hands

I spent yesterday with two of my very favorite short people. They're now four, but I remember when they first arrived ...

Mark and Taryn's twins are only a month old, and already I have a favorite. It's whichever one I find myself holding.

Wednesday night, I held Duncan. We stared at each other all during worship. I don't know what he was thinking during that time; I was marveling at how much he'd grown in the few days since I'd seen him last. He didn't smile at my expressions or respond to my questions. That will have to wait a bit. He just watched.

While Dave instructed everyone to turn to 2 Samuel 5, I sat rocking Duncan and feeling a little rebellious. I wasn't turning to 2 Samuel 5, but I was listening. After just a few minutes, Duncan made "I'm hungry" movements, so I took the bottle Taryn handed me and started feeding him. He eats like a champ--just the way Zac ate when he was new. Get down to it, do it like you mean it, don't dawdle. And then he spit up--just like Zac used to after every single feeding. I sat wiping and burping and feeding Duncan, and wishing I could turn the clock back and have my own baby again for five minutes.

With his tummy full, Duncan struggled to stay awake. How do month-old babies already know to fight sleep? More evidence of what a good teacher Dave is. Duncan didn't want to miss a word.

But he lost his battle. His eyelids succumbed to gravity, and I was abandoned. I looked at his almost-not-there eyebrows, his nearly invisible eyelashes, and the barely noticeable flaring of his tiny nostrils. I watched the ripple of miniature muscle along his forehead as he furrowed those little eyebrows. Was he dreaming of empty bottles? I placed my finger in his hand and both watched and felt the curl of his fingers as he responded.

It was that hand that captured my thoughts. I turned the palm up and traced each finger, pondering the fact that those hands have yet to test the waters. They haven't yet moved in response to a thought ... good or bad. He hasn't used them yet to pick flowers for his mother, or pet a dog, or clap with delight. Nor has he used them to pinch his sister, or pilfer one of her toys. Those hands are untested, but all the potential is there. As I sat tracing those little fingers and wondering what Duncan would choose to do with his hands as he grew, I prayed God would guide him.

And then I looked at my own hands, and wished again I could turn the clock back; wished for a chance to go back and pick more flowers, and steal less toys.

downtown disney after dark

Under an inky black sky and a tree flecked with lights, the dredlocked man shimmies to his own guitar licks. He's found a way to jazz up "Three Little Monkeys." A handful of those monkeys, wearing sneakers and flip flops and baby Crocs, shed timidity and their parents and perform an unrehearsed dance revue, while we adults laugh and applaud and urge them on.

One 30" child with a penchant for pigtails and pink places a tiny hand on her tiny hips and sways to the bluesy beat before doing a slow, rhythmic turn. This one knows her charm.

Not to be outdone, a blue-clad boy in a backwards cap arches his shoulders, flexes his arms, and breakdances--right there on the street.

I don't know how he learned to do that, but I suddenly long to be short and uninhibited, with a brazen stance and the gall to dance in public to the monkey song.



Brother Yusef

mid-air love

Still on the road. Here's a post from quieter days.


I've told you about Luke. He's my two and a half-year old playmate, my fellow ruffian and cuddler all rolled into a sweaty, mischievous pile of boy. He also happens to be Madison's youngest brother.

Our game of "catch me; catch what I throw at you; come and find me" has been ongoing for two months now. Of course, we have to stop here and there for short breaks. I mean, he lives in one house and I live in another, and there are all those naps to take and meals to eat and family obligations to fulfill. But the moment we're in the same room together, play resumes right where we left off.

This morning after church, I was trying to have an adult conversation with another tall person, when I looked down the aisle and caught Luke advancing toward me. As soon as he saw me looking at him, the gig was up. He tossed stealth to the side and came running straight at me. I didn't even have time to apologize to my friend, because before I could say a word, Luke had leapt in the air--a la Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon--and attached his little octopus suction cups to my arms and legs.

My friend recognized defeat. She got the rest of her sentence out all in a rush: "OkaythenI'llseeyouattheYtomorrowat8:30," and wisely backstepped out of the play arena.

I held Luke close and tickled him. He pretended to want me to stop. I grabbed his chunky little legs and poked my finger under his armpits and blew raspberries on his exposed side, just under the edge of his t-shirt. At one point, I couldn't help myself--he'd thrown his head back to laugh and there was all this neck skin just begging to be bitten, so I did. I took a very mild, very polite nibble. And Luke, well-trained, listens-to-his-mama Luke, said, "Hey! No biting." But he said it between giggles.

He decided we ought to spend a little time throwing his red Matchbox car back and forth at each other. He tossed it toward me, I sent it skittering across the floor, then he threw it back to me the way you'd skip a rock across the lake. This went on for about 90 seconds, and then Luke, obeying a stopwatch seen only by him, decided some hand-holding and dragging was in order. So he grabbed my hand and tugged me in and out of the rows of chairs until another silent ding went off and he switched us back to tickle.

That boy tuckered us both out. Laughing, we stopped for a moment to catch our breath. He hooked his hands around my forearms and smiled up at me. Looking down at his hot little face I thought, I love you. So I said it. And right at the exact moment those words came out of my mouth, Luke said, "I love you."

Our love for each other passed in mid air. It made me say, "Oh!" and it made Luke grin. And then he decided he wanted to prove his affection. With a rather stern, commanding voice, he said, "Stay here." He then walked over to the refreshment table, grabbed a quarter of a banana nut muffin, and walked back to me. With great flourish, he broke off a minuscule section of that muffin, held both pieces up, surveyed each carefully, and handed the smallest piece to me. I knew he really meant it, then.

I took a tiny bite and handed the rest back to him. Then he knew I meant it too.

little hands

With that "paci" in her mouth, Amber has the power to leap walls, ward off toy-snatchers, and participate in the after-fellowship ritual of runner rolling-up.

Duncan needs no accoutrements. He brings only bare muscle and the fierceness of two-year old determination.

