stand. Or she'd offer to read Good Night Moon for me, and I'd hear, "Potanonna time, they was three kittens ... and they all is gonna be died. Amen." After the first time I heard that rendition, I never wanted to read Good Night Moon to her again because I didn't want to ruin her version.

At four, she practically taught herself to read, and she learned the truth about Good Night Moon. She learned that the kittens didn't die, and that the book didn't end with an "Amen." And something saddened inside me. But she was still young enough to not realize that "We should get arid of some of these clothes in my room" contained a wrong word. So I let it stand. Everytime she thought we should get "arid" of something, I treasured her mistake.

She makes so few anymore. She's such a smart girl, with such a broad, tangy, impressive vocabulary. So when she asks for 'olky eggs, I crack two into the pan and I don't say a word.

It just feels me better.

secret pal

I got a card from my not-so-secret pal a few weeks ago. She's eleven, blonde-ish, and creeping up on me height-wise. She lives in the bedroom above mine. As far as secret-pal duties go, she favors sneaking up on me when I'm working and giving me an impressively firm shoulder rub. She likes to bring me coffee when I haven't asked for it, and drop handfuls of Skittles or sour Starburst on my desk whenever she's in possession of a bag.

Tera's card says "Guess who?" on the front. Two plump, rounded-faced critters--a bunny and a cat?--sit together on a snowy park bench singing from a shared music book. The scene is centered within a snowglobe. When opened, the card reads,

It's time we had
a little meeting
'Cause I sent you
a little greeting
And now I think
you ought to know
Who was behind
that Christmas "hello!"

Your secret pal is Tera Woodward

A sweet sentiment. But it doesn't hold a candle to what she wrote beside it:

Dear mom,

Your the one I the most.
I love u so much.
And thank you for picking me!

Tera

"Thank you for picking me" . . . Ah, little girl, it wasn't like that. I saw those curly blond curls on that tiny little head, and a pair of mischievous green eyes smiling up at me, and I wanted you, yes ... but you were picked for me from the beginning of time. Choice had nothing to do with it--you were my gift.

I've thought about her card, and her words, a dozen times since she grinned and handed me her offering. How lovely to be loved, to be thanked. How lovely to have a child overlook the time-outs, the corrections, the denials we have to mete out now and then.

It inspired me to send a thought card to my Father this morning:

Dear God,

You're the one I the most.
I love You so much.
And thank You for picking me!

Shannon

tera's delight

I'm sorry for the lack of posts. I just haven't had the energy. But this morning, I thought I'd drag my pathetic self upstairs to my office and make an attempt.

Tera's downstairs in hog heaven. Spread out before her is a gigantic pile of those annoying magazine inserts offering "deals" on everything from panty hose to garden hoses. Her dad was looking through the bulging packet of inserts last night, tossing one after the other on the floor, when she squealed.

"Oooh! Are you throwing those away?"

"Yep." When Dave is not in the pulpet, he's a man of few words; few syllables.

"Can I have them?" she asked.

"Yep."

But it was bedtime. Past bedtime, actually. So the coveted pile had to wait until this morning. And even though we need to be starting school soon, she whizzed herself down those stairs a la Tazmanian Devil the second her eyes flew open, grabbed a pen, and settled herself in front of the bounty.

Why, you might ask? I'll let Tera tell you in her own words: "I love those things. When I fill them out, I feel like I'm a businesswoman ... like I'm paying bills or something."

I'm ridiculously fond of Brussels sprouts--and few people can understand or relate to that, either--so I'm not going to comment on the strangeness of Tera's delight. I don't mind if she sits in her happy puddle of paper for awhile, giggling and x-ing out boxes. She can't stay there all day, mind you. I mean, if she's going to grow up to be an actual, bill-paying businesswoman, she's going to need to get a little more math under her belt. But she can have herself a brief party before I go back downstairs and ring my school bell. And after I've infused a bit of education in her, she can return to her pile. In fact, she can spend the whole rest of the day sitting on the living room floor, filling out those squares, if she likes ... as long as none of them actually find their way out to the mailbox.

We have all the panty hose and garden hoses we can handle at the moment.

wedding bells--part 2

I'd never been to a wedding with such a gregarious groom.

Terry looked handsome in his tux, and he walked to the stage much the way I've watched dozens of grooms walk to the stage--proper-like, sedate. Serious. But then he broke the mold.

With his back to us, Terry lit a candle on stage. And then he pretended that he had burned himself. At the gasp that flittered across the room, he turned and grinned. Laughter replaced the gasp. Still grinning, Terry walked closer to the crowd to a place he'd been instructed to go. But he couldn't keep quiet. "Hi everybody!" he said.

More laughter. "How ya doin', Ter?" somebody asked.

"Fine ... you?" he responded.

It couldn't have been a sharper contrast to the wedding of the night before. But it carried its own charm.

Cheryl's daughter preceded her, singing "The Rose" and sprinkling rose petals as she walked. By the time Cheryl appeared, Nicole's song had ended and someone had begun playing a recording of a song Cheryl and Terry wrote and sang--a song that celebrated the three-fold chord they were about to become, and the Potter who was even now fashioning their lives into a thing of beauty.

Sometime during the song, I became aware of a little imp sitting to the right of Tera. She had snapping dimples and an uplifted hair-do, and brown eyes that showed she was perpetually on the verge of laughter.

"Take your feet off the pew, Ceriwyn," her mother instructed. Ceriwyn complied, never taking those brown eyes off Tera.

"Can we be friends?" she asked.

Tera did a double take and looked back at me with an 11-year old, Isn't that funny? expression. "Sure," she said.

Ceriwyn's mother shushed her after a few minutes, but not before we learned that she lived on Camano Island but had come from Everett, where she'd been visiting her dad ... and that she loved her high heels, but would probably never wear them again "except for a special occasion, like now" ... and that she was almost as tall as her auntie ... and that she might be a comic when she grew up. "Don't you think I should be a comic?"

I did, and told her so. She had so amused me by that time that I'd already begun scribbling notes on the back of the "Order of Events" paper we'd been handed at the door.

