Broken

It was just a few minutes after I had sent the boys outside that I found them, all three, peering down into a trash can in the garage. The teamwork and silence were a clue that this scene needed further investigation. At the bottom of the bin I saw a small bird, struggling for breath. The details were fuzzy -- but involved a Nerf gun, a bird (which from later confessions may have already been injured or slow), and his transport to our garage.

For an instant, I wondered if this was just a "boys will be boys" moment, but looking into the faces of my little guys and down at that little creature, my eyes immediately filled with tears. Their original faces of bewilderment turned a bit more toward panic, and my oldest began to cry, promising "I didn't mean to"and "I didn't know." My middle, whose emotions mainly display as anger, turned bitter, his voice short. The bird was released back into the wild, but went nowhere.

For the next several minutes, we had a few more tears, a little more anger, and a lot of quiet. I had to stop myself from lecturing too much, from talking too much, and tried to just let them sit with their own guilt and sadness.

I later joked to friends that this day may someday be a topic of discussion when my boys are in counseling, and I know I might have been a bit hard on them, and that some would say it was "just a bird," but I wanted them to feel something. I wanted them to sit with their discomfort a bit, to feel uncomfortable, to feel compassion.

Another part of me wanted to rescue them, assure them everything was okay, that this was not a big deal, and move on quickly so we didn't have to deal with any more feelings.

It's a hard line to walk, isn't it?  Wanting to protect the innocence of our kids, while still wanting their hearts to be tender enough to ache?

In a broken world – with war and unrest and children stabbing other children on nearby playgrounds – I desperately want my sons to be safe, happy, and loved, but I also want them to get hurt, to not be so numb or self-absorbed that their hearts don't sometimes break a bit for the people around them.

It's moments when you're staring down at a dying bird or trying to explain a tragedy like Newtown that conversations are tricky but their ears are perked up. And while I'm not suggesting we trade in our PBS morning cartoons for CNN, it does seem like our kids deserve and need us to wrestle with them through some of the hard stuff. Though I want to protect them from hurt and harm, I also want them to have hearts that are capable of hurting -- whether it's a small bird dying, another child being picked on in the hallway, or a child on the other side of the world dying. I want them to get that the world is bigger than their neighborhood and that there are tragedies bigger than running out of milk and cereal in the morning.

In her back-to-school blog post, The Talk, Glennon Melton writes about talking to her kids about empathy. She writes, "Your whole life, we want you to notice and trust your heartache. That heart ache is called compassion, and it is God's signal to you to do something. It is God saying, (insert name here)! Wake up! One of my babies is hurting! Do something to help! Whenever you feel compassion – be thrilled! It means God is speaking to you, and that is magic. It means He trusts you and needs you."

Bob Pierce, founder of World Vision, wrote, "Let my heart be broken with the things that break the heart of God."

And so, during this sticky season of August, when I'm not really sure whether to be lesson planning and back-to-school shopping, or just cuddling my kids in their jammies a bit longer and taking extra trips to the pool and park, I am praying for a bit of heartache for the year ahead. For me and my boys and even those eighth grade students who will walk into my classroom in the coming days. I pray that our growing pains in the coming year don't just result in tight shoes and shrinking jeans, but hearts that are a bit more open and attentive to the world and people around us.

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P.S. A couple other posts on parenting more purposely and authentically that have resonated with me lately:

Our Children, Our Neighbors: "Because if children are people, then they are also our neighbors. This means that every scriptural imperative that speaks to loving our neighbor as we love ourselves suddenly comes to bear on how we parent. Every command to love preferentially at great cost, with great effort and with godly wisdom becomes more than just a command to love the people in my workplace, my church, my hair salon or the local homeless shelter. It becomes a command to love the people under my own roof, no matter how small. If children are people, then our own children are our very closest neighbors."
The Problem with the Child-Centered Home: "When we center our homes around the wants and demands of our kids, we are actually hurting them, not helping."

