My baby,Sam, turns 12 this week. Yesterday I took him and some of his friends roller skating. They rushed onto the rink coordinated and at ease. They won cotton candy prizes for skating the fastest and being the best at Red Light, Green Light. At one point the seven of them were in the center of the rink, tossing glow sticks back and forth as they skated in the customary circles, the little lights streaking through the dimly lit room.
Surges of joy pushed smiles to my lips as I watched. They were a far cry from the boys I'd know for all these years, some of them since birth, others since they were preschoolers. They were so tall and confident--emerging men. And they were having such good, clean fun. A delight!
It was then I realized my cheeks were wet from the tears streaming down my face. Despite their young, cherub faces and youthful exuberance, there was no missing the changes. Sam's brother, Stephen, just a year and a half older, skated in his big brother's old skates, size 10. The boys' neighborhood friend, J.'s lanky form towered above the other children as they rolled around the rink, and when he called out to his friends it was in a lower octave that he used last year.
It was these things that made me cry as I watched them frolic, young bucks with a foot in childhood and a foot reaching toward manhood.
The experience was a salute to a disappearing era, and the boys waved a last hurrah my way as they grinned at me from the center of the floor.
My "baby" will make huge strides in the next couple of years. This "boy" who can now wear my shoes will soon be in his father's. His voice, too, will change and those shoulders will broaden, and the tender, boyish innocence in his eyes will mature into something deeper and stronger, and hopefully more wise.
After 16 years of a home filled with boy stuff, I now enter a season that includes a home full of emerging men. There are no more little boys at my house.
And while I wouldn't have it any other way, there's a pang inside when I realize that this is probably the last year a skating party is cool.
Sunday, November 08, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
To the Clouds
Do you ever feel like try as you might your faith is just a tiny seedling when you want it to be a sprawling oak tree? You want to stretch your solid branches to the sky in praise of your Creator, but instead you droop like a weeping willow, pulling the gaze of those who see you downward.
The last year or so I've longed to exalt the Lord, to give Him praise as He deserves and through my worship lift the eyes of others to my Savior. But on many days my journey has been survival. Instead of hymns of worship my life chants desperate longing, "Be merciful, Lord. Come to our rescue. Help me."
The Lord pulled me out of a dark place yesterday morning as you can read in the post below. And as the day progressed there was much beauty in it. I even got to go out to eat with my hubby and talk and laugh with him. It was sort-of a trick by my oldest son who acted as if he didn't want to participate in the activity we planned for him because he knew he was the only kid home and if he set us free we'd end up on a date. It was sweet how he orchestrated all that, and the twinkle in his eyes showed the joy of an unselfish gift.
But when I crawled under the covers exhausted from a very full day the heaviness descended again. The worries and hurts pressed upon me. I pushed them aside, did some reading and closed my eyes. As is my habit I began reciting Scripture, seeking the peace of sleep and the focus on God.
But in that somber mood, there was no praise in my humanity--just a crying out again of, "God help me! I don't want to give into the worry or the pain."
And this morning He did. I dreamed a song of praise over and over, my Spirit worshiping in a way I could not fabricate.
"I will give thanks to Thee
O Lord, among the people
I will sing praises to Thee among the nations
For Thy steadfast love is great
Is great to the heavens
And Thy faithfulness
Thy faithfulness to the clouds!
Be exalted, O God, above the heavens
Let Thy glory be over all the earth . . . "
The song rang in my sleep as I dreamed I sat on something like a chair lift and was whisked over glorious vistas, gazing down at fall foliage in full color, bluffs, ponds, children playing, animals enjoying their little piece of the world. Everything was bathed in that glorious golden color of fall, and I drank it in, hungry for all that beauty.
I had this impression as I sailed on my chair, looking out all the beauty of creation, that somewhere behind in the area where I started from something bad was happening, but that I wasn't to worry about all that. I also had no idea how I would get off this amazing ride and return home, but it didn't seem to matter. The point was to see the glory about me as the worship filled my being.
When I awoke I remembered one more thing--a whisper of an unspoken promise. Not words at all, more of a feeling--but how else can I explain it but put it into words. "My blessings will be so bright that you'll have to put on sunglasses to receive them."
It blows me away how God lifted my heart in worship, how He surrounded me in beauty in the midst of my dreams. How He gave me the gift of praise when I couldn't find it myself. He gave me the desire to worship, and when I couldn't do it on my own, He worshiped within me.