Tera leaned close to me and whispered, "I'm tired and I'm hungry. When we get downstairs, I'm going to stuff myself with shrimp."

Ceriwyn, we learned, has amazing ears. "Me too!" she said, leaning around Tera to flash her dimples at me.

About the time Ceriwyn's mother intervened, Cheryl appeared in the doorway, looking excited and beautiful. The ceremony was lovely--full of tender moments and a few giggles, and a message by Dave that caused several couples in front of me to draw closer, and smile at each other. When it came to an end, the tinkling of bells rang through the church as everyone raised the silver bells we'd been given on our arrival. Cheryl and Terry went outside to line up along the street and greet their guests; we began inching ourselves out of our pews.

Ceriwyn barely drew a breath as she offered information and peppered us with questions. When Dave came along the back aisle and leaned in to ask me something, Ceriwyn leaned around me and grinned at him. "You're a good priest."

"Thanks," he said back, laughing.

"Is it fun having a priest for a dad?" she asked Tera. Tera just nodded.

"I got kicked out of Grace Academy," Ceriwyn offered out of the blue. When I asked what she did to get kicked out of the private school, she explained, "I hit a kid with a pillow. I guess that was sort of my last chance. My new school is much, much better for me. I don't know the principal of my new school, but I saw her once at Walmart. I was SO scared."

We went through the receiving line and congratulated Cheryl and Terry. When we moved along to make room for those behind us, Ceriwyn giggled and said, "The bride kinda got jealous 'cause I didn't hug her first ... I hugged Terry." Because it flowed in a logical sream in that interesting brain of hers, she followed that announcement up with "My mom is an 'accountist.'" and "I'm a dancer, you know. And I have my tap shoes on."

I looked down at her red, fake gem-encrusted Dorothy shoes.

"Mind if I dance for you?" she asked.

Who would say no?

She tapped out a few steps for me right there on the sidewalk. "You're very good," I informed her.

"Yep. I just picked it up when I saw it on a museum and it was whatchamacallit day ... St. Patrick's Day." (I have no idea what all that meant, but I was too busy scribbling notes to verify.)

Dave, Tera and I walked downstairs to the reception. Ceriwyn danced her way down. As luck would have it, Ceriwyn planted herself next to Tera at our table. Tera looked down at the sheet in my hand, noted the rapidly dwindling white space, and said, "Do you need more paper?" At my nod, she scampered back upstairs. When she returned, she plopped two sheets down in front of me--back side up, ready for notes. "I figured you'd need two more."

And I did.

I continued to record Ceriwyn's fascinating observations and comments. "I've never tried mini weenies before, but they look soooo good. Do you think they taste like hot dogs? ... I hurt myself taking a picture once ... Want to know what I learned to do? I don't think I can show you now--it's the splits."

But it wasn't all Ceriwyn. I took note of the way Cheryl kept looking at Terry, and the way he looked back at her. I took note of Cheryl's "adopted" dad (the father of her best friend) and the way he kept grunting, from the back row, "Cut the cake already!" I watched the ladies at the buffet table pushing the potato salad ("You have GOT to try this, John. I think it's the best I've ever tasted!") and kids with cautious steps carrying too-full cups of punch back to their "kids-only" table.

I took note of it all. And when Cheryl's aunt toasted her with "A prayer of mine has been answered -- you look happy," I fought tears. I lost that fight when Cheryl's daughter, Nicole, made her own toast, and said, "Today is huge. Maybe not to the world ... but it's huge. They're perfect for each other. He makes her laugh, and she makes him serious ... sometimes. And now, they're together forever."

"Cut the cake already," the man in back said again. Cheryl took pity on him, pulled her groom back to the cake table, and cut that cake. Just before we slipped out the door, I brought the man a piece.

Oh, how I love weddings.

fifth-grade faith

Tera had a "graduation" ceremony last Wednesday. She's only leaving fifth grade, so I'd really prefer that we had used the term "promotion" and saved the word "graduation" for the real event which will occur seven years from now. I don't like those sly little attempts to cutefy and grown-upize pint-size occasions. I wish everyone would stop trying to rush my child through childhood.

But enough of my soap box. I want to share what happened at the end of "graduation."

The five fifth-grade classes were standing at attention on risers in the center of the stage, listening to their principal give them the final send-off. In the audience, we parents and other family members were waiting for the period at the end of his last sentence. It had been a nice ceremony, but the room was overcrowded and over-ready to be finished.

"Before we go," Principal Coltum said, pulling a piece of paper out of his pants pocket, "I want to talk directly to a few of the students. I can't mention all 120 by name, but there are a few I want to address."

He then began calling on students. "Analiese? Where's Analiese?" When Tera's friend giggled and raised her hand, he announced to the room that he'd never met a girl who could so clearly speak her mind. "Brent? Where are you, Buddy?" Brent, we were told, was a student who always wanted to help. Jamey loved soccer. Ben, it seems, asked routinely to be excused from lunch to go to the bathroom. And ever since he first spoke to Sarah at the lunch table, the girl had never stopped talking.

Light-hearted comments, all. But then he called on my daughter. "Where's Tera Woodward?" I saw Tera's eyes widen instantly as she raised her hand.

"This might embarrass you, Tera, but it's a good thing." He then turned to the audience and began reciting the case number of a Washington state law. The number started with "RCW," but I didn't catch the rest of it. "According to that law," he said, "students are not required to leave their beliefs at home when they come to school. They have a right to bring their faith here. And I want you to know what this student did. Not only did Tera invite me and my family to her church, she also gave me a gift ... a brand new Gideon's Bible."

At that, I cried.

"She took a stand," he continued, before turning and addressing his final comments to Tera's classmates. "Students, don't ever be afraid to stand up for what you believe."

And with those words, fifth grade came to an end.

Later, my friend Cindy, who had been sitting on the opposite side of the room watching her daughter "graduate," told me that the parents in front of her had scoffed and shaken their heads at the Principal's comment to Tera. I wasn't surprised. I'm sure more than one set of parents were irritated by his speech ... but I didn't care. It didn't matter if it made the whole lot of them mad.