Open hands

Just before the first of the year, I declared "with" to be my word of the year. But when I chose this word – or when the word found me – I didn't realize that focusing on being "with," being present where I'm at, would also involve so much letting go.

The end of the school year brought budget cuts and news that two of my best friends at school would be moved to different positions at other buildings.

In the end of June, we packed up for a family road trip – two weeks Out West – knowing that when we arrived home we'd have a week to pack up our house and move.

The last few months have included so much promise, but I've had to loosen by grip quite a bit too. In order to grab onto the future, I've had to open my hands a bit. In order to be where I am right now, fully engaged in that moment, I've had to be willing to let go of where I'm not and of what I can't fix.

It was hard during those final days in June to run across the hallway to my friend's classroom, knowing that I won't find her there in August. It was hard, even in the midst of the beautiful Colorado mountains, not to lay awake in bed at night fixated on a to-do list that was 1,200 miles away.

I'm a sentimental person – a collector of old letters, journals, scraps of papers that contain a few handwritten words that take me back to a particular moment in time. (Just ask my husband who lovingly carried many of my heavy boxes and bins of old momentos over the last few days.) I take so many pictures because I'm a bit desperate to remember the moments that seem to be passing by so quickly, the little faces that seem to wake up a bit older each morning. I so often try to harness time, though I know life can't be paused or rewinded.

While I think it's okay to be a collector, I've recently been being taught the necessity of letting go and seeing what's in front of me at the current moment.

My sister, who lives in Albuquerque, was able join us for five days of our trip to Colorado, and it was wonderful to have her with us, to just be together and have the space to have those rambling conversations that don't often happen over the phone or text messages. Just after she left, I was feeling emotional and so heavy-hearted to say goodbye again. Add to that a bit of anxiety about our upcoming move and the stress of expectation that comes with planning a very big trip and then wanting everything to be just perfect (when traveling with 3 small children?!), and I knew I needed to sneak away for a run to clear my head. But, given the thin mountain air and my stress, I ended up mostly walking and praying "Help Me"* prayers, at times outstretching my hands – because I once heard the best way to give your anxiety to God is to actually open up your hands and literally let go.

I'm learning that part of faith is trusting enough to stop trying to balance it all on my own and grab for God's hands instead.

Now, two weeks later, writing from my new bedroom and rolling through the highlight reel of that vacation, I can better see how we were held all along. I see how the difficult moments soften and prod me and the moments of joy rise to the top. I see how God was teaching me – once again – that my story is so much bigger than me, that I'm so small compared to those towering mountains, compared to his plan. I see how my attempts to harness time are futile, and life is better lived with open hands letting time pass between my fingers, than close-fisted, trying to grasp what isn't mine anyway.

Yesterday, as I was getting up and distracted with thoughts of catching up on laundry, unpacking a few boxes, and crossing items off my to-do list, my sweet two-year old was cuddled up in my bed, watching cartoons on a chilly morning. As I headed off, he looked at me and said, "Go slow, Mom, don't go fast. Go slow."

So, I will try, Levi. I will try, especially the last precious days of this summer, to go slower. To let go, open my hands, and focus in on what's right in front me.

* Prayer is taking the chance that against all odds and past history, we are loved and chosen, and do not have to get it together before we show up. The opposite may be true: We may not be able to get it together until after we show up in such miserable shape. -- Anne Lamott in Help, Thanks, Wow

San Juan River

The boys are content to play by the river

all afternoon,

noticing only one cloud in the Colorado, blue sky,

scouting the flat, thin rocks perfect for skipping.

Oh, the expectation when the oldest winds up,

his mind willing that stone to dip up and down out of the cold water.

It skips twice, and his head is down again, looking for another.

His younger brother throws some, collects others in pockets and plastic baggies.

Pounds of extra luggage to carry home, to step over as they boys climb into the car,

muddy shoes dangling over car seats,

over kidnapped rocks making their way 1,400 miles to a new home.

