Tidbits

Keep wanting to write all kinds of deep stuff about the wonder of my oldest graduating or turning 18 . . . but somehow I can't seem to get to it. One of these days I will. *sigh* Until then here's a few tidbit about the wrap of our 2008-2009 homeschool year:

• We closed out Sarah's senior year with an eye exam. She got her new glasses today and has wandered around the house in amazement: "Wow. I never knew those pictures were sharp images! I thought they were blurred on purpose." "I can see sunlight filtering through the leaves! And leaves aren't just green blobs!" "I knew there weren't REALLY four trees in the backyard, but I had no idea of everything else I couldn't see back there!"
  
• I've had an offer of a graduation present from my daughter--a thank you for homeschooling her. She wanted to get me my first set of acrylic nails. I was VERY tempted. However, I suggested she spend her money on a special event for us instead. We're going to make a memory.
  
• I've caught my daughter, now 18, giggling to herself on multiple occasions since her birthday. Under her breath are the words, "I'm an adult!"
• Summer library programs have begun in earnest. Last year I cried when I signed Sarah up. After 13+ years of trotting to the libraries and winning prizes, I knew the era was almost over. I could almost see her at 5, standing there in pink (I got to dress her back then), eyes aglow. The good news: I didn't cry this year when I only registered the boys.
• My third born, Stephen, is not fond of his grammar workbook. After he completed it (the last thing he had to do to complete his school year), he asked permission to destroy it. I rejected the idea of setting fire to it, but did give the okay for several other methods. My only request was that he tear out the page on the appropriate uses and tenses of lie and lay and give it to me as a resource before destroying the book. I never seem to get those right!
• The above son brought the book in the kitchen and propped it in front of me later in the day. It was funny to watch the BB's tinkle from the front of the mutilated book onto the kitchen table.
• The "baby" of the family is now a definite tweenager. The hormones are kicking in and the drama has begun. It feels all too familiar. In a year and a half I will officially have 4 teenagers. Yes, there's a prayer request hidden in there.
• The hockey playing son discovered this year that if he stayed on track with school he could actually be quite successful. He won the outstanding student award for Algebra at our umbrella school with a whopping 97% in the class. His mother, who hated Algebra, thought this was reason for celebration. His response: "What does it matter? It's just easy and boring anyway." Oh . . . K. Not for me. But it does show that letting someone who likes math teach him Algebra was oh so much more successful than trying to do it myself, like I did with his sister. (You may recall the story from an earlier post about how she once said to me, "If you'd just TRY to have a good attitude, we might make it through Algebra." I think that's when I picked up the phone and found a tutor.)
• My children have discovered the joy of "forking." Don't ask.
• God did a really cool thing for me at a recent writer's conference. Another one of those stories that I'd like to really write. Suffice it to say He allowed me to do something I thought I'd NEVER do . . . Curious? My friend Jan blogged about it at Bold and Free.
  

Springtime

Springtime visits my soul like Colorado weather--in spurts and sputterings--comings and goings. While I want it to stay, I will embrace each sweet, fresh breeze. For now I will enter into every beautiful, sunny moment. And I will quit wondering if it is only a fleeting glimpse or a whole new season.

It's springtime in the Rockies as the cobalt sky outside my balcony window testified this morning. Though the wind whipped through the mountains and the expanse to my left included a soft, gray brushstroke, the tinkling chatter of the birds and the new scent carried by the breeze declared spring's arrival loud and clear.

I dressed, but left off my socks and shoes, and slipped outside. My hair, still wet from the shower, whipped about my head as I slipped into the green plastic chair at the corner of the balcony. It was too cold to relax into the experience so I padded back into the room and pulled the knobby blue blanket off the shelf. Melting into its warmth, I cocooned. Blue fuzzy softness wrapped beneath me, around me, warming the plastic chair and draping around my arms, my legs, my everything.

Well, almost. My head peeked out the top so my eyes could drink in the green, gray, brown, and blue hues of tree topped mountains, rock outcroppings, and sky.

And my feet peeked out the other end. They embraced the sun in a way none of the rest of me could, pressing against the stained, sun-drenched wood beneath them. Toasty toes sunbathed, warmer than the whole of me despite my soft, fuzzy blue world. I don't know if feet can have feelings, but the way those tootsies stretched in the light and breathed the fresh air seemed to me a display of sheer, unadulterated joy.

Spring came to my soul today. It visited first my bare beet.

Breeze

The curtains swell and fall in response. As my hair lifts from my brow and the cool caresses my cheeks I am stuck by how something so simple becomes so profound.

I had a huge disappointment last night and haven't been able to shake it today. It's been as though the energy within me drained out into a puddle at my feet. All that was left was a zombie like response. Get through another day. Fix a meal. Sort the laundry. Help with a math problem. My husband, good man that he is, listened to my hurts and allowed the tears to pool in swollen eyes.