There was pride enough in me to cover the day.

she knits

She's knitting!

It's been a long time in coming. I first tried teaching Tera to knit about a year ago. We didn't get past "But, Mom, I don't want to have to roll my yarn in a ball first." I tried to explain the whys of that little pre-knitting ritual, but she became so despondent over that thought that I figured casting on would be a real nightmare.

On our next effort, several months later, she dug her heels in on having to hold the needle with finished rows in her left hand. "That's going to be awkward for me," she said. "I'm right-handed." As if I, her mother, didn't know that. We decided in the interest of maintaining a pleasant mother-daughter relationship to shelve the needles for a day when she felt less resistant.

Today was that day. Although she made it clear that the slightly more complicated casting on method I favor was not going to work for her, she took immediately to the regular thumb-loop cast on. And before either of us knew what was happening, my daughter was knitting. I shot this picture when the rhythm of the thing had finally settled in her bones. If you can't tell from the photo, her tongue is firmly planted in the corner of her mouth. She's knitting with intensity ... but she's knitting.

"How many rows will it be?" she asked of the scarf she decided to knit for Boo, her Build-A-Bear bunny.

"I don't know yet. We'll know when it's finished." This exchange highlighted our contrary personality types: Tera, the Beaver, likes to know today--this minute--what we're having for lunch on May 3rd, 2008. I, the Otter, prefer to just wing most everything I do.

She dropped a stitch. I showed her how to fix it. While I was out of the room, she then gained a stitch and decided that the best way to correct that blip was to just slip it off the needle. I didn't discover this little plan of hers until that extra loop was sticking out one side about four rows down from where she was now knitting.

"Can I help you fix that?"

She handed me her work and I saw her eyes widen as she watched me rip out those four rows.

"It's okay," I said. "You learn to knit by making a lot of mistakes and then fixing them."

She brightened. "Kinda like life, right?"

Yes, O Wise One. Kinda like life.
*   *   *
Some of you know that I started a blog, Chicks With Stix, for the women knitters of my church. Well, we've now spun off a blog for the knitting girls of Calvary Chapel Marysville. When you get a minute, why don't you run over and say hi to Tera, Jessica, Arielle, and Jaimey at their very happenin' site: Chicklets With Sticklets.

inspiration

Here's a bit of the "before" story for Wednesday's post and the "after" story for Monday's:

Tera wanted to get this cute wooden pumpkin for my birthday. She had the $1.99, but couldn't seem to get anyone to drive her to the fabric store where said pumpkin waited. Dave was swamped for days before and after my birthday, and then he came down with something that laid him low for another day or two.

While walking through the grocery store with me Wednesday, Tera sighed in exasperation and said, "I can't get to the fabric store to buy you what I wanted to buy you. I guess I'm going to have to give you candy for your birthday." She said the word in an odd, non-kid way--with drawn out disgust, as if candy were made of doo-doo and not chocolate.

I asked, "Do you want me to take you to the fabric store?"

Tera brightened. "Oh, would you?" And she said it just like you think she said it, as if she were Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant had just offered to toss a parked car out of the way so she could cross the street unimpeded.

We drove to the fabric store. So as to act surprised when she presented me with the pumpkin, I loitered down a delightful "let's pretend it's already October" aisle and looked at harvesty stuff while Tera stood in line to make her purchase. While browsing there, I spotted a display of head band-connected animal noses and ears in amongst the Halloween costumes. Without blinking, I grabbed the furry lion nose and dashed to the end of the aisle to see where Tera was in the purchase process. Surreptitiously, squinting through the slats in an end rack, I watched her inch her way closer to the register, watched her hand the woman her money and accept the receipt and crinkly bag, and watched her turn to walk toward my aisle. I then slipped the lion head band over my head, adjusted the nose, and waited with my back turned for her to call my name.

"Mom?" she said.

I turned nonchalantly, with one raised eyebrow. "Yes?"

She didn't flinch or laugh. She just put one hand on her hip (exactly the way you think she did, as if she were Katherine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart had just 'fessed up that he'd accidentally drilled a couple of holes in the bottom of The African Queen ) and gave me a withering look. "Mom, have you been walking around the store like that?"

"No ... just here."

She shook her head slowly. "Sometimes you embarrass me."

I was still laughing about that when I got home. Feeling inspired, I sat down and wrote perhaps the quickest post of my eight-month blogging career. Fifteen minutes later, I looked at what I had written and noted that Tera's name hadn't made it into my post. She dredged up a memory for me instead, and so she's had to wait lo these long two days to make her own brief appearance here.
*    *    *    
Inspiration number two is attached to Monday's post. After writing about my two lists, I've received several comments and private emails from people who have decided to follow suit. They're writing lists (good ones!) to friends, family ... even pastor's wives. I am so blessed by that. Thank you for responding to Tony's nudge. And thank you for letting me know!

a little grace, please

I'm off this weekend teaching at a writers' conference. See you again Monday. Till then, here's an excerpt from my book which Pastors.com ran last month:

If you, O Lord, kept a record of sins, O Lord, who could stand? But with you there is forgiveness. Psalm 130:3,4 NIV

When I heard the reason a new family gave for deciding to leave our church, I probably should have just laughed it off. “They’re leaving because their son is afraid of Tera?! Our Tera?”

“The one and only.” Dave shrugged off of his coat. “I asked if they’d be willing to stay and work it out, but they said no.”

“But ... Brandon is bigger ... and six months older than Tera! What could she possibly do to frighten him?”

“All they’d say was that he didn’t want to come to Sunday school for fear of seeing Tera in class. They didn’t elaborate and they didn’t want to talk about it anymore.”

I couldn’t believe it. I knew that among the five-year olds, Tera had a reputation for being a tad bossy, but she wasn’t mean-spirited. Was this just a horrible new stage?

I spent most of that week worrying--and fuming a bit, if the truth be told. I wished the family had given us a little warning. Maybe we could have fixed the problem together.