The baby is wet with mud and will go home in only a diaper,

eyes fluttering shut before we turn onto the main road.

I sit at the edge of the water.

Pick up stones, too. Stack them into piles that never quite balance, topple quickly.

Look for the ones whose colors are revealed only under the running water.

Imagine if they’ve ever been touched by human hands before, and

where they’ve fallen from, where they will go when I drop them,

and change their trajectory – their purpose – forever.

Worms

Because it's May and temperatures have barely climbed to 50 degrees, and it rained just about every day last week.

Because my patience tank seems to be running on fumes several hours before bedtime.

And because it seems my little ones are just a bit more apt to burst into tears lately, it's probably good I was multitasking while blowdrying my hair on Tuesday, and read these words from Glennon Melton in Carry On Warrior:

And God says: Well, here's the thing. Peace isn't the absence of distraction or annoyance or pain. It's finding Me, finding peace and calm, in the midst of those distractions, annoyances and pains.

And so I said a little prayer for peace in the day ahead.

But moments later, it was time to get the shoes on, find the backpacks, herd everyone into the car, and my voice and blood pressure had already begun to rise, when Josh stopped, took a deep breath, looked around at the rainy morning and said, "Levi -- don't the worms smell so good this morning?"

And so, that's gonna be my mantra in the days ahead -- I'm just going to stop and smell the worms.

(Photo: Sharlini/Flickr)

Falling and Failing

The pastor had just finished up his sermon on falling – on admitting we are powerless and broken – when my son dropped his entire cup of hot chocolate on the church carpet (and my new shoes).

I had just heard, written down, and whispered amen to these words, "Instead of the safest place to fall, the church has become one of the most dangerous places to mess up." Yes, I whispered. We must change this. We must be okay with messes. Jesus was all about messy people. I had just filled my sermon study with notes on admitting we are powerless, getting rid of toxic egos, and giving up the act of having it all together – because how can we be possibly have a healthy spirituality if we're all just pretending to be okay?

But then the spilled hot chocolate, the rush for paper towel, my two-year-old wandering away in the chaos, other parents watching – and my first instinct was to run and hide.

I can say, "Yes, you are messed up and welcome here and okay just as you are," but if I'm honest -- this is so much easier than admitting that I'm a mess, too. I really, really don't want to be the one with the mess.

As an adult, I've honed the skill of pretending, of holding it together, but then I had children. They will scream in a store, pass gas in an elevator, giggle as they refuse to listen, or declare "Oh, I hate this game!" when opening a gift from a great-grandparent. (I think my face is still red.) To be a parent is to feel like a failure over and over each day because now my imperfection and vulnerability has skin on it and walks around in the world. Also, my children force me to deal with my own impatience, my need for attention, and the insecurities I try to hide. There is something so raw and real about kids that is both terrifying and refreshing.

One of favorite parts of each day is reading to my boys in their bunk beds before bed. We have a strict routine – enforced by my oldest – that includes one book for his brother, a Bible story, and then a chapter or two in a book chosen by him. We have some great Children's Bibles, but the other day I picked up a Kid's Devotional from the shelf and thought we'd give it a try. I read aloud a short passage about "Walking in truth," which encouraged admitting when you're wrong, confessing sins, telling God thanks, and speaking truth to a friend. Then it said (this is word-for-word, people), "Walking in truth isn't hard."

Isn't hard?!

I resisted the urge to throw that book through the air – how can a passage on truth-telling lie like that? Not hard? I want my boys to know, and see, that walking in truth is very hard. Falling down and not just giving in to the temper tantrum is hard. Falling down and asking for help back up is hard. Falling down and admitting you're powerless and tired and broken is hard. Falling down and not crawling further into a hole of shame and guilt is hard.

But I also want my children to know – and for me to truly live in a way that shows – that in that posture that we're finally ready for the best work, that we're finally ready to be transformed.