Still the barrenness continued.

But now there is a breeze. It floods over me tingling and tantalizing.

Cool. Fresh. New.

The night air dancing through my window reminds me that all is not stagnant, stale, and senseless. It slips around my warm, worn body and promises refreshment.

Too Sweet?

I don't usually get emails like that one. Most of the correspondence I receive from Soul Scents subscribers is encouraging. So when I received it a while back--must be over a year now--I paused, thought about whether to respond, and felt this particular opinion was not one I was to take on. So I never answered engaged the author in dialogue, just sent a short (and I hope gracious) email saying I'd fulfilled his request to be taken off my subscriber list.

But today I'm thinking about it again.

The person (if I remember correctly it was a male writer), accused me of a syrupy sweet belief system. He told me to take him off the devotional list because he couldn't be a part of a religion so easy--or something like that.

When I left the rules behind to embrace a life of grace led by the Holy Spirit, some people were confused and afraid. I remember telling a dear friend that when you surrender to God's leading on a daily basis, focusing on Him instead of a list of rules, the cost is greater. No longer can you get by with doing the right thing. Now you are asked to surrender in ways you've never surrendered before. You are convicted of your attitudes and motives, not just left to check off behaviors from the good little Christian list.

To me, though the road is much sweeter to walk, it requires more of me. At the same time, the grace to face the requirements is multiplied. So while I disagree with the man who wrote the scathing email, maybe there is an element of "easier" in this faith because I don't have to rely on my meager strength, nor do I have to live in constant pressure to "live up" or in guilt when I haven't reached the mark.

Today I'm wondering if the man who wrote me the angry email would still believe I have a syrupy religion after watching me struggle to surrender over the past couple of years. Would he still think my belief system is too easy after reading my devotionals about on-coming storms? Would he think my faith too sweet as he read about my determination to stand firm despite pain and opposition?

Maybe he would. Because I still believe in a God of mercy. A grace-filled God who gives to us freely, not based upon our performance, but upon His love and compassion. Two of my favorite verses in this season have been, "And so I know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love." (I John 4:16) and "The Lord is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in love. The Lord is good to all. He has compassion on all He has made." (Psalm 145:8-9) (Both Scriptures taken from the NIV.)

If asked to boil down my belief system into a single line, I might answer with this phrase from an old hymn: "My faith is built on nothing less than Jesus and His righteousness."

Because my faith is in Christ's righteousness and not my own works, I can fully receive the sweet parts of being a Christian. I can believe every single day that I am my Father's beloved child. I can trust every single minute that He is working all things for my good, conforming me to the image of Jesus, and that He has a hope and a future for me. My life is intertwined with my Lord. He enfolds and encircles me. He goes in front of me and follows behind me.

When my faith is in Christ and not in myself, I can rest. Even while I work hard and seek to serve my Lord, I don't have to strive. I don't have to be in a frenzy of performance driven behavior. I can know my offerings--however big or small--are accepted by the One who loves me without condition or hesitancy.

If this is what my reader meant by "too sweet" or "too easy" then I receive that angry email with joy. I take it as a compliment to Jesus! For He IS sweet. His love is beyond finding out and freely offered. He is merciful and forgiving, slow to anger and rich in love.

A Whisper of Me

A vanilla scented candle flickers next to my old blue recliner, its aroma gently wafting toward me teasing my senses with something so simple, so pleasant, that I wonder why I so rarely touch a flame to its wick. Bach's violin concertos dance on the airwaves and a moment ago I actually joined them, my feet briefly flickering across the carpet in a movement almost involuntary. My glass of apple vanilla white tea has been draining and my journal boasts 9 pages of new, purple ink. A slight tenderness in my pointer finger attests to the fact that I my pen and I have again reconnected. And the pages, though full of mundane wonderings and restless wandering, also contain beauty. A moment of private joy captured in language I thought could no longer flow from me.

In my throat resides the ache of repressed sobs and my eyes burn with unshed tears. Could I be coming back? Might this emptiness I've lived through actually give way to new expression?

I'm afraid. Afraid to believe the peace and joy of this morning might actually be something I can hold onto. Afraid that if I take steps venturing back into writing that it might be too soon. My days are demanding--the last few weeks giving little time for sleep much less pursuit of soul or art or stillness.

But today. Oh today! Quiet contentment seeps into my being like the snow that drapes the newly budding limbs in my yard. Perhaps today there is hope of spring for my soul beneath the quiet that envelops it.

Downstairs jeans bang around in the dryer, zippers clinking against the metal sides. My hungry boys rattle around in the kitchen, thankful for last night's left overs, and in the other room one of them listens to a story on CD, its narrator a dim done covered by Bach's melodies. My life continues, full. Mostly filled up with good things. I am not unhappy with life as it is. But I know there is more.

