where the green grass grows

It's hard, I know it is.

Sometimes you want to give up. 

You even pack your bag to make a point and dared to stand at the door and threaten to leave.

Though you knew you wouldn't really follow through with it, your illustration was important for you to make. You needed to act out your feelings because you weren't being heard.

The Boy-Man was acting today, too.

Though his choice to act out his strong will was inappropriate and mistimed, he, too, wanted to be heard.

He was struggling with self, all prideful and arrogant and stubborn, and seeming to be wholly disrespectful.

I know, and you know, that our son doesn't mean this attitude and that he's wrestling the gift of strength that God gave him. He is learning to stand up for himself and we want this for him.

He was irresponsible as he played around in selfish disobedience. I'm with you.

Believe me when I say we're on the same page.

The valley seems so hard sometimes. 

     It shouldn't be this hard.

But it is. For everyone it is.

Those who are brave enough to be honest about it reflect beauty in their Real truth-telling.

God reminds me that the green grass grows in the valley.

Lush fields abound here, where the soil needs the most cultivating. We get dirty in the farming. And we might even get a hayseed or two in our eye. It's just part of the process.

The Boy is growing into a man, wholly Holy.

I've scheduled work trips with a deliberate and hopeful intention of providing a shot of relief in a particularly tense season of life, and I, too, have wanted to bolt out the door and say "I've had enough!"

I'm still a {God-made} child -- irresponsible, prone to act out, and selfishly disobedient.

As hard as it is, let's remain. Because God's got this. And him. And us. And . . .

I'd hate to know we missed the blooming season. 

So let's stay and see the green grass grow.

this is our worship. 

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on noticing grace

I look at him and think about how every day there are new freckles appearing. It's my daily hunting. I see my mother when he smiles. Sometimes my father, too. The Boy-Man's face is changing right before my eyes and I am so grateful to notice.

Life is slower these days, and yet it isn't. There is a lot happening in the periphery of my immediate view and I feel the strain when I try to see beyond my immediate sight. I am not meant to look beyond. My eyes are more comfortable to look straight ahead. The same goes with my heart. I was created to be in the now. The moment I start looking beyond, I miss out on the now. It seems cliche and a lot of people write about this, yet it's truth that I'm really beginning to know in a more fuller way than ever for myself.

I can't stop thinking about how captivated I am these days, by freckles. And I wonder, maybe it's the small that He wants me to notice. God always has been one to speak in metaphors.

Boy-Man's eyes are the kind of blue that make up my favorite sky kind of days when the sun and the blue is the only thing above me -- wide open and bright, and so blessed beautiful. I name the color French Blue and it reminds me of a dream I have to take him there someday -- to Paris. His eyes represent France to me and it's crazy.

I notice that Boy-Man's eyes widen as the Hibachi Chef lights the grill on fire. It's that moment that he will remember most, I am sure of it. There was another party next to us with rowdy folk having Saki bombs and all this eight-year-old can say is how "dangerous!" it is to drink as fast as you can like that. He is wise beyond his years, noticing danger before he ever officially gets taught. His heart is always concerned about others and I remember my mother's comment this winter: "someday he will save a life."

We watched my cousin graduate from college a few weekend's ago and I noticed out of the nearly 500 graduating seniors -- the one who was in dress blues. I learned that earlier that day he was commissioned as a Marine. And I cried, for the vision I have of my own son someday. The one that could be wrong, yet always brings me to my knees in surrender and how I am reminded that my son's life is not mine to keep; how, he is His.

I notice the furrow he gets in his brow when his joy is squelched. And I see how he forgives easily and quickly, though I also notice the sadness that washes over him and I wonder if it's because he's been disappointed. I pray God uses those moments for The Boy-Man to learn we aren't perfect and we will disappoint, and yet that He doesn't. I pray his trust grows for Him more than for us. And that's a hard prayer to allow my spirit to pray. I notice how easily some prayers come and how I don't even have to think -- true breath prayers.

I notice the way he sits closely to her. His friend who is a girl. He sits close to me just like that. It's the people who accept him as he is that makes him feel comfortable. I see how he loves her, yet it's pure and deep and rich and people would say eight-year-old's shouldn't feel that way. But I would argue that it's not the attraction type or dating type of love. It's the pure love of people and connection of hearts -- the love Christ showed.