And I wished they’d shown Tera a little grace. We talk about grace all the time as a fellowship. Dave weaves the theme throughout his messages. The men exhort one another to show grace at home. During my own teaching with the women’s ministry I encourage the women to be vessels of grace to their husbands and children. How had that message been missed?

On Thursday of that week, Zac reminded me that everyone was meeting at Paula’s for afternoon Bible study. He wasn’t interested in the study but in the group of kids he knew would be there. Paula’s house crawled with kids on Thursday afternoons.

“Can we go today, Mom?” he pleaded.

We normally didn’t. We were homeschoolers back then, and not always as disciplined as I would have liked. I’d make ambitious plans to get all our school work done by lunch, and inevitably, something would cause us to careen off course. We’d get too involved in a biology lesson, or find the book we were reading together so fascinating, we’d read four chapters instead of one. Something always seemed to prevent us from making it to the study.

"Do you think we can get our work done on time?” I asked.

He nodded optimistically and set to work. And just before 2:00, he finished the last assignment. So the three of us piled into the truck.

“Hey! Nice surprise!” Paula greeted us at the door. “Kids are around back,” she instructed my two.

We were nearing the end of our study about an hour later when we heard a shriek. One of the boys ran in. “Josh is hurt!” Paula ran outside to check on her youngest. Soon she was back, carrying him in her arms. The entire side of his head was covered in blood.

“What on earth happened?!” One of the women ran to get a wet towel.

Josh’s oldest brother, Theo, made the announcement. “Tera hit him on the head with a broom.”

His words knocked the wind out of me. “She what?”

“She picked up a broken broom and whack! She smacked him right on the head.”

I went out back. My displeasure solidified into outright anger at the sight that met my eyes: Tera, blithely swinging on the jungle gym … and singing. She didn’t look the part of a mad broom wielder--but there were witnesses. "Young lady, you get over here this instant.”

A startled look swept over her face at the sound in my voice. She slowed her swinging, then stopped altogether. With small and deliberate steps, she made her way to where I stood.

“What happened here?” I demanded.

She drew a big breath, signifying that the explanation was going to take every bit of energy she possessed.

"Well, it was like this, Mom.” She brushed a tendril of blonde hair away from her eyes, then gestured dramatically as if she were an eyewitness giving her account to a television reporter. “I was standing over there. Alex decided to get into the play car. And then that … that … JOSH,” she said in an exasperated tone, “tried to PUSH Alex off the deck. He was going to hurt her, Mom--on purpose.”

The look she gave me was one of pure vindication--as if she’d had every right to smack Josh on the head.

I glanced down and saw the offending broom. Picking it up, I scrutinized the jagged edges of the broken end. “So you decided to hurt him first?”

She nodded.

My anger rose. “Well, that was a very, very bad decision.”

She gulped.

“You get your coat, you apologize to Josh, and then you march yourself out to the truck.”

She got her coat. She apologized to Josh. She marched to the truck.

I felt ill. Paula, on her way out the door to take Josh to the walk-in clinic for stitches, was much more understanding than I think I would have been. “I’m sure Tera didn’t realize what would happen.” she said. “She thought she was protecting Alex.”

I wasn’t comforted. Nor did I feel better when another woman tried to console me. “This isn’t the first trip to the walk-in clinic during Bible study,” she laughed. “It’s getting so those receptionists start looking for us on Thursday afternoons.”

As I got in the truck, Tera whispered, “I’m sorry, Mom.”

I barely heard. “Sorry? You sure don’t look sorry. But you should be sorry, Missy.”

We’d made previous plans to meet up with Dave and another family at a nearby restaurant for dinner. All the way there I lectured Tera. “When did you start getting mean with the other kids? What were you thinking? Do you know how embarrassed and upset I am? What do you think Paula is feeling right now, as her little boy is getting stitches in his head? What was going through your mind when you picked up that broom and started swinging?”

She didn’t answer a single question. I didn’t let her. I didn’t stop long enough to draw breath until we pulled into the restaurant parking lot and I turned off the truck’s engine. Then I looked at her. But she wasn’t looking at me now. She stared straight ahead through the windshield, as though she was observing the most fascinating vision out there in the parking lot.

Her stoicism, viewed through the lens of my anger, looked like pure stubbornness.

We sat in silence for several moments. Even Zac was quiet, though something on his face told me he was mulling over the possibility of defending his sister. Something on my face told him he’d better not.

In the silence, I thought with horror about the family leaving our church. Had Tera done something vicious to Brandon too? My mind raced. Is this how people were going to start referring to us now? “Oh, you know--that church down the street; the one with the scary pastor’s daughter. She little, but she’s dangerous.”

I glanced down at Tera again. She hadn’t moved a muscle.

I began a silent prayer. “Oh, Lord, help me think of something I can say that will have an impact--something that will reach through to her.”

It took a minute to hear his answer. In that time, I’d already begun formulating a new lecture. I decided to describe for her the steps involved in giving someone stitches. But the Lord stopped me cold.

I always know when he’s talking to me in the midst of a crisis, because what he says runs so sharply counter to what I’m thinking. This occasion was no different.

He whispered, Grace.

And then, because I was so confused, he whispered it again. Grace.

I wanted to fight his voice, but I couldn’t. While I struggled, he continued to reveal himself to me. She wants to be forgiven ... She’s ready to come to Me ... You’re standing in the way.

That last one did it. I had a vision of my daughter, reaching for the outstretched arms of Jesus--and me standing between them, blocking her every move.

My heart hurt. It took a moment to find the right words. “Tera? Zac? I owe you both an apology.”

Their heads swiveled toward me. I locked eyes with Tera. “Are you sorry for what you did?”

She nodded.

“Then the only person you need to go to is Jesus. He’s ready--right now--to forgive you.” We held hands. I let her pray.

“Oh, Jesus,” she said, “please help me to be a better girl.” Then my little stoic, stubborn girl let loose the tears she’d been barely holding in--and sobbed. I undid her seatbelt and drew her up on my lap. We cried together, and after a few moments, I felt all the tension drain out of her body.

We heard a van door shutting.