And today with its flickering candles whispers there is more to me, to my life, than I've been able to enter into for many months. I miss that whisper of me. And today instead of simply awaiting her return, I've actually touched this self.

Elation of a Homeschool Mom

Surprised, I stared at the transcript. I hadn't expected this reaction. Elation, gratitude, and a sense of awe settled over me.

We'd done it. It was really happening. My first child is graduating from homeschool.

I scanned the official transcript issued by our umbrella school. English credits as required . . . Algebra, Chemistry, World History, Spanish, and almost twice the required electives.

I had to sit for a minute and let it soak in. I remembered the harried moments, the tears, the joys. I won't forget the thrill I felt when Sarah's chemistry teacher said she'd earned an "A." Or the day I decided to quit teaching Algebra on my own. Sarah stared at me and said, in all sincerity, "Mom, if you'd try to have a good attitude, we might get through Algebra." I stared at her, realized that she was absolutely right, and started calling around for a tutor.

I remembered the long hours spent preparing for speech and debate competitions--and the subsequent "catch-up" time after competition season was over. Even now I can feel the tension I felt in those push times, when I was absolutely sure I couldn't spend one more day on Biology or American History. When I wondered if we'd ever complete the required courses.

But now. NOW!

Now we stood at the end of a long road, and all I could think is, "Wow. We did it. And we did it well. She did it. I did it."

And then a pause . . .

He did it! Thank you, Lord.

Must I Feel So Deeply?

I've been on a wild ride on the currents of emotion. One day I think I'm flying along, productive, passionate and content, and the next I crash . . .

When God asked me to put down my publication dreams last summer, I knew He was taking care of me, not just asking me to sacrifice. Looking back I see how this season demanded so much emotional investment that to try and live the publication journey would have crushed me.
I heard Anne Lamont speak last fall. She said that if you want to be an artist, you have to make time to stare out the window. After the frenzied pace of the past 9 months I see the truth in her statement. Before this hard season I thought my fiction writing was on the brink of artistry--but creative words, beautiful words, words that blend to paint a picture, words that make my heart sing--they are gone from me.

Still, the Lord promised me that He would give me writing that would blend with this season of motherhood. I did work last fall that took a different kind of creativity and a more straightforward writing style. Payment from the work kept the children's therapy going and it even tapped into some of my passions as I wrote family devotionals.

I recently was blessed with another curriculum writing opportunity. This one is even more suited to my passions of God's grace and empowerment AND to my great love for children and the desire to see them grow in the grace and knowledge of my Lord.

For the last week my heart simply sang. The project is a short one, but I dare to dream that if I do well they might ask me to do more . . . so I've harbored such deep passion and joy inside of me--such awe that I would have the opportunity to affect the next generation through such a meaningful project.

I even felt that if I could do this particular project long-term I could die with no regrets. I could feel I'd been used by the LORD to make a difference--even without ever experiencing the publication of my own books.

This was big. It meant something. And God chose ME!

Friday night my heart soared, lost in these thoughts.

Then I went to a mini-conference on fiction writing. (Imagine here the sound of a plane, falling to the earth, whistling as it tumbles. Hear now the crash, the screeching of twisted metal. The roar of the explosion as it hits the earth and explodes into flames.) Okay, so that illustration might be a little melodramatic. I'm still alive. And I was still alive yesterday as I hid and bawled my eyes out, lying prone on the floor in the basement of the facility were the fiction classes were held.

I'm not sure all the reasons for the grief that overwhelmed me. Mostly, it was the loss of words. Not all words, but the deep, pretty, shmultcy ones. The ones I thought were on the brink of artistry. The ones that were oh so fun to write. It's like there's this gaping hole inside of my soul that used to house something breathless and exciting, but is now just empty and dry and still.

I think, too, as I reflected deeper, there was this sense of stupidity--an embarrassment of being around people who've published and edited and "made it" in the writing world--and remembering the first time I met them, how long ago it was, and how many times our paths have crossed.

And how I'm still an unpublished novelist asking stupid questions.

There were also just the loss of the work. The teachers offered all these opportunities for application--apply this to your latest work, do this to make your proposal sing, think about what this looks like in your story . . . and I realized I had no stories to work on, think about, or try to sell.

It's not that season.

And I couldn't help the grief that poured out of me.

My friends loved on me. My husband listened to me. And I fell asleep last night asking God to hold me.

Fast forward to this afternoon. After church I dug into my curriculum work. My first installment is due tomorrow. As I typed in that concluding project, wrapping up the lesson, I believed again in the God who would take such a project and transform the lives of the next generation. I again sensed the awe, amazed that God would allow me to be a part of such a thing.

And my heart is again full. At peace with this season. My heart isn't quite soaring, but it is in steady flight.

BTW, if you'd like to see the add for the project my friend Kristi and I were the main writers for last fall, click here. Seeing the add wasn't like I imagine it would feel to hold my own book, but there was a sense of accomplishment. :O)