There is another Children's Bible on our shelf that often has questions to discuss at the end of a chapter -- questions that sometimes involve asking the parents to tell stories of times they've messed up. Rather than assuring them it's easy to be good, it's amazing to see how my boys perk up and listen when I'm willing to share with them about the dumb stuff I've done and the mistakes I've made.

Brené Brown writes, "Even though the vulnerability of parenting is terrifying at times, we can't afford to armor ourselves against it or push it away – it's our richest, most fertile ground for teaching and cultivating connection, meaning, and love."

Alerted to the mess on the carpet, the custodian at the church who came to save us modeled grace. While he could have reacted with frustration or simply got to work cleaning up the mess, he stopped to talk; he smiled at me and my children, assured us this was no big deal, and said, "The church is supposed to be used and messy." His response took the shame out of the situation and replaced it with perspective and grace.

It's easy to sit in a pew and agree with the words of a sermon. It's easy to claim it's easy to tell the truth to others, to ourselves. But the work is so hard when you leave that sanctuary. And this time I didn't even have to walk out the church doors to get a chance to practice my vulnerability.

(By the way, my shoes are fine, too.)

Sticking With Me

I heard yesterday on the morning news that it was "Ditch your New Year's Resolution Day." But my word for 2014, WITH, seems to be sticking around. I should not be surprised that when I ask for something, God makes it show up all over my life. For example:

My smartphone is refusing to charge, so I am back to using my old, not-so-smart phone. Just messages and phone calls for me. (And it's not so bad.)

In preparation for a research unit I'm teaching, I remembered to add this video to my lesson plans so that my students and I can contemplate the impact of eye contact. Have you seen it?

We started a new book for small group, Love Does, by Bob Goff. The title of the first chapter? I'm WITH You.

My I-don't-know-what-I'd-do-without-her neighbor at school has got me hooked on Writer's Almanac. Would I like Garrison Keillor to read me a poem each day? Yes, thank you. It's impossible not to slow down and be present when listening to good words.

Just in time for January, my online She Reads Truth group got a Fresh Start. And, reminded of the impact of stopping to say thanks each day, I started my gifts list again

I received an email from a co-worker, a heart-breaking update about his little girl recently diagnosed with leukemia, and he signed it, "Be where your feet are." 

Deep breath. And Amen.

730 & Counting

With the turning of the calendar to 2014, I'm not only celebrating a new year, but picture 730 and the hundreds of moments in between. I love how our 365 project has become not only an attempt to collect a picture each day, but a reminder to slow down, reflect, and number the days. As fellow blogger Katie says it, it's a way to tell our family story.

Life with three, busy, little boys can feel like a whirlwind, and the weeks sometimes start to blend together, but scrolling back through the pictures helps my brain and priorities to focus a bit – and count lots of blessings. So, as we begin year #3, let's roll the highlights.

January

Snow days, sledding, scavenger hunts, and doing our best to avoid cabin fever.

February

Blankie wars, celebrating daddy, more snow fun, brave firsts, and growing independence.

March

Escaping the last of the snow, soaking in the ocean view, and finding joy in the small stuff. 

April

Footprints in the sand, lots of special birthday celebrations, fun date nights, and opening day.

May

Brotherly love, Whitecaps bonding time, imitating daddy, and thrill riding.

June

All things Pure Michigan: beach days, pool time, reeling in a big one, bike rides, and escaping Up North.

July

Family fun on Beaver Island and Little Blue Lake, big boys only Canadian fishing, visits from old friends, a summer job, and hours logged playing the toothpick game.

August

Soaking up summer with pool dates, beach nights, campfires, a camping trip, and a day at the ballpark.

September

Back to school, first fruits, fall ball, and family fun.

October

Cider making, pumpkin carving, playoffs (big and little league), and enjoying mother nature's artwork.

November

Thankful for a girls day out, a snowy Thanksgiving, the imagination of children, and good friends.

December

Singing old classics, turning two, lots of holiday cheer, and a very white Christmas.