EVERY good gift--EVERY good thing we are or become--it is all of HIM. On our own we are the downcast weeping willow, but He makes our branches strong and enables us to praise.
The last year or so I've longed to exalt the Lord, to give Him praise as He deserves and through my worship lift the eyes of others to my Savior. But on many days my journey has been survival. Instead of hymns of worship my life chants desperate longing, "Be merciful, Lord. Come to our rescue. Help me."
The Lord pulled me out of a dark place yesterday morning as you can read in the post below. And as the day progressed there was much beauty in it. I even got to go out to eat with my hubby and talk and laugh with him. It was sort-of a trick by my oldest son who acted as if he didn't want to participate in the activity we planned for him because he knew he was the only kid home and if he set us free we'd end up on a date. It was sweet how he orchestrated all that, and the twinkle in his eyes showed the joy of an unselfish gift.
But when I crawled under the covers exhausted from a very full day the heaviness descended again. The worries and hurts pressed upon me. I pushed them aside, did some reading and closed my eyes. As is my habit I began reciting Scripture, seeking the peace of sleep and the focus on God.
But in that somber mood, there was no praise in my humanity--just a crying out again of, "God help me! I don't want to give into the worry or the pain."
And this morning He did. I dreamed a song of praise over and over, my Spirit worshiping in a way I could not fabricate.
"I will give thanks to Thee
O Lord, among the people
I will sing praises to Thee among the nations
For Thy steadfast love is great
Is great to the heavens
And Thy faithfulness
Thy faithfulness to the clouds!
Be exalted, O God, above the heavens
Let Thy glory be over all the earth . . . "
The song rang in my sleep as I dreamed I sat on something like a chair lift and was whisked over glorious vistas, gazing down at fall foliage in full color, bluffs, ponds, children playing, animals enjoying their little piece of the world. Everything was bathed in that glorious golden color of fall, and I drank it in, hungry for all that beauty.
I had this impression as I sailed on my chair, looking out all the beauty of creation, that somewhere behind in the area where I started from something bad was happening, but that I wasn't to worry about all that. I also had no idea how I would get off this amazing ride and return home, but it didn't seem to matter. The point was to see the glory about me as the worship filled my being.
When I awoke I remembered one more thing--a whisper of an unspoken promise. Not words at all, more of a feeling--but how else can I explain it but put it into words. "My blessings will be so bright that you'll have to put on sunglasses to receive them."
It blows me away how God lifted my heart in worship, how He surrounded me in beauty in the midst of my dreams. How He gave me the gift of praise when I couldn't find it myself. He gave me the desire to worship, and when I couldn't do it on my own, He worshiped within me.
EVERY good gift--EVERY good thing we are or become--it is all of HIM. On our own we are the downcast weeping willow, but He makes our branches strong and enables us to praise.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Sunshine
"Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy . . . . "
For today, at least, the old song rings true. I awoke a little weepy (as sometimes happens) and began the battle to overcome melancholy with prayer, Scripture and herb tea. A few tears later I emailed prayer buddies who have stood beside me all this very long year.
As it happened I had an appointment at noon and no wheels. Thankfully the meeting location was fairly close by, and I decided to walk. The five minute drive is at least twenty minutes when you're hoofing it, and so I had ample time to soak in the sunshine and the glory of one of those perfect Colorado fall days. (Which I might add have been few and far between recently due to an unusual stretch of cloudy, cold weather.)
Two of my sons decided to venture out with me, and I enjoyed their sweet companionship as we began the trek on the mostly up hill route. I soon shed my sweater in hopes I wouldn't smell like I'd been exerting myself upon arrival. The boys and I chatted about a lot of nothing while I puffed and huffed and tried not to show how out of shape I am.
That bright sunshiny sun kept sending its glorious warmth through the brilliant blue sky, permeating the crisp air, and bathing my shoulders. Life slipped into a more manageable package as I embraced the gift.
For today, at least, the old song rings true. I awoke a little weepy (as sometimes happens) and began the battle to overcome melancholy with prayer, Scripture and herb tea. A few tears later I emailed prayer buddies who have stood beside me all this very long year.
As it happened I had an appointment at noon and no wheels. Thankfully the meeting location was fairly close by, and I decided to walk. The five minute drive is at least twenty minutes when you're hoofing it, and so I had ample time to soak in the sunshine and the glory of one of those perfect Colorado fall days. (Which I might add have been few and far between recently due to an unusual stretch of cloudy, cold weather.)