"There’s Chris and Cora,” Zac said.

Our friends had arrived. Their little boy--another Josh--stood outside the van, waving at Tera.

“Are you ready to go see your friend?” I asked.

She gave me a bright smile and hopped out of the truck. Guilt kept me sitting where I was.

"Aren’t you coming?” Chris asked.

I nodded. “I’ll be there in a minute. Do you two mind if Zac and Tera go in with you?”

I watched my children walking toward the restaurant with our friends and as I did so, I kept replaying my harsh words. How could I have been so severe, so unyielding?

It occurred to me, in a flash, that I could describe grace to my children every day for the next 20 years, and it wouldn’t mean a thing until I began to demonstrate it to them with my life.

My heart felt very heavy. But then, while I watched, Tera started skipping. She said something to Josh, threw her head back, and lifted her hands high in the air. Giggling, they skip-raced each other up to the door of the restaurant.

Don’t you want to be forgiven, too? the Lord asked.

Did I want the same lightness of being, the same freedom I just observed in my daughter? Did I want her joy, her fresh start? Did I want to be unburdened?

“Yes, Father.”

I turned, in my mind, and saw that nothing barred the way. His arms were open to me, too, and there wasn’t a single thing between the two of us.

I stepped out of the truck and started across the parking lot. Inside, I was skipping.

Excerpted from A Whisper in Winter: Stories of Hearing God’s Voice in Every Season of Life (New Hope Publishers, 2004). © Shannon Woodward.

names

I think at one time or another, most of us have wished for a different name.

Zac first started toying with that idea when he was seven. We'd moved near Portland, Oregon, so Dave could finish his last year of seminary. We had new neighbors, a new city, a new church. It only seemed right to Zac that he got a new name.

"Mom, from now on, I want you to call me Sam, okay?"

I liked that name. In fact, it had actually made it into our top three contenders during the last weeks when we were awaiting Zac's adoption. But Samuel David Woodward sounded too old. It sounded like we'd be bringing a grizzled, 108-year old man home from the hospital. So we scratched it from the list.

I tried to reason with him. "Zac is such a great name. It means 'The Lord has remembered.' " After years of infertility treatments and angst and prayer, God had brought me my longed-for boy. I thought the name suited the situation perfectly.

"Sam's better," Zac argued.

I dropped the subject, hoping he'd forget. But about a month later, after we'd taken our new church's offer of a Parent's Night Out and dropped Zac off to spend two hours with a roomful of other parent-abandoned kids, we returned from our restful dinner out and grinned at him over the half-door of the youth room.

"Time to go, Zac. Grab your coat."

While he ran to get his coat on the other side of the room, I saw a boy near the door scrunch up his face. "Hey--she called him Zac. But he said his name was Sam."

Those two glorious hours of Samdom made a big impression on Zac. He was hooked.

"Please, Mom!" he'd exclaim in exasperation, every time I slipped and used his real name. "I'm Sam now!"

I think he'd still be Sam, except he heard the name Hank one afternoon. "I like that better--let's call me Hank."

After that it was Chris, then Sam again, and then Matt.

He renamed himself a dozen times over the next two years. And then Tera came to live with us. It took a year for our adoption to be complete, but that just gave her plenty of time to soak in all Zac's wisdom and idiosyncracies.

"I don't want to be Tera," she told us one day. "I'm Pookie. I mean Olivia. Wait--Nicole. Nikki. Yeah, Nikki."

She expected full participation from the rest of us. Wanting the vacuum one day, she popped her head in Zac's room to ask for it. "Zac, I need the bac-oo-eem."

"I'm not Zac," he said. "I'm Matt." Ten minutes earlier, he'd been Sam. From the kitchen, where I could hear the goings-on clearly, my head began to hurt.

"Mom! Tera's calling me Zac again."

Before I could intervene, she challenged him back. "I'm not Tera. I'm Nikki."

Zac ignored her. "Mom, Tera won't quit calling me Zac."

I walked down the hall. "Zac, don't you mean 'Nikki's calling me Zac?' "

"You called me Zac!"

I couldn't keep up. I decided to try to cajole him out of this nonsense. "But honey, that's your name. And it's a nice name."

He shook his head. "I'm going to change it."

"You can't just change your name. It costs money."

"How much?"

I wasn't sure about the current court costs. The last time I'd heard a quoted figure, I was nineteen and mulling over the possibility of changing my name to Natasha or Natalie. Figuring in for inflation over the past nineteen years, I doubled the figure. “It costs $500.”

Zac thought about that a minute. “I’m going to get that money. I’m going to have a fundraiser at church.”

I could only imagine the posters he'd make for that fundraiser. Give today! Help Sam correct an injustice ...

Although the thought of calling my children something other than their given names was distasteful to me, almost alarming, I had to stop and give it serious consideration. In the end, I concluded that the real appeal of a new name is the new start that goes with it. It's a reinvention of yourself. "This is who I was meant to be." It's rising to the challenge of a blank slate--and who doesn't want a blank slate now and then?

During this little period of our lives, we were homeschoolers. One day I visited a new homeschooling co-op to get a feel for things and decide whether or not we were going to join. Apparently I wasn't the only newcomer.

"Let's go around the circle and tell how many children we each have," the moderator said.

When my turn came, I smiled. "I have two."

"And what are their names?” the moderately asked politely.

I took a deep breath. “Zac, Sam, Chris, Hank, Matt, Tera, Olivia, Pookie, Nicole and Nikki.”

Flexible ... we must be flexible.

muffins

I've got a bug. Hope to be back soon ... but in the meantime, here's something I wrote a few years back.

This morning, a group from our church is leaving for Mexico. Once there, they’ll cuddle babies in an orphanage and paint the walls of a run-down school. They’ll practice their shaky Spanish with strangers on dusty streets and share the gospel through bits of sentences and songs and drama. I won’t be with them.

I’ve wanted to go on a mission trip for as long as I can remember. Something in me won’t rest until I’ve left my kitchen and moved beyond my garden and past the tall evergreens at the edge of our farm. I want--I need--to reach past my neighbors and their neighbors and keep reaching until I’ve stood on foreign land and spoken the name Jesus to one person who has never heard that word before.