Noticing is a gift. I want to know what's happening next in my life and I get all anxious at sensing something different is about to burst wide open in our lives -- like a wriggling little puppy just waiting to explode out of a box. I anticipate with a wanting to know His gifts because I know my Father gives with such purpose.

The bush in front of our house is burgundy. It flowers pink briefly each spring and stands proud with rich dark red the rest of the year. It's a color that warms my soul and I'm grateful for the feeling that color evokes in me. The same color wraps the Boy-Man up in warmth as he lies on the couch. I notice that television watching is boring to him -- he'd rather do something. Yet, his daddy sleeps and I read with sudden urges to write and I'm about to go out for a long run and he'll have to wait for the hub-bub of the day to begin. He's tired but sleep is boring and life is to be lived. I notice all of this and write down my gratefulness in blank pages sprawled open wide. My declaring is worship, I know it.

A few weeks ago my groom and I had an unexpected opportunity to be together. I had almost made myself coffee and decided not to, and then surprisingly my groom invited me to take a walk with him to get some. It was a found time of togetherness. I sat at the counter sipping latte and sighed as a van passed us by. He noticed my sigh and inquired about my thoughts. I considered what I could miss out on by avoiding his inquiry and the moment to connect. I breathed in the Spirit and asked for Him to guide our conversation. Public chats can be risky for us as emotions sometimes get fired up when we try to connect deeply, though I trusted that maybe being in public would ground us in a way -- keep us accountable and focused on respecting each other.

We chatted about adoption and whether to pursue it. We've taken steps recently to explore this as a real possibility -- a God-sized dream -- and whether it just might become our reality. The pursuing and considering together was huge; the actual taking of a step -- going beyond talking about it and wondering. Our very togetherness was the important part, I know it.

For years I would talk about adoption as if it was really going to happen. It was exclusively my vision. And so as we took a step -- together -- I pointedly asked God, Is this what you want for us? Just because my heart is passionate about it, is this how it looks for us? It is part of our story to adopt?

For six years I practically begged for another child of our own. Six years of tantrums when my groom said "not now" and his vagueries weren't enough for my impatient self. Finally, out of desperation and realization that I had no where to go if I wanted joy than to surrender and let it all go. So I did. Painfully. Excruciatingly. Begrudgingly.

A few days prior to our chat at the coffee shop, I had noticed thoughts swirl in my head about having another child of our own. It's like those thoughts were preparation. And then, right there in the coffee shop, he speaks of another option: of having another of our own. Of getting pregnant by fall. And there I sat with tears streaming down my face -- my head so mad and yet my heart laughing because God is just so comical sometimes. A 180-shift, yet only from my perspective.

Pride is something He draws me to notice -- to own and confess so He can break me free. I surrendered my plan for having another child and became pride-full in the process. A lookatmeish kind of accomplishment to be praised for. And now that this could be a very real possibility, I'm honestly not sure I want it. I'm struggling and wrestling. I realize how I sound like a stubborn eight-year-old who says "never mind, I don't want it anymore!" -- full of resentment from all the waiting.

I look over and notice Boy-Man's smile as he watches The Bill Cosby Show like I did when I was his age. I notice the peace I feel as I recognize and confess my pride and selfishness: I'm not sure I want to birth another child. I'm honestly not sure I want to go through the changes of my body again. It wasn't an issue back then but it's suddenly become one now, and it's gross to think about -- the pride. But birthing a baby is a miracle and a gift and maybe this is what God wants of me, to surrender control. He wants all of me: My heart. My pride. My fertility. My body. My honesty.

To follow Christ is to sacrifice -- an immense amount of surrender.

I want to follow Him and He knows what it takes. I am learning to receive His grace more and more -- to accept my messing up and mistake-making and imperfections and trying-too-hard and recklessness. It's this process of my learning to live in trust as I learn about His love and who I am to Him that matters most.

I notice how much my perspective has changed and how much more peace fills my heart is these days . . . how much I notice His truly amazing grace.

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on letting go [raw and unedited]

the pursuing

diagnosis

It's been a particularly challenging several months for our family.

Nothing huge or life shattering. Just enough to be a nuisance and yet mild enough to keep us from change.

There are things we want to do in the *whirl and twirl* of our days that don't fit into a standard mold.