Two of my sons decided to venture out with me, and I enjoyed their sweet companionship as we began the trek on the mostly up hill route. I soon shed my sweater in hopes I wouldn't smell like I'd been exerting myself upon arrival. The boys and I chatted about a lot of nothing while I puffed and huffed and tried not to show how out of shape I am.
That bright sunshiny sun kept sending its glorious warmth through the brilliant blue sky, permeating the crisp air, and bathing my shoulders. Life slipped into a more manageable package as I embraced the gift.
Friday, October 09, 2009
At My House
Laughter rang around my kitchen table. I'd made one of my rare manly breakfasts--the kind the boys wish I did every day: hash browns, homemade biscuits, North Dakota sausage--the works. This kind of breakfast is in contrast to my normal bleary eyed response of "don't we have some cereal?"
Last week I was helping the guys cook pancakes. I burned mine. One of the boys said, "Dad, why haven't you taught mom to make pancakes?"
I'm not sure I appreciated the suppressed laugh or the humor that jumped into his eyes, but he was wise enough to reply only, "I guess I just skipped her and went on to Seth." (Notice the omission of our firstborn's name here. She, being female, is wise enough to still be in bed during pancake making lessons.)
Sure, I could get up and cook breakfast every day and train my daughter to do so as well, but I see my limited breakfast service as a great gift to the beautiful women my sons will someday marry. If they see most "real" breakfasts cooked by their father, and learn to cook them on their own, then someday the pressure will be less on the poor women who will have to keep up with their appetites every other meal of the week.
But back to last week. The biscuits steamed on the table, sending their delicious smell throughout the house. The hash browns were a golden hue, and I didn't even burn the sausage. Sarah was long gone to school and the guys and I surrounded our table.
The boys take up more space than they used to. I don't just mean physical space, though those broadening shoulders and extra inches do that as well. I mean space of personality, space of presence, a simple enlarging of manliness. And then there's the space of sound, deeper voices accompany deeper thoughts, and the laughter of boyish giggles is becoming the throaty guffaws of men.
Sometimes on mornings like these I just sit there, awed that I get to live in that moment with them. I watch their maturing interactions, the kindness of the first born to his younger siblings, a new wisdom and strength in him. The developing dreams and interests of all three, and a greater ability among them to celebrate the other's path instead of competing with it.
Last week's meal was especially dear because there was more kindness and laughter than we'd seen in a while. Their dad told some funny story and we all roared, letting the sweet sound burst out of us time and again. All of us. Together. Laughter rolling forth.
It was a sacred moment.
So good it makes me want to make breakfast again . . . . almost.
Last week I was helping the guys cook pancakes. I burned mine. One of the boys said, "Dad, why haven't you taught mom to make pancakes?"
I'm not sure I appreciated the suppressed laugh or the humor that jumped into his eyes, but he was wise enough to reply only, "I guess I just skipped her and went on to Seth." (Notice the omission of our firstborn's name here. She, being female, is wise enough to still be in bed during pancake making lessons.)
Sure, I could get up and cook breakfast every day and train my daughter to do so as well, but I see my limited breakfast service as a great gift to the beautiful women my sons will someday marry. If they see most "real" breakfasts cooked by their father, and learn to cook them on their own, then someday the pressure will be less on the poor women who will have to keep up with their appetites every other meal of the week.
But back to last week. The biscuits steamed on the table, sending their delicious smell throughout the house. The hash browns were a golden hue, and I didn't even burn the sausage. Sarah was long gone to school and the guys and I surrounded our table.
The boys take up more space than they used to. I don't just mean physical space, though those broadening shoulders and extra inches do that as well. I mean space of personality, space of presence, a simple enlarging of manliness. And then there's the space of sound, deeper voices accompany deeper thoughts, and the laughter of boyish giggles is becoming the throaty guffaws of men.
Sometimes on mornings like these I just sit there, awed that I get to live in that moment with them. I watch their maturing interactions, the kindness of the first born to his younger siblings, a new wisdom and strength in him. The developing dreams and interests of all three, and a greater ability among them to celebrate the other's path instead of competing with it.
Last week's meal was especially dear because there was more kindness and laughter than we'd seen in a while. Their dad told some funny story and we all roared, letting the sweet sound burst out of us time and again. All of us. Together. Laughter rolling forth.
It was a sacred moment.
So good it makes me want to make breakfast again . . . . almost.