But God has something else in mind for me today. On this morning, while my friends head south, I have an important task: today, we’re making muffins.

My sleepy-eyed girl wanders downstairs and brightens at the sight of two china cups sitting on the counter. We settle ourselves at the table and sip Chai tea while we rifle through a stack of stained and dog-eared recipe cards. Tera tosses aside the cards for Carrot Bran Muffins and Blueberry and Pumpkin Chocolate Chip. She’s searching for her favorite, and when she finds it--when she spots the card with one red blotch on the top corner--she holds it up and grins. Raspberry Buttermilk.

We grab plastic bowls and pull on our boots. She walks ahead of me across the lawn and toward the corner of our garden where the vines await. I notice how cautiously she walks, how carefully she skirts the stinging nettles growing in stubborn patches near the raspberries. At five, she’s already nettle-savvy.

The hard-to-coral raspberry vines strain against the thin wire enclosure. They spill over the tops of the groaning pen, bending with the weight of their crimson bounty. The fattest berries surrender at a touch. Tera clutches her pink, plastic bowl with one hand and uses her other to pluck the plump red berries. About every third one goes in her mouth. I don’t mind. It’s an unspoken law of berry-picking: the picker eats.

When we have enough, we head back inside. I turn the oven on and pull a chair to the sink. Tera climbs up and watches as I ease the berries out of our bowls and into a colander. I show her how to rinse them gently so they don’t disintegrate. She accepts her task with a serious nod.

She watches as I peel the lid from the flour canister. I can see the question in her eyes; I hand her the sifter and she smiles. She scoops it into the silky pile and gives a tug on the black handle. Particles rise in a dusty flour cloud.

I supervise as she dumps a white mound into the cup and levels it with the flat edge of a butter knife. A memory tugs at me; I see myself standing on an oak chair, holding my grandmother’s sterling silver knife and leveling a long-ago cup of flour.

We measure out sugar and baking powder and salt. She mixes tentatively at first, but confidence soon rises and she stirs faster. On one turn, her spoon skids against the side of the bowl and a big whoosh of floury powder flies over the rim, sprinkling the counter with a layer of white. She looks at me with wide eyes.

“It happens,” I say. “My grandma used to say that good cooks always spill a little.”

She likes that. She watches as I scoop the powder into my hand and dust it off into the sink.

“Grandma taught me something else,” I tell her.

“What?”

“Clean up as you go.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means before we get the eggs out, we need to put all these containers away. If we take care of these little things right away, we won’t have a big mess at the end.” She thinks we’re talking about baking, but there’s a life lesson in there I hope she catches. I’d like to teach her to keep short accounts, to clean up messes quickly, to take care of little problems so they don’t turn into big problems.

There’s no buttermilk in this house, but I know a trick. Tera makes a face at the pungent smell that rises when I uncap the big jug of vinegar.

“That’s yucky.”

I nod. She watches as I pour a tablespoon into milk.

“I would never drink that,” she says.

I tell her what is about to happen. I tell her the milk will curdle and turn sour. She watches--fascinated--as my words come true.

“Why do we have to put that in?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t have any idea why we need the sour milk or the salt or that gooey egg. I just know every bit is important in the end.”

I hope she remembers. I hope she understands, one day, that life is not straight sugar. God uses tears and sadness and disappointment and loss – and laughter – to make a life that means something.

We pour melted butter into the bowl and scatter the raspberries over top. I tell her to stir only ten strokes. She counts out loud as she lifts the batter with slow and gentle circles. At the end of ten, she looks at me with raised eyebrows.

“That’s it,” I say.

“But it’s not all smooth.”

“It’s okay. The muffins will be all the better if the batter’s a bit lumpy.” It’s just one more thing she has to accept. But life is full of such mysteries, full of truths we can’t always analyze or trace back to something concrete and understandable.

I set my stoneware muffin pan on the counter. She sticks her fingers in the shortening and pulls out a gooey scoop, then slathers the muffin cups with all the artistry she uses to finger paint.

I let her dip a cup into the waiting batter. Cream and crimson dribbles flow in rivulets down the side of the cup as it hovers over the pan. She tips it slightly and pours. Batter fills, then overflows the circle below. She sighs with exasperation.

“We can fix that,” I say. We use a spoon to transfer the excess into a neighboring muffin cup. She tries again, slowly. Minutes pass. She fills the cups, one by one. When she’s finished, no two have the same amount of batter.

I put the pan in the oven. We turn on the light so we can watch the show. Over the course of twenty minutes, a sweet smell fills the kitchen – and on the other side of the oven glass, red and cream-colored puff balls rise above the rims of the cups.

We have to wait while they cool. Tera eyes the largest muffin, a monstrous wonder in the very center of the pan. I’d like to give it to her--and I’ll make sure she gets the biggest from the next batch--but first, there’s another lesson to be learned.

“Do you know what I always do?”

“What?”

“I give the biggest muffin to Dad. Would you like to do that?”

She grins and nods. I scoop the mammoth muffin onto a plate, pour a glass of milk, and set it all on a tray for her to carry to her father. Her head is high as she maneuvers herself down the hall with her offering.

My daughter is learning. She’s watching, and listening, and emulating, and soaking in every good thing I have to offer. As much as I would have loved tossing a backpack in the church van and heading south today, I’m glad I’m here instead.

God has entrusted this girl to me. And in this season of my life, there’s not a single job more important than raising her. Maybe someday I’ll take that trip across the border. Maybe someday, I’ll be His voice to a hard-of-hearing world. For now, He’s asked me to be His voice to my daughter.

I’m to nurture her with my love so her heart is open to receive His. I’m to woo her with the grace and patience and forgiveness He wooed me with. I’m to root her through the passing of heritage, so she’ll value family, and one day realize the gift it is to be part of His family. I’m to teach her to serve, so she’s ready to say “Yes, Lord,” when He calls her name.

I’m to prepare her for life.