Dreams. Visions. Promptings. Passions. Callings.

We recently reached a point where we decided that enough is enough. We've been troubled by some challenges we've had with our son and it's time we do something about it beyond question and wonder.

     (Tell me, what eight-year-old boy doesn't appear to have an attention issue?) 

So this is it.

Diagnosis time. Margin readiness.

We're popping the bubble and relieving some of the pressure.

The typical public school structure and rhythm creates stress that we have realized we can avoid.

We've unwrapped what just might be one of the best gifts of our lives -- Freedom. 

Folks will disagree with us (even my parents).

     Neighbors may think we're strange (perhaps they already do).

     Other folks tell us, "Who cares what other people think?!"

     And others will wish they are doing it, too.

We've gotten assurance in the most unlikeliest places, from sweet souls who remind us that we are the only ones who know our challenges.

We are learning that we are the only ones who can advocate for us. This is our duty. Our responsibility.

I pondered and questioned, and deliberated and decided . . . and questioned and doubted all over again, until I finally realized that there isn't a right answer here.

(And that means there isn't a wrong one, either.)

So we've decided to homeschool.

Effective now.

Tomorrow is The Boy's last day in public school for the year, with one quarter still remaining.

It feels a little bit like quitting, but it isn't.

We're clinging to this truth and reaching for grace.

     We're still responsible parents and our son will still be learning.

But, we're pressing pause on the busy and hectic and crazed. Because, it's just been so very chaotic.

And, it's time -- Right. Now. -- to say enough is enough and get some control back. Get our togetherness back.

We're beyond the considering and we're Doing. This. 

With one quarter remaining of the year we have a smaller bite to try.

     Flavors of *different* to taste.

     Sweet and steady to savor, over busy that leaves us bitter.

We don't need a professional to give us a diagnosis. We know that we're stressed. The typical and common is chaotic and we don't have to live it.

The biggest ah-ha and freedom reaching realization ever is this:  

We. Don't. Have. To. Do. This.

We can get off the ride. We really can.

And so we are, thankyouverymuch.

Most of all, we're doing it together -- this choosing, my groom and me. We're aligned and that's a beautiful thing.

Sure it's a bit scary, and daunting, and parts of us feel sad for our boy's mixed up emotions. But the point is we're choosing courage to try Some. Thing., and we're doing this.

So, to the principal who affirmed us and just never made us feel badly . . .

     Thank you. 

     We appreciate you for caring more about what's right for one child and his family. 

     For setting aside your opinion and helping us to find our own.

     For caring. 
     
     For investing.

     For empowering us as parents . . . 

          to consider and choose to make a change for our own child . . .

          a change that will help us get to know him more fully, 

               and ultimately (we hope) show him how much we accept him, just as he was created. 

     You've helped us to receive grace for differences and embrace how God made us all so unique. 

     Thank you, Mr. Principal.

*This* is worship. 

     Our choosing. Your encouragement.

          And all of our lives lived outward -- Authentically. Courageously. Boldly.

And to all the rest of you, I pray you choose courage to make your own diagnosis' in life and take your own step toward a good treatment for you, and your family. Brave on.

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_______________________________________________

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18 Reasons Why Doctors and Lawyers Homeschool Their Children

growing | {Day 7}: Keeping it Real

Being a mother grows me.

I anxiously waited for his arrival, fearful he might not really come to be.

He arrived late, though healthy and perfect-seeming in every way.

The embrace he gives me--arms strong around my neck--expresses pure love to me.

And though parenting is incredibly difficult and isn't often fun in the *whirl and twirl* of our days, it's the most amazing experience.

His heart is Kind. Gentle. Thoughtful. Attentive. Helpful.

This Boy-Man teaches me about acceptance and forgiveness.

I still fear for him.

     That he will experience pain and disappointment.

     That our togetherness will be abbreviated.

     And that he will have wounds that are deeper than my love can heal.

But still, I trust in His purposes. And His story for this child's life.

And for the people who will be influenced by his being here among us.

I learn more about God every moment of being a mother.

And today, as I celebrate his eight years of life, I give thanks for my own.

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how we grow

You start third grade today and all I can remember is your first day of Kindergarten, and how so very different our days were then.

I remarked not too long ago that this year has gone faster than any of my whole life. And it still feels that way.