Friday, October 02, 2009
Dedicated to Ronnie and His Comrades in Iraq
A friend of mine from high school has spent a lot of time in Iraq in recent years. This morning my youngest sons and I prayed for Ronnie and those serving us in Iraq. We've been using Psalm 91 in our Bible time for homeschool, and it seemed to lend itself to a prayer for these guys. Below is the Scripture, taken from the NLT, and a rough remembrance of what the guys and I prayed based upon the verses. By the time we finished, I was weeping. This passage of Scripture really comes alive in the context of what these guys are facing overseas--and to hear my innocent sons praying for them from the safety of our living room made it all the more impacting.
Maybe you have a friend overseas you'd like to pray this Scripture for as you read today.
Prayer from Psalm 91
1 Those who live in the shelter of the Most High
will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
(me) Lord, I know that Ronnie lives in the shelter of the Most High because He believes in You. Please be with all those in Iraq who have faith in you, so that they will find shelter. Help those who don't know Who You are to find You so they can live in the shelter of the Most High as well. Give them rest in Your shadow, Almighty God.
2 This I declare about the Lord:
He alone is my refuge, my place of safety;
he is my God, and I trust him.
(me) Please be the refuge and place of safety for Ronnie and his friends. Be their God and help them trust in You.
3 For he will rescue you from every trap
and protect you from deadly disease.
(Stephen) Lord, please rescue Ronnie and the other guys in Iraq from any trap the terrorists might set for them, like car bombs or other stuff. Protect them from any diseases.
4 He will cover you with his feathers.
He will shelter you with his wings.
His faithful promises are your armor and protection.
(Sam) Please cover the guys in Iraq with your feathers and shelter them with Your wings. Be their armor and protection.
5 Do not be afraid of the terrors of the night,
nor the arrow that flies in the day.
(me) Lord, please help Ronnie and his friends not to be afraid of the terrors of the night. Give them peace and sleep. Help them not to fear the arrow that flies in the day, and Lord, you know we don't fight with arrows these days, it's rockets and bombs. Help them not to be afraid of the rockets.
6 Do not dread the disease that stalks in darkness,
nor the disaster that strikes at midday.
(Stephen) Help them not to dread the disease in the darkness or the disaster that strikes at midday.
7 Though a thousand fall at your side,
though ten thousand are dying around you,
these evils will not touch you.
(Sam) Even if a thousand people fall around them or ten thousand people die, help the evils not to touch them. And if you decide to take some to be with You, help them to have peace and be safe with you.
8 Just open your eyes,
and see how the wicked are punished.
(Sam) Help the guys to just open their eyes and see how the wicked are punished.
9 If you make the Lord your refuge,
if you make the Most High your shelter,
(me) Lord, please help Ronnie and his friends to make You their refuge. Be their shelter, Lord Most High.
10 no evil will conquer you;
no plague will come near your home.
(Stephen) Please don't let any evil conquer them, or any bad stuff come near to where they live or where their families at home are.
11 For he will order his angels
to protect you wherever you go.
(Sam) Thank You that you order Your angels to protect those guys wherever they go.
12 They will hold you up with their hands
so you won’t even hurt your foot on a stone.
(me) Please have Your angels hold them with their hands so they won't even hurt their foot on a stone.
13 You will trample upon lions and cobras;
you will crush fierce lions and serpents under your feet!
(Stephen) Help them to trample lions and cobras and crush fierce lions and serpents under their feet.
14 The Lord says, “I will rescue those who love me.
I will protect those who trust in my name.
(Sam) Please rescue them and protect them, and help other people over there to trust in You, too. Help them, too.
15 When they call on me, I will answer;
I will be with them in trouble.
I will rescue and honor them.
(me) Thank you, Lord that you answer when they call upon you and that you are with them in trouble. Thank you that your rescue them and honor them.
16 I will reward them with a long life
and give them my salvation.”
(Stephen) Thank you that you reward those guys with a long life. Please give them a long life, at least long enough so they can go home and be with their families. Please give them Your salvation.
Monday, September 21, 2009
And the Winner Is . . .
Kim Woodhouse's book, Woodhouse Family Welcome Home, goes to blogger Jammie J. Congratulations!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Last Chance to Win Kim's Book
Just a quick reminder to leave a message on this post or the previous one if you want to win Kim Woodhouse's book, Woodhouse Family Welcome Home. The contest ends tonight at midnight!
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