I long ago surrendered to the One who loves me beyond reason. I don’t worry about next week and I don’t question the work He puts before me today. He might open my front door one morning, beckon me outside, and send me beyond my borders--but until that door swings wide, I’ll serve Him within these four walls. I don’t know what my tomorrows might bring, but on this day, on this morning, my purpose is very clear:

Today, we’re making muffins.

gentle

Let your gentleness be known to all ... ~ Phil. 4:5

I wasn't trying to hurt my daughter. But I wasn't trying to not hurt her, either. And sometimes, that's the same thing.

Tera was six--old enough, I felt, to learn how to brush her own hair. Now, I'm not a monster (although you may disagree by the end of this post). I didn't simply toss the brush at her and say, "You're on your own." No, we went through Brushing 101 together first. I showed slides of various brushes, discussed the pros and cons of both natural and synthetic bristles, demonstrated the proper gripping stance, showed her how to start at the bottom and get the tangles out before moving to the top, and took her to a brush factory so she could get a real feel for the product.

She passed the course with top scores. She handled her final project (bed-hair) beautifully. So I assumed we'd have no problems. What I didn't count on was the soon-apparent fact that she didn't like brushing her hair.

"Tera!" I'd call up the stairs. "We're leaving in twenty minutes. Make sure your hair is brushed."

"K, Mom."

I'd check about ten minutes later. "Are you ready?"

"Almost."

And then, five minutes from go-time, she'd come galloping down the stairs and I'd discover the truth. She hadn't detangled so much as a single strand of hair.

"Didn't you hear me?" I'd ask.

"Yes."

"Then why isn't your hair brushed?"

"I didn't want to."

The first time or two, I felt perplexed. Then I moved straight to "vexed." The child was defying me, pure and simple. Worse than that, she was making me late. I have enough tardiness issues of my own without additional help from my children.

Soon, I dispensed with the niceties altogether. "Brush!" I'd yell upstairs. "Or I'll do it for you."

It didn't take long for her to figure out the threat in that sentence. What I was really saying was, You do it or I'll do it. One of us will be gentle. Guess who?

Oh, it grieves me to have to bare my soul this way. But there's a good lesson in all this.

When the five-minute point arrived, and I called her to my side, nine times out of ten, she hadn't heeded my warning. Her hair would be a mess. And I'd shrug my shoulders, sigh, and say, "Then you've left me no choice. I'll have to do it for you." Like I said at the beginning: I wasn't trying to hurt her. But I took no great pains to ensure that I didn't, either. If I encountered a tangle, I removed it. Without tenderness.

"Ow!" she'd exclaim.

My answer was always the same: "If you don't like the way I do your hair, you should probably do it yourself." I wanted her to wise up.

One day, my sister arrived to pick us up after just such an ordeal. "Why is Tera crying?" Tarri asked.

"She didn't like the way I brushed her hair."

Tarri groaned. "Oh, I so remember how I felt every time Mom came at me with that brush. My heart pounded while I waited for that first thump on my head. I just knew it was going to be awful."

And I turned to my sister and actually said, "Oh, Tarri ... if I'd known, I would have brushed your hair so you didn't have to go through all that."

The second the words left my mouth, I heard Hmmm. Just like that. I heard a heavenly "Hmmm." I'm familiar with that sound. It always means a "talk" is in my future. And sure enough, later that day, I got alone with God and heard the rest of the conversation.

I went out on our front porch when we got home and sat on the swing. And the moment I quieted down, God asked me a question. Could you not be gentle with her for my sake?

He couldn't have spoken more clearly if he were sitting next to me on that swing. I heard--and felt so convicted, I burst into tears. I'd been approaching Tera on the basis of principle. She needed a lesson. She had to learn. She couldn't get away with defying me. I even comforted myself with assurances that such skills ensured her independence down the road.

But when you take principle out of the equation, sometimes your footing crumbles. I thought about it for about two seconds, and then I made a promise. "Yes, Lord. I can treat her gently for your sake."

The next morning, I got my chance. "Ready?" I yelled up the stairs.

"Yep," she answered back. But when she came down, I saw it wasn't so.

"Bring me your brush," I said.

She gave me a fearful look, slumped her shoulders, and trudged reluctantly back upstairs.

I waited for her on the couch. "Sit right here." I pointed to the carpet between my feet.

She sat, and tensed.

I held her hair in my hands and imagined that it belonged to Jesus. I imagined that somehow, I'd been given the privilege to bless him with my brush. And I imagined that through my slow and careful motions, I might convey just a tiny bit of my love for him.

With every stroke, Tera relaxed more. And when I finished, and her hair was shiny and smooth and beautiful, she turned and smiled at me. "That didn't hurt at all, Mom."

No, it didn't. It actually felt quite wonderful.

of clocks and chicks

Lately, Tera has developed a not-so-precious habit.

Whenever we're readying ourselves to go somewhere, and she beats me to it, she takes it upon herself to push me along.

"I’ll be in the car," she'll say. Those may be the words that come out of her mouth, but I can read the subtext in her tone. She's really saying, Boots and saddles, Mother. Put the brush down.

Maybe I'm the only parent on the planet to react the way I do, but I'm not easily motivated by the pushing of nine-year old children. In fact, I have a tendency to dig my heels in whenever they try that tactic.

Yesterday morning I was locked in the bathroom, hating my hair and urging one of my flips to behave. Tera decide I'd been in there long enough and it was Go Time.

"I’ll be in the car," she announced through the closed bathroom door. I pictured those little lips all pursed and irritated.

I felt a beginning twinge of annoyance myself. "Did I tell you to go to the car?" I asked.

"No."

"Then why do you feel you need to go to the car?"

She couldn't very well say, "Because it's time to hit the road, already. And I'm hoping to set an example for you." So she thought for a quick second, and came up with a safer answer. "Because I have to put my suitcase out there."

She’d been invited to a sleepover after church at Madison's house. (Madison is a quirky, funny friend I’ll most definitely be writing about in the future.) Tera and I had already had an altercation about the suitcase; she wanted to bring her clothes and pillow and blanket in a series of recycled plastic grocery bags; I argued that we bought her that mini red suitcase-on-wheels for occasions such as this and she didn’t need to show up at Madison’s looking like a hobo.