Last night I asked you if you're excited about going back to school and you said that you aren't. Yet, just a few weeks ago you were. I wondered what changed. And then, just as soon as I tuck you into bed and sit in the quiet of the night, I realize your heart.

You're nervous about going back to school and you don't even realize it. To tell you the truth, I'm nervous, too.

The *whirl and twirl* will change us. 

Our routine of this simple summer will become washed out with responsibilities and hurry and different kinds of days.

We complained together several times this summer about not going away. And we found the joy for this summer together, too.

We eat breakfast together in calm-like fashion. And we try to read in the evening's before bed. We still try to celebrate simplicity every day. And togetherness, most especially.

You'll be fine. We'll be fine.

And this is the way it should go anyway. You grow and we grow. Together.

Brave on, Boy! Brave. On.

Let's Brave. On., together. 

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counting

His bedroom door opens and I cringe.

Anger almost wants to begin boiling like water for coffee. 

We've stayed up much too late again and he isn't the child to sleep in, no matter the hour of bedtime.
Life is too exciting for this child.

I get this, how sometimes the thrill of a new day is sometimes too exciting for sleep. 

...even if it's a stay-home kind of day with no plans cast on the calendar. 

A few days ago I told The Boy that grass sure doesn't grow under his feet.

I get up at 4:30 each day to write and work out. To begin my worship in the *whirl and twirl*.

It was nearly a brand new day when I closed my eyes for rest last night and yet my body woke up with the same amount of sleep I usually have. Early still came, though at a bit later hour. 

Morning's are easy for The Boy, just like his Momma. 

He returns to his bedroom after a visit to the bathroom and comes downstairs at precisely 7:00. He follows the rule not to be up until then. 

Entering the living room where I sit eyeing him as he nears, he knows I'll be disappointed that he didn't sleep late. And I can't help it. Because Momma's know sleep is important. Rest is best.

I nearly fall out of my chair with humility as I hear the words he says.
     "I am glad I didn't get up earlier, even though I know it was early still." 

He counts grace. 

Sitting close on my lap I count, too. 

I tell him that being tired today reminds us of why we stayed up last night--how visiting family and being together matters most. 

Counting {Grace} changes Every. Thing.

It isn't long at all before he's not listening. Thinking of something else. Noticing something off to the side.

The Boy's attention is scattered these days. Life is a bowl of ice cream to be devoured. And his bowl is never empty. 

Library books excite him. And he's thinking of being a history teacher and a scientist, while also a professional lacrosse player and a professional hockey player. He thinks a hundred thoughts a minute.

Children are so innocent, yet incredibly wise. 

I think of his zest and how he adds flavor to my life. Sweet and noticeable. 

He's up early and I tell him I'm glad. 

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{Grace} Unwrapped...

...the intimacy of morning talk...

...how we share that same joy of early...

...the ways his voice carries throughout my day...

...his thought sharing...

...how saying good morning or hello isn't as important as story sharing...

...and how I see his story telling is a *hello*, an invitation to his world...

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awake

Body set on autopilot, he awakens at exactly the same time every day.

Glancing over at his clock to see if it gives him permission to get out of bed, he sees that it is indeed seven o'clock.

His feet hit the floor practically running to his dresser.

He comes downstairs without a bit of angst for the day evident on his face. He is ready for what might come and he is inquisitive to what that might be.

This Boy-Man thinks things all. the. time.

Always wondering, always asking, always thinking.

He isn't the kind of child who would rather stay in his pj's all day and slouch on the couch. Sure, he'll turn it on once in awhile, only to find that his mind is going to places the television isn't. And so, it doesn't meet his curiosity; he moves on to explore, play, think and wonder.

When this Boy-Man is awake, life is abundant. There isn't much fear for this seven year old. His awakeness breathes Wonder.

My heart longs to be this awake in life.
   
To Wonder about every. thing. and for every moment to be an exploration.

And finally I begin to See why this word has been so much on my heart. For, a child truly does lead us to Him.

# # # 

{whew, exactly five minutes...it's always an incredible moment!}

Today's post is part of my friend, Lisa-Jo's fun challenge each Friday to 

     "Write for five, short, bold beautiful minutes... 

     Unscripted and unedited...

     Without worrying if it's just right or not."

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