For months now, these two have been my escorts to and from my car on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. Duncan will not permit me to carry my own Bible. "I do it," he states in a tone that permits no discussion. When he reaches for the handle of my blue Bible cover, Amber--always at his side--pops in her power-propelling-pacifier and reaches for my purse. "I do it." And so we walk together. Flanked by my two small guards, I fear nothing.

"You're so strong!" I always tell them. "What good helpers!" Two turns into twelve overnight, and twelve-year olds are not always as quick to reach for what needs carrying. I want my voice to linger long in their memories.

So when I turned around a few Sundays ago and saw the twins kneeling beside Van, who had set his own dignity aside in the name of service and was crawling along behind a growing roll of floor runner, I gave them my usual pep talk. "Look how strong you two are! What good helpers!"

Behind her pacifier, Amber grinned. I think Duncan heard me. He was just too busy imitating Van to let me know.

Little hands grow fast. Father, cause them soon to reach for You.

lines

The trail at my feet is a carpet of orange and gold, red and brown. In places, it crunches at my step. Here and there, where wet patches dot the path, indignant, still-dry leaf tips curl upwards from their soggy torsos, protesting the humility of the puddle. I walk, and think, and crunch the crunchables in my way.

It looks like I'm the only walker on the trail today. One jogger huffed past me from behind, early on, but she didn't seem aware that we were sharing a bit of time and space together. Most of my companions are bikers in their expensive, streamlined suits. You'd think I'd stumbled upon the course of the Tour de'France by the gear these people are sporting. What I dislike more than their over-the-top attire are the black glasses they each wear. Are there eyes behind those lenses? I'm doubtful.

It's a melancholy day. I'm not sad, really, but I do feel alone. I'm alone in a way that permits unwelcomed thoughts. In this bubble of invisibility, I can't resist snatching from God those things I previously entrusted to His hands. "I'll have that back, thank You," I say, in my politest tone.

Just as I'm working my way through the batch, grabbing back one by one all the worrisome "what ifs" I've handed Him in past days; and all the regret from all the missteps that have brought me painful consequences, God sends me a boy.

He's tiny--so tiny he fits nicely in the bike seat behind his father (grandfather?), who is piloting a regular old, sensible, no-ambition-for-France bike. I love that the man is wearing sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt--real people clothes.

As they pass me from behind, the boy turns his shiny, black-haired head in my direction. I see enormous brown eyes. But he's leaning over and laying that tiny head down, and I don't think he notices me. He must be falling asleep, I think. It's the steady whirring of those wheels, and the blur of passing trees. He's probably closing his eyes right now ...

But just as I think that, one tiny hand shoots upward from the back of the bike seat. It lifts toward the sky ... and waves.

I smile. I can't help but smile.

Black hair shows itself above the bike seat. Dark brown eyes peek at me over the rim. I can't see his grin, but I know it's there.

In order to wave, I have to free my hands of all I've filled them with. "You can have it all back," I tell Him. And then I wave.

And the boy waves.

And I wave again, grinning like an idiot.

And for two long minutes, while that bike keeps dropping more distance between my new friend and me, we share our mid-air conversation.

When he disappears around a corner my eyes can't follow, I feel a bit of loss. Then the words to a favorite song come back to me.

Lines

A spider spins the lines from leaf to ladder
A trellis spans the canyon to Kathmandu
A transatlantic cable carries transatlantic chatter
And there are lines that run from me to you

Lines

A circumstantial glance from passing strangers
Both exchanging sadnesses of souls
Time will take the travelers so they may not remember
But there are lines that hold them even so

Lines

Lines that run from vine to branches
Lines that carry love's advances
For those who try to find their place in time
There are lines ... lines

How the strong and mighty take their places
Following the politics of war
Eliminate the enemy
And never see their faces
There are lines that maybe we ignore

Lines that run from vine to branches
Lines that carry love's advances
For those who try to find their place in time
There are lines ... lines

Now and then I hear my grandma's laughter
From the cloud of witnesses above
And every generation from Abraham thereafter
Makes the lines that lead us back to love

Lines that run from vine to branches
Lines that carry love's advances
For those who try to find their place in time
And for those who long to know that they belong
For those who pray
And those who up and walk away
There are lines ... lines

~Billy Crockett, from the album "Watermarks"

when babes speak

I'm sitting in a new favorite place--the Home Town Deli/Espresso. It's a quiet place on a busy corner. Velvety dark chocolate, squiggle-embossed couches beckon invitingly, but I resist. I'm working on the edit and update of a book on eschatology, and I know myself well enough that if I succumb to that tempting invitation, the book is likely to go by the wayside, and I'll spend an hour simply staring at all those delightfully oversized chess pieces.

I must be good. I must focus. I must keep my thoughts on nuclear probabilities and Syrian/Iranian alliances and world upheaval. To that end, I adjust my earplugs and set Doug Smith's fingers loose. From the first strains of his "Deep Heart" CD, I find myself focusing better ...

... for about twelve minutes. But then I remember yesterday, and the imps who filled it. And I have to leave Mahmoud Ahmadinejad for a quick minute, because I can't write about him and smile at the same time. And smiling is in order.

First, there was Rachel. Seeing her at the after-church potluck reminded me of something her mother shared with me recently. It seems that Rachel has penned a repeat-worthy phrase; something I plan to begin incorporating into my own outbursts. Whenever Rachel (age 3), feels frustrated at some task, she bursts out with, "Oooh! My seatbelt is arguing with me!" or "My tights are arguing with me!" or "My hair is arguing with me!" How great is that? Insert any pesky life-detail in there, and you've got yourself an instant outlet. It's so true. Life is full of annoyances that insist on arguing with us.

And then there was Eli. Eli (also 3) is a new delight; a transplant from Murrieta, California and specifically, Calvary Chapel Lake Elsinore. I already adore his family and feel like they've been ours forever. Eli (who, incidentally, knows everything you could ever want to know about oceans and fish and Dori, of "Finding Nemo" fame), was in his Sunday school class yesterday while Jennifer and the kids sang a rousing, dance-inducing worship song together. He endured it patiently for several minutes, but then he couldn't take any more. Picking up his Bible, he thrust it toward Jennifer and said, "Please ... can't we just read?" Oh, that we all should have such a love of the Word.