She took the suitcase to the car and came back. I heard her pacing in the hall, her footsteps screaming out, Your hair looks as good as it's possibly going to get.

After two minutes of loudly walking the three-foot square area outside my door, she asked, with poorly hidden exasperation, "Can I go out to the car?"

I decided to grant permission. Sometimes I'm benevolent like that. If the child wanted to sit out in the frost-covered car and wait, I’d let her. Now, if I thought she was in any danger out there--if I thought she might lose a toe to frostbite or slip into a hypothermic coma--I would have denied her request. But this is not Alaska in January. This is the Northwest in late February. My lilacs are budding. Just five feet from the very car in question, petunias are popping up. She'd be chilly, all right, but she'd live.

"You can if you want," I said. That's what my mouth said, but I had my own subtext, and it went something like, I'm the mother here, little missy, and the keeper of all clocks and timetables. I'll saddle up when I'm good and ready.

She doesn't always catch the hidden meaning in my tone. I just know, as Tera stomped her way down the walkway, she thought she’d won.

Oh, when will they learn?

I am a rock, a fortress of determination, a wall of bigger-than-yours stubbornness. My children should know this. But it's uncanny how often they forget.

I finished my hair. She'd been right; it was as good as it was going to get. And then, looking at the clock and realizing we didn't have to leave for another forty minutes, I made myself some Orange Chamomile green tea and drank the whole cup while checking my email and reading the obituaries. Then while putting my cup and tea bag-squeeze thingy in the dishwasher, I noticed the kitchen table needed a good swiping, so I cleaned that. And then, with a good twenty minutes to go, I picked up my knitting.

She was remarkably contrite when she finally walked back in. "Let me know whenever you're ready to go," she said, trying to squelch a shiver.

"Ten minutes, Hon." I said.

Right on time--with a whole 45 seconds to spare, in fact--we locked the door and walked to the car. I was sliding into the front seat when I heard a surprising sound. I heard a peep.

I knew the sound. I'd heard it a hundred times before, but never in February.

"It can't be," I said to Tera. But it was. We stood together in front of the chicken coop and watched a tiny yellow wing wave at us from under the bottom boards of the coop.

I bent down and moved some dirt, freeing the chick from his prison. He shot out--right into my hand.

It's far too early for chicks. They need warm sun and bugs and water without ice floating in it. But apparently one of the hens had her own schedule.

I cupped the little guy close and breathed slowly on his feathers to warm him. He thanked me with a kiss right on my lips. Sure, some would call it a peck--but isn't that just another word for kiss?

We brought him some water, which he politely scooped into his pencil lead-sized beak and swallowed. We crushed some layer pellets for him and scattered them on the ground, then set him down nearby and waited to see if he'd eat.

I worried about him all the way to church, because it's a cat-eat-chick world out there, and our cat Kipper, pacing outside the chicken yard, had looked just a little too interested in the new tenant.

We ended up arriving at church five minutes late. If I'm not mistaken, God was teaching me a lesson. I think He used that little chicklet to remind me Who really keeps all the clocks and timetables. It would seem it's not me after all.

bondslave

I had big plans for today. With Christmas vacation over, the kids would be going back to school--and I intended to put Phil Keaggy's "Beyond Nature" in the CD player, pour myself an extra-large mug of hazelnut-laced coffee and work until noon on my second book.

Plans change. My daughter woke with the flu; she's lying now on the couch with her pillow and the teal and purple fleece blanket I made for her last Christmas. So I've moved from the couch, where I usually write, to the kitchen table, which is crowded with a pile of snowglobes and candles and other waiting-to-be-put-away decorations. This chair is not nearly as comfortable as my spot on the couch.

Instead of Phil Keaggy's guitar licks in the background, I'm listening to Mary and Laura Ingalls. Laura's upset because it seems boys don't automatically like her the way they like Mary. Herein lies my problem: I can't ignore Little House on the Prairie. I'm genuinely interested in hearing Mary's explanation. Why are all the boys in Walnut Grove drawn to her? Why does it all come so easily for her? We brown-haired, brown-eyed girls are quite sure we know the answer: it's that blonde/blue combination she wears.

Pa will help Laura; he always does. I haven't seen this episode yet (we only just got season 4 last week) but I already know the outcome. At some point in the next 40 minutes, Pa's going to take Half-pint in his arms and make her feel beautiful. I love Pa.

I don't think I'll get much writing done today. We also own seasons 1, 2, 3, 5, and 6. It's going to be a Walnut Grove day, and there's no way on earth I can tune out the drama long enough to write a chapter. I suppose I have to trust that God will help me finish this book even minus today's work.

Yesterday at church, my husband talked about the difference between a servant and a slave. Servants maintain a measure of independence. If they don't like the work offered, they can move on. Slaves, on the other hand, hold no cards.

When Zac and Tera squabble, we sometimes implement the "15-minute servant." If Tera, for example, is destructive to something that belongs to Zac, or disrespectful to him or just plain mean (and it happens; she's a sinner like all the rest of us), then for 15 minutes she has to serve him. He can ask her to do a chore he doesn't want to do, or straighten his room, or start a load of laundry for him. He can ask anything he wants--within reason. We're the judge of reason.

The term "within reason" doesn't apply to God or to His bondslaves. When we offered our earlobe on the doorpost and accepted the painful thrust of the awl and the gold ring that marked us for all time as His, we gave up the right to ask for reasonable service. He is the Good Master, the One who laid His life down for us, the One who loves us beyond reason. And if He asks us to go left, we can't complain that the road leading right looks mighty appealing.

My day belongs to the One who wooed me. If He wanted me to finish a chapter today, He would have cleared the couch. Instead, He placed another daughter there--and gave me the privilege of wiping her forehead with a cool cloth and bringing her barely-buttered toast and sitting together through another episode of "Pa loves Laura."

I'll write a chapter tomorrow--if He allows me to.