A year of letters to my children

celebrating you

On May 4^th, we watched Luke blow out candles. 4 is sweeter than chocolate cake. I love this age.

And this weekend we celebrated you. Days before, we plan what we’ll do and where we’ll go. Over the years we’ve wised up a little. We’ve traded in blow-ups in the backyard, a magician in the den to simpler traditions. If not, birthdays sometimes become a blur.

We decide to watch old videos from when you were a baby – it’s been years since we’ve seen them. They’re still on VHS (I need to transfer those to dvd’s!). But I manage to track down a VCR at a local thrift store. You dad brings it into the den and fiddles with cords and buttons. Minutes later, the audio begins to play, but the picture is static at best. But if you tilt your head just right, squint your eyes; you can see a picture.

I sigh, frustrated. But the day rolls on, and it’s a good one.

Our breakfast, our conversations, 12 years old still shiny and new – I secretly wish it could be bookmarked. I could come back to this same spot again and again. But these breezy days aren’t meant to be captured.

But I find if I tilt my head just right, squint my eyes, you’re not 12 at all. You’re the little boy who crawled in on my side of the bed before the sun came up. The little boy who planned his breakfast after his evening prayers. The little boy who brought me bouquets of beautiful weeds.

There was a time in life my heart ached seeing you grow up. Pictures hurt. Glimpses into the past broke me. But slowly it began changing. God started becoming real in your life and watching that has become one of the sweetest parts of being your mother.

Seeing you in His word.

Seeing you use your gifts.

Seeing your kindness.

We celebrated 12.

And what a gift you are to those who know you best.

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the heart of a parent

“You’ll never do anything that will make me stop loving you. Ever.”

It sounds like words from a children’s book, but it’s a phrase your dad says a lot. He’s said it for years.

And because I know him so well, I know he means it.

It falls out in the middle of conversation, and I wonder if you’re even listening. I want to whisper, “Look at him. Acknowledge this. It’s good stuff!”

But sweet and polite, you smile and quickly move on to something else. And I don’t blame you. You’ve heard it a hundred times. And they aren’t words you can relate to. Yet.

But one day you probably will.

These teenage years aren’t easy to navigate and going off course can happen with one syllable words.

And in those seconds, you’ve sold your birthright for a measly meal.

But Jacob said, “You must sell me your rights as the firstborn son.” Esau said,” I am almost dead from hunger. If I die, all my father’s wealth will not help me.” But Jacob said, “First, promise me that you will give it to me.” So Esau made a promise to Jacob and sold his part of their father’s wealth to Jacob. Genesis 25:31-33

These years, oh, these years – they’ll shape you, follow you, they’ll haunt you if you let them.

Sunday afternoon on Mother’s Day, I talk with my mom about high school.

“You didn’t know much of what I did,” I tell her, sunk into my dad’s recliner, reminiscing.

Looking up from her