And lastly, little Hannah (4), who I've written about here and here, sat at a table with Joey and Anna (and Eli and Gabriel), Heather and Jaden, and me. After a bit, she excused herself to go to the bathroom. And when she returned, a few short minutes later, she crawled up next to Heather, grinned, and said, "Did you think about me when I was in the bathroom?"

Oh, to be a child. To believe that we are so loved, that not a second goes by when we're not being longed for.

How fitting that as I type this, Doug Smith plays "I Only Have Eyes For You" in the background.

Mahmoud calls. Reluctantly, I leave the giant chess set, the chocolate brown couches, and my littlest friends ... and return to lesser things: visions of nuclear fallout and apocalyptic devastation.

loved

It's Wednesday night again, and once again, I'm taken with the sight of wiggly, front-row floor inhabiting boys. This time, it's Corbin and Josh. They shimmy to Peter's rhythm. They stare at Jeff's fingers, flying a fret dance along the length of his guitar, and whisper "somedays" to one another. When Sylvia runs a stick against the chimes or shakes that shiny black egg, they point and giggle.

Corbin catches my eye, and when he sees no disapproval there, he exaggerates his conductor-waves for my approval. If you're looking for boundaries, little boy, you'll have to look elsewhere. I'm one of you.

When the last of six songs drifts to stillness, and a plea for wisdom has been ushered skyward, the short people are excused. Corbin waves as he walks back. If he could wink, I've a feeling he would have left me with one of those too.

Josh marches right past me ... but then, for reasons known only to that stoic, often unreadable child, he stops and turns to me. Two small arms open wide, and I fall right into them. He presses his little face against my shoulder, eliciting the only words worth saying. "I love you," I tell him.

And then, while I'm smiling and watching that tiny boy resume his determined march to class, another favorite crosses the aisle and holds out an offering. It's Nathan, and he's brought me a gift to add to my collection. Without a word, he sets two heart-shaped rocks on the chair beside me, gives me a quick, shy grin, and joins the exodus out of the sanctuary.

I don't deserve to be this loved ... but I'll take it all.

family

Katie is six. Her hair is white-blonde, and she's missing four front teeth. I barely know the child; after all, I've only been in the house three minutes, and this is only the second time I've seen my cousin's daughter. But I know already that I'm about to be delighted.

"Let me show you my Christmas gifts," Katie says. "First, I got this great Snoopy shirt," she says, holding out the hem of her dog-adorned shirt to help me get a better look. "And this Dora-the-Explorer doll ... and this puzzle book. It looks hard, but I think I can do it." She then gestures Vanna-style toward an impressive Barbie pool, where the stiff girl and her friends are lounging awkwardly.

Katie then comes closer. "You have to see this," she says, holding out her tiny arm so I can see the silver charm bracelet around her wrist. "It's from my Auntie," she explains. And then she cautions me. "Be very careful--it already lost a horse. Don't make it lose another."

She gives the room another glance, and when her eyes spy the tip of a plastic pink cell phone peeking out from beneath a magazine, those eyes widen and she draws in her breath. "And this!" She yanks the cell phone out with a flourish, holds it before my face, and announces, "This is my most favorite thing. You can actually call people, but they won't answer."

I must have given the appropriate gasps at the appropriate moments. I must have expressed just the right amount of enthusiasm at the properly spaced intervals, because Katie decides to bless me with a hug. Arms extended wide, she walks her wispy-haired, tooth-gapped self toward me, but just before she enfolds me in a waifish, six-year old hug, she stops short.

"Wait ... are you part of the family?"

I remember her mother, Larri, when she was Katie's age, and I was a four-year old pest. I remember following Larri through our grandmother's house, wanting to talk like Larri, walk like Larri, flounce my hair back with that exact Larri-panache. I remember climbing trees with Katie's mother, and talking about boys, and creating a haunted house together on Grandma's front porch. I remember visiting her in California, and spending the entire day in her bedroom listening to David Cassidy's "I Think I Love You" over and over again, falling in puppy love while Larri sat in her schoolroom watching the clock and wishing her day was over. And I wonder anew how so much time could have passed so quickly, and so much space could have grown where there had once been a closeness.

"Yes, Katie ... I'm part of the family."

At that, she gives a happy little cheer and puts those slender arms around me. I'm accepted.

A few minutes later, when Larri comes downstairs and joins us in the living room, Katie brings her up-to-speed.

"Mom, I love your new cousin."

loved

I’ve known her all her life. I held her just hours after her birth, and in the weeks and months that followed, snatched her from her mother every chance I got. I clapped when she took her first steps, squealed over her first words, and laughed when she mastered my name. Even now, I love to hear four-year old Hannah say, “Hello, Shannon.”

Sometimes, when I arrive early at church, I’ll pull my car into a slot near the front door and spot her standing in the foyer, looking out the window. On occasion, she simply waves and shoots me that dimple-speckled grin of hers. I always wave back, and hope that by the time I reach the front door, she’s still standing there so I can get a hug.

Other times, Hannah isn’t content to wave. She bolts out the front door and down the steps, shouting my name as she runs. That was the case yesterday. When Tera and I arrived for our homeschooling co-op meeting, Hannah spied me before I spied her. I heard my name floating across the yard, over and over, “Shannon! Shannon! Shannon!” Hannah flew toward me, pink poncho swinging as she pumped her arms, her long, blonde curls escaping her pony tail and dancing in rhythm. I opened the car door just as she reached me. Her arms were wide … her smile wider. And Hannah clutched me like she hadn’t seen me in a month of Sundays.

How lovely to be loved. How it touches my heart to feel the embrace of those tiny arms, to hear her sigh in contentment that we’re together again. And how much emptier my life would be without the love of that little girl.

Her hello stayed with me all through the meeting. I thought of it again last night, just before I turned out my light. But then I remembered something else. I remembered how hurried I’d been yesterday morning, trying to gather everything I needed for our meeting. I remembered thinking about God, but not taking the time to talk to Him, or to listen.

I remembered that instead of calling His name and running for His embrace … I’d only waved.

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.

casting crowns

A few weeks ago, when Dave was getting ready to take a run to the dump, we tackled a pile of boxes which had been stored in a covered area along with our hay. Spying one dilapidated box, I told Dave, "I think those are the last of Cindy's things." A woman from church and her two children had lived in our travel trailer a few years ago, and she'd left a couple of boxes full of things she no longer wanted. The shoes on the top of that box were hers--so I almost suggested that Dave just toss the whole box. But at the last minute, I said, "Maybe I should take a quick peek first." I'm so glad I did. Inside that box were old pictures, old letters, and a diary that had belonged to my mother when she was just a teenager. I don't know how Cindy's unwanted shoes found themselves on top of such a treasure, but while Dave was driving to the dump, I was sitting on the couch sorting through my memories. I've much to tell about what I found there. But for today, let me tell you about Garrett ...

He was the tallest of my first graders, and probably the one with the best memory. Six-year old Garrett Smith loved two things: dinosaurs and Star Wars. On his first day of first grade--which happened to be my first day on my own as a teacher--Garrett asked me if I'd like to hear the opening lines to the Star Wars movie. He then stood with his head high, legs locked, and hands on his hips, and began the soliloquy he'd memorized from watching the movie: A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ..."

He knew the whole thing. And it so delighted me that I made frequent requests for encores throughout the year. "What was that opening line of Star Wars, Garrett?"

Because of the efforts of his mother, Ann, Garrett had an in incredible vocabulary. Whenever he got an idea, he wouldn't say, "How about this?" or "I know! Let's ...." Instead, he'd raise his index finger in the air and say, in his high, six-year old voice, "Mrs. Woodward, I have an EX-cellent suggestion!"

Garrett's face and voice came alive for me when, while sorting through my newly rescued pile of letters and photographs, I came upon a lavender, dinosaur-stamped envelope. "Mrs. Woodward" was written across the center in distinctive first-grade handwriting.

Inside, I found two math pages. The first question on the first page showed six milk cartons lined up next to the number "6" and below, three milk cartons lined to the right of the number "3." Big as life, Garrett had written "9" on the line beneath the problem--just like I'd taught him. He knew the next answer, too--"1 + 7 = 8," and all the ones that followed. In fact, he'd received 100% on this paper. On top of the front side, I'd drawn a smiley face and written Great! On the flip side, I'd written Wow! Page two sported a colorful gold fish looking up at Garrett's answers with bulbous, astonished eyes. Garrett had taken the time, on this picture, to color all his answers with blue, green or yellow crayon. Again, all his answers on this paper were correct. For his efforts, I'd given him a Yipee! on on side, and the coveted Super Duper! on the other.

Garrett had received his prize ... and for whatever reason, he wanted to give it back to me. I don't recall the conversation that occurred when Garrett handed that lavender envelope to me and I opened it to find his two perfect math papers. But I'm fairly certain I didn't make the connection I do today. Today, it seems pretty clear to me that Garrett was doing what I'll do when I reach the end of my life and face the One who gave it to me.

He was casting crowns.

The twenty-four Elders fell down before him and worshiped him, the Eternal Living One, and cast their crowns before the throne, singing, "O Lord, you are worthy to receive the glory and the honor and the power ...'" --Rev 4:10-11 (TLB)

hands

Mark and Taryn's twins are only a month old, and already I have a favorite. It's whichever one I find myself holding.

Wednesday night, I held Duncan. We stared at each other all during worship. I don't know what he was thinking during that time; I was marveling at how much he'd grown in the few days since I'd seen him last. He didn't smile at my expressions or respond to my questions. That will have to wait a bit. He just watched.

While Dave instructed everyone to turn to 2 Samuel 5, I sat rocking Duncan and feeling a little rebellious. I wasn't turning to 2 Samuel 5, but I was listening. After just a few minutes, Duncan made "I'm hungry" movements, so I took the bottle Taryn handed me and started feeding him. He eats like a champ--just the way Zac ate when he was new. Get down to it, do it like you mean it, don't dawdle. And then he spit up--just like Zac used to after every single feeding. I sat wiping and burping and feeding Duncan, and wishing I could turn the clock back and have my own baby again for five minutes.

With his tummy full, Duncan struggled to stay awake. How do month-old babies already know to fight sleep? More evidence of what a good teacher Dave is. Duncan didn't want to miss a word.

But he lost his battle. His eyelids succumbed to gravity, and I was abandoned. I looked at his almost-not-there eyebrows, his nearly invisible eyelashes, and the barely noticeable flaring of his tiny nostrils. I watched the ripple of miniature muscle along his forehead as he furrowed those little eyebrows. Was he dreaming of empty bottles? I placed my finger in his hand and both watched and felt the curl of his fingers as he responded.

It was that hand that captured my thoughts. I turned the palm up and traced each finger, pondering the fact that those hands have yet to test the waters. They haven't yet moved in response to a thought ... good or bad. He hasn't used them yet to pick flowers for his mother, or pet a dog, or clap with delight. Nor has he used them to pinch his sister, or pilfer one of her toys. Those hands are untested, but all the potential is there. As I sat tracing those little fingers and wondering what Duncan would choose to do with his hands as he grew, I prayed God would guide him.

And then I looked at my own hands, and wished again I could turn the clock back; wished for a chance to go back and pick more flowers, and steal less toys.

this weekend--part two

The Bride at Calvary Chapel Marysville is happy, and beautiful ... and noisy. In fact, they're probably the noisiest people I've ever met. But it's the best kind of sound.

On the first Sunday of every month, shortly after church ends, we load up the bounty and meet at the church office for a potluck. As I'm not one of the plan-aheaders, those pre-potluck Saturday nights often find me standing in front of the open freezer, staring down and praying that a delicious option will rise from the heap. This weekend, still tired from the writers' conference, I needed something easy. And there it was--the last bag of crockpot stroganoff. It's not the best-tasting stuff all on its own; if you want to like it, you have to add cream cheese and sour cream and a bunch of seasoning. But it will do in a pinch.

I got up early on Sunday and started the stroganoff. By the time I landed back home with two loaves of French bread, the house already smelled wonderful. Fran, Jon, and their four children arrived just as I was mixing up my not-so-secret bread spread and slathering it on the loaves. (I know you're going to ask ... mix up an enormous glob of mayonnaise with several handfuls of shredded cheese (any kind or combination will do). Add a little cayenne, some garlic powder, salt and pepper, and spread it over the two halves of a cut loaf of French bread. Broil until bubbly. Try not to eat the whole thing yourself.)

While we waited for the bubbly, Fran whipped up a fruit salad. What is it about simple fruit cubes and Cool Whip that causes such rapturous anticipation? It's so simple, we could have it every day, but for some silly reason, we make ourselves wait for Thanksgiving and church potlucks.

The timer dinged and I pulled four cheesy delights from the oven. As I could see that "Don't you think we ought to test it?" expression on every face in the house, we did. Just little pieces, mind you, but it was enough to silence growly stomachs, if only long enough to get down to the church office.

When we pulled in, a tummy-tugging aroma met us in the foyer--that rare combination of baked chicken, tater casserole, saucy penne, chicken pot pie, and still-warm brownies that you find only at church potlucks. The line for food had already formed. We scooched to the back of the line and prayed there'd still be brownies. And there were.

If you could hover in a corner of the room and take it all in at once, I think you'd be most impressed by our ability to eat while simultaneously conducting multiple conversations. The noise level rides on laughter and teasing and instructions to "Bring me back some of that, will you? Just a tiny piece!"

Kids are everywhere--needing juice, needing a bite off your plate, needing a lap. I must confess that those little ones are my favorite part of every potluck. I held Mark and Taryn's twins--first Duncan, then Amber--until I saw ominous looks in the eyes of the other women--looks which told me I had to share. Noelle came to talk and play a bit. Gracie crawled under the table and reached up for me to take her in my lap. Rachel stopped chasing Brady over the chair long enough to give me a kiss. Joel poked me in the head with a Cheetoh.

When we'd sampled every offering and couldn't pull ourselves from the table, we sat and solved the world's problems. Chris and Dave talked about their new and shared passion--beekeeping (I will most definitely have to post about that at another time). Elaina D. brought her knitting over and showed us her work-in-progress. Merrylue brought me a chunk of chocolate cake and a sliver of carrot cake, which I nibbled while Sylvia and I discussed global economics (Ha! Gotcha, didn't I?) at the same time that Hannah and Cora discussed paint color (Cinnamon and Butternut) over our heads.

I gave my bread recipe to John and Laurie, and a few others who had asked. Jeff flitted from table to table, meeting people he hadn't met before and howdy-ing up the ones had already had. Another not-to-be-named man who found himself seated next to a new boy warded off comments about his body. "What's that long thing hanging out of your nose?" the boy asked, before adding, "Oh. I guess it's just your nose."

We're a funny, quirky bunch. I think you'd like us ... if you could handle the noise.

sunday joy

She starts dancing somewhere in the middle of our first song. As the worship team settles in and focuses and begins to practice "There is Joy," Aliya walks in front of us and proves it.

I try to concentrate on the words.
There is joy in the Lord
There is love in His Spirit
There is hope in the knowledge of Him
But that tiny girl has begun spinning and jumping right in front of my microphone, and I can't take my eyes or my thoughts off of her.

She's wearing a green corduroy jumper and white tights and tennis shoes. Her strawberry blonde hair, secured in the front with five miniature clips, hangs in springy tendrils past her shoulders. As she spins and dances, those curls come alive.

She dances us out of that song and into the next.
You are the Lord, the famous One, famous One
Great is Your name in all the earth
The heavens declare You're glorious, glorious
Great is Your fame beyond the earth
And for all You've done and yet to do
With every breath I'm praising You ...
I want to be Aliya. I want my praise of God to bubble up and spill over in every breath, every movement.

We move on.
Blessed be Your name, in the land that is plentiful
where Your streams of abundance flow, blessed be Your name

She twirls, and raises her head toward the sky, and smiles.

Blessed be Your name, when I'm found in the desert place
though I walk through the wilderness, blessed be Your name
Every blessing You pour out I turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord, still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your glorious name

Watching Aliyah, I bless His name.

And then I see Hannah walking through the foyer. She marches like a girl on a mission, straight down the center aisle and toward the worship team and her father. She, too, has living curls, captured (barely) in two springy blonde pony tails that swing in frenzied spirals as she marches. Under one arm, she carries a red book.

"Daddy!" she squeals, in a tone that is one part insistence and three parts pride. "Look at my Bible!" Corey is singing and strumming, but he still manages to convey his approval. She grins, spins, and retraces her march back down the center aisle, pausing at every familiar face to repeat her Bible show-and-tell.

I want to be Hannah.

After worship practice ends and we pray for the service, I look toward the foyer again and see my friend, Noelle, walking through the door with her mother. I make a beeline for her, because we have a routine, this girl and I. She's never said much to me beyond "Shannon!" and "Bye!" but we have our own language, nonetheless. When she sees me, she grins, drops her mother's hand, and starts our shimmy. I mimick her, shaking my waist, laughing, and running through a couple of movements we've added recently. As Noelle performs our "hello" dance, the thin, silver butterfly clipped to her hair shakes as though it might take flight.

She fills my heart, this girl. I watch the pure delight on her face and the joy visibly energizing those little arms and legs, and I want to be Noelle.

Make me a child again, Lord.

Then Jesus called the children over to him and said to the disciples, "Let the little children come to me! Never send them away! For the Kingdom of God belongs to men who have hearts as trusting as these little children's. And anyone who doesn't have their kind of faith will never get within the Kingdom's gates." --Luke 18:16 (TLB)

paige

She clasps my hand gently, at first, the way you'd take the hand of the person next to you while in a circle of prayer. "Squeeze harder, if you want," I tell her. She responds instantly, but I can tell she's only doing so for my benefit. She's only following my instructions. It's not long, though, before pain tosses her politeness aside and causes that slender hand to constrict mine.

Across the bed, her husband is my mirror image. He clutches her right hand and urges her to breath. Heidi tries. She finds a panting rhythm, loses it, catches it again, and then abandons the attempt when a new wave of pain hits her. "It hurts, it hurts, it hurts," she tells us. We're all too aware. And we'd take it from her, if we could.

The midwife, Charlotte, and her two assistants encourage Heidi from the end of the bed. "You're at three," Charlotte says. As if desperate to prove her wrong, Heidi begins labor in earnest. Her contractions come harder and faster; one follows another by mere seconds. My left hand is caught in a vise, but I lay my right hand on her arm and pray for mercy.

"I'm going to check again," Charlotte says. A minute later she says, "You're at four."

Corey pulls his eyes from Heidi to the midwife. "Last time, she went straight from four to end," he warns.

And with one more contraction, Heidi proves his words right. "I need to push!" she tells us.

Charlotte checks again. "You're there! Go ahead and push!"

Heidi changes before my eyes then. She pulls strength from a deep chamber and wraps herself in resolve. Every breath is calculated, every thrust efficient and purposeful. I'm awed by the change and I scan her face for signs of my Heidi--the girl who first came to our church as a teenager, the girl I watched walk down the aisle, the girl who has sat and weeded my herb garden with me, the girl who could almost be my daughter. But there's no girl there. The woman before me is doing something both our bodies were designed for, but which mine has never done. And there's nothing I can give her. She's playing a sacred role--and she's playing alone.

In just a few pushes, Heidi's third child enters the room. One moment, six of us filled this space; now there are seven. Seven happens to be the number of times I've witnessed this miracle of miracles, but I still cry. Just like every other time, I cry to see what God has done. Every part of little Paige Reanne Williams is a moving testimony to her Father--her reaching arms and flailing toes, her scrunched-up eyes and trembling chin. She's six pounds of wonder, and I'm blessed to run a finger along the curve of a brand new foot, blessed to feel the softeness of a brand new cheek.

She'll grow fast. She'll be in a hurry to catch her siblings, Corbin and Hannah. Not many months from now, this little one will take her first steps and say her first words. I'll have to share her after tonight. There's a whole church family waiting to surround this baby and love her on her journey. But tonight, I'm blessed to have her first.

Not forty-five minutes after Paige's birth, I am home and in my bed. "I'm proud of you," I told Heidi as I left. But it wasn't Heidi I thought of as I drove home. My thoughts were all of God, and how gracious He is to breathe life into a tiny form and call it "daughter."

Paige was born last night at 11:42. As soon as Corey sends me pictures, I'll post one here.

freedom

I had awaken that morning with a feeling that was one percent excitement and ninety-nine percent fear, trepidation and nausea. My first day as a substitute teacher. What in the world had I been thinking to do this to myself? I'd heard horror stories about the things pigtailed and cowlicked children did to unarmed substitutes. Did I have some latent death wish?

I set my bag of tricks on the regular teacher's desk and rummaged through. I hadn't taught first grade--or any other grade, for that matter--in ten years. Pulling out the books I'd packed so carefully the night before, I wondered, Would they even like these stories? I had a brief, horrific vision of the whole lot of them shrieking in disbelief, pointing at my favorite books and holding their stomachs as they rolled around the floor howling, "She's out of touch--and way old!"

I glanced at the clock. If I hurried, I could still slip out before the little terrors stormed in. Grabbing my books and bag, I scrambled for the door.

Too late. Standing in the doorway was the first of my tormenters.

"Who are you?" the boy asked. Did I detect a threatening tone behind that innocent question?

Before I could force an answer past the rock in my throat, he continued his interrogation, machine-gun style. "Where's Mrs. McGee? How come she's gone? Where are you going?" (This, with a glance at my "caught in mid-flight" stance.)

"She's absent today. She's having a root canal. And my silent answer to his third question: I think I'll join her.

A second boy joined the door guard, effectively blocking my escape route. Another head popped up to see what all the fuss was about. Soon twenty-nine students pushed through and filled the room, nearly all asking me an identical set of questions. I noted, with dismay and growing fear, several pigtails and cowlicks.

I had to give myself a quick pep talk. Yes, they all outnumber me. But I'm taller. My handwriting is better and I can legally drive a car. I have all my big teeth.

It helped a little. Gave me enough courage to read through Mrs. McGee's written instructions. I took attendance, counted hot-lunch takers, and introduced the first activity. My voice only squeaked twice, and I'm sure the shaking of my hands went relatively unnoticed.

Things began to roll along nicely. A few girls smiled at me. My spirits really began to lift when I realized I'd been in the classroom thirty minutes and not a single book had been thrown my way.

But then I noticed one small boy sitting with his hands folded on his desk. The paper I'd passed out earlier lay untouched before him. He lowered his glance when he saw I was looking at him.

I checked the seating chart for his name. Khotemir, it said. To the side of that name, Koty was written in parenthesis. I decided to go with the nickname. "Having some trouble, Koty?"

He smiled, but didn't answer.

"Do you need some help?"

Nothing. So this was it. This was my big challenge for the day. The boy was going to wait me out, see if he could frustrate me, try to make me cry. Well, there was no way I'd let him push me that far.

"I need you to get started on your paper now, Koty," I said firmly.

Not a flinch. Not a flicker of anything--not defiance, compliance, resistance or annoyance. Just that smile.

One of the girls nearest me leaned over and said, "He can't understand you, Mrs. Woodward."

"Why not?"

"He doesn't know English. He's from Russia and he just got here two weeks ago and he has a big family and he never says nothing. And Koty is just short for his other name which none of us can say."

"Are you sure?"

The bearer of bad news nodded. Koty hadn't even blinked. His smile never faltered, not even when he heard his name.

"What does he do all day?"

"Kinda what he's doing right now."

I tried. I gestured, pointed, pantomimed, motioned and charaded myself through several activities, with little success. Khotemir managed to copy half of a six-line poem, but that was it.

And then it was art time. Mrs. McGee, apparently for my benefit, had planned a simple crayon and newsprint art lesson.

"Draw whatever you like," I instructed the class--as if any child faced with crayons and blank paper would do otherwise.

Khotemir's face lit up when I gave him his materials. This he knew.

I wateched his efforts with relief. For the first time all day, he was engaged. His was a full-body involvement. He wagged his feet, shimmied in his seat, and positioned his tongue firmly outside the corner of his mouth as he hammered at his paper. Color flew, and I saw the beginnings of a ship's bow begin to take form.

I meandered around for about ten minutes, checking progress and encouraging the other budding artists, before I finally made my way back to Khotemir's row. When I approached his desk and looked down at the ivory newsprint, I stopped still. He'd finished the boat. It floated above a choppy sea full of sharks and dolphins. On the deck, a smiling family of eleven stood together, their stick hands frozen in a Crayola wave. But something else waved in Khotemir's picture. High above the deck, the Russian child had drawn a large, proud flag ... a red, white and blue flag ... an American flag.

The boy did it, then. He made me cry.

on poking and gathering

My friend Nathan is a character. During his first real "out in the world" experience (otherwise known as kindergarten), he became enamored of one little girl, a girl we'll call Taylor Butler, because that's her name.

Every afternoon, when he made the pilgrimage back home and sat down to a snack and a debriefing with Mom and/or Dad, Nathan would share Taylorbutler stories. And that's how he said her name--all smashed together like it was one unseparatable word: "Taylorbutler." Chris and Cora learned all kinds of things about Taylorbutler--the colors she liked to wear most often, the fascinating way she held her crayons, which snack she'd eat first out of her lunchbox ... Nathan saw and recorded it all.

One afternoon, Nathan brought home a letter of concern. It seemed the teacher had caught him poking Taylorbutler. Cora decided that poking matters fell under "father duties," so she handed the letter to Chris.

"Nathan," Chris said, "did you poke Taylorbutler?"

Nathan nodded.

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to see if she was squishy."

An immediate question rose in Chris' mind. "Uh ... exactly where did you touch her to find this out?"

Nathan poked his dad right in the side, just below his rib cage. "Here, Dad."

Chris was, of course, relieved. "And ... was she squishy there?"

Nathan grinned and nodded slowly. "Oh, yeah."

I just love that kid. He has a quirky way of viewing things, and all these little idiosyncracies that keep me laughing. I especially like the way he phrases things.

Whenever he wants to make sure Cora doesn't forget something, say, a promised trip to MacDonalds or some other privilege, Nathan will instruct her: "Write that up, Mom," and she does.

Chris and Cora lead one of our church's home fellowship groups, which they host every other Sunday night. One Sunday afternoon, Nathan wondered if perhaps this was the night all his friends came over for home fellowship.

"Hey, Dad--is tonight home fellyshellygloop?"

What would we do without kids? They give us some of our best insights, and certainly some of our most colorful words. "Fellyshellygloop" is one of my all-time favorites.

It's important, you know. We're meant to fellowship together. We were created with fellowship-needs. Somehow, some of us have forgotten that. Not kids, though. Kids have an instinct that drives them to herd together and compare their owies and share their Skittles. They're always up for a get-together. Always. Have you ever known a child to say, "Nah. I'm not in a socializing mood?" Of course you haven't. My daughter once asked, while shivering despite her 103 degree temperature, "If I stop shaking, can Jaimey come over?"

We've much to learn from these short people. Herd together with someone this weekend--or lots of someones. Go to church! It's good for your heart to be among people who share your beliefs, people you can show your owies to. Find another couple to have lunch with afterwards. We'll be at Scott and Diana's Sunday afternoon, if you're looking for us.

This weekend, find yourself some good fellyshellygloop. You won't be sorry.

Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another-and all the more as you see the Day approaching. ~Heb 10:25 (NIV)

mid-air love

I've told you about Luke. He's my two and a half-year old playmate, my fellow ruffian and cuddle bunny all rolled into a sweaty, mischievous pile of boy. He also happens to be Madison's youngest brother.

Our game of "catch me; catch what I throw at you; come and find me" has been ongoing for two months now. Of course, we have to stop here and there for short breaks. I mean, he lives in one house and I live in another, and there are all those naps to take and meals to eat and family obligations to fulfill. But the moment we're in the same room together, play resumes right where we left off.

This morning, after church, I was trying to have an adult conversation with another tall person, when I looked down the aisle and caught Luke advancing toward me. As soon as he saw me looking at him, the gig was up. He tossed stealth to the side and came running straight at me. I didn't even have time to apologize to Heidi, because before I could say a word, Luke had leapt in the air--a la Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon--and attached his little octopus suction cups to my arms and legs.

Heidi recognized defeat. She got the rest of her sentence out all in a rush: "OkaythenI'llseeyouattheYtomorrowat8:30," and wisely backstepped out of the play arena.

I held Luke close and tickled him. He pretended to want me to stop. I grabbed his chunky little legs and poked my finger under his armpits and blew raspberries on his exposed side, just under the edge of his t-shirt. At one point, I couldn't help myself--he'd thrown his head back to laugh and there was all this neck skin just begging to be bitten, so I did. I took a very mild, very polite nibble. And Luke, well-trained, listens-to-his-mama Luke, said, "Hey! No biting." But he said it between giggles.

He decided we ought to spend a little time throwing his red Matchbox car back and forth at each other. He tossed it toward me, I sent it skittering across the floor, then he threw it back to me the way you'd skip a rock across the lake. This went on for about 90 seconds, and then Luke, obeying a stopwatch seen only by him, decided some hand-holding and dragging was in order. So he grabbed my hand and tugged me in and out of the rows of chairs, until another silent ding went off and he switched us back to tickle.

That boy tuckered us both out. Laughing, we stopped for a moment to catch our breath. He hooked his hands around my forearms and smiled up at me. I looked down at his hot little face and thought, I love you. So I said it. And right at the exact moment those words came out of my mouth, Luke said, "I love you."

Our love for each other passed in mid air. It made me say, "Oh!" and it made Luke grin. And then he decided he wanted to prove his affection. With a rather stern, commanding voice, he said, "Stay here." He then walked over to the refreshment table, grabbed a quarter of a banana nut muffin, and walked back to me. With great flourish, he broke off a miniscule section of that muffin, held both pieces up, surveyed them both carefully, and handed the smallest piece to me. I knew he really meant it, then.

I took a tiny bite and handed the rest back to him. Then he knew I meant it too.

no secrets

The other day, in my "of clocks and chicks" post, I mentioned a girl named Madison and said I'd be writing about her at some point. Today's the day.

Madison is something else. Often, when I arrive at church, before I even see her coming I'll feel her arms around my waist, hugging me hello. When she talks to you, you sometimes forget she's a kidlet. She's serious (like her mother) and has an old soul (like her mother), and she's as comfortable with adults as she is with her peers. She never fails to make me laugh.

I think the best way to give you a good picture of this child is to post a devotional I wrote about her a few years ago:

Five-year-old Madison is a born leader. You can see it in the impatient stamp of her foot or in the exasperated toss of her Shirley Temple curls when you don’t quite understand her demands. She’s all business--all the time--and always in control. And no one knows it better than her four-year old brother, Gabriel.

On a recent summer day, when temperatures here in the Pacific Northwest rose beyond their usually mild level and caused us all to reach for the iced tea, Madison and Gabriel stood in the backyard kiddie pool. The water wasn’t deep, but it was straight out of the hose and freezing cold. They’d been wading for ten minutes or so, trying to get enough courage to sit down.

Madison sighed and pushed a curl out of her eyes. “It’s hotter than Africa out here.”

She had no idea at the time, but her parents were just on the other side of the screened window, listening (and by now, laughing).

“Yep,” Gabriel agreed, although it’s a good bet he has no idea where, or even what, Africa is.

Madison swirled the water with her toe, thinking. In a moment she came up with a plan. “Know what, Gabe? We should see if Luke likes the water.”

Luke is the youngest sibling, the baby--and not quite one year old.

“Let’s bring ‘im out,” she suggested.

Gabriel nodded.

“Here’s what you do,” Madison directed. “Go in the house and tell Mom and Dad the water’s really, really, really warm. Ya got that? Tell ‘em it's really warm and Luke will love it.”

Gabriel nodded again and started for the house.

“Remember, Gabe--really, really, really warm.”

He kept nodding and kept walking.

But she had one last instruction. “And Gabe--whatever you do, DON’T SHIVER!”

My friends, Scott and Diana, have kept me in fresh supply of Madison stories over the years. They made sure to repeat this one to me, too, and I laughed for a good five minutes. I could just picture that confident little girl instructing her brother on how to pull the wool over their parents’ eyes.

The truth is, we’ve all got a little Madison in us. Just because God isn’t standing right in front of us--visibly--we think we can fool Him, too. We forget that He sees through walls and hearts, knows all the details, and understands the motive behind everything we do.

That shouldn’t frighten us. That should comfort us. Because just like Madison’s parents, our Father loves us despite our mischievous ways. When we grasp that fact, we gain the freedom to be honest with Him--and that's when our relationship really takes off.

Those secrets you've been trying to keep from Him? Might as well hand them over. He knows anyway. And the amazing thing is, He loves you in spite of it all.

"I could ask the darkness to hide me and the light around me to become night--but even in darkness I cannot hide from you. To you the night shines as bright as day.
Ps 139:11-12 (NLT)

impulses

I dropped in on our friends, Scott and Diana, last night. With an hour to wait before Zac's basketball game, and seeing as how their new house was just down the road from the school, I figured I'd go see what they were up to.

I toured the renovations, snagged a tater tot, and then settled at the kitchen table to talk with Diana while she sorted unbelievably small beads (her newest hobby). We enjoyed about nine seconds of conversation before Luke, her hard-to-ignore 2 1/2 year old, bounded in. I love that boy. There's just something about his big head that demands I pet it, every time he's in reach. From there, it's a short step to tickling. That leads to chase, and hide-and-seek, and throw-the-toy-and-see-who-can-get-to-it-first. Diana kindly let me play; after a bit, she stopped trying to get my attention altogether. Good thing I wore my pedometer (see previous post), because I got quite a work out chasing Luke around that huge house.

One thing I observed about toddlers last night: they're amazingly easy to distract. They can also be bull-headed as all get-out when they're completely focused on something, but unless they really put their mind on the task at hand, any old pretty that comes along can draw them away. We were right in the middle of an intense game of "will she come to get me around the left side of the kitchen, or the right?" when I noticed it became awfully silent in the living room. I peeked around the right side wall and saw Luke trotting into his sister Madison's bedroom. He abandoned me, right in the middle of our game, simply because he heard the other kids playing. I had to go in there and remind him that I was the guest, I had him first, and I wasn't done with him.

I got him re-engaged in our game, but just a few minutes back into it, he noticed his dad's Dots on top of the TV. (Dots--you know, the really gross, flavorless, chewy round blobs that no adult with a palate would ever put in their mouth.) The boy completely forgot me, completely ignored my "Yoo-hoo, Luke . . . come and see where I'm hiding!" Left me standing in the kitchen by myself like an idiot. It's humiliating to be tossed aside for Dots.

I had to work hard to keep Luke playing with me. If it wasn't a sibling or a tater tot or a moth or a piece of cardboard with jagged edges or his reflection in the window, it was something else, some other tantilizing temptation.

As I see it, the only thing that separates adults from children (besides being taller and having all our permanent teeth) is our ability to resist temptation--most of the time, that is. Sure, I'm tempted to veer off the path now and again, too, but I've learned to stay focused. I've learned to stay on task. I mean, just because you have a thought or an impulse, doesn't mean you have to act on it.

Hey . . . I think we have ice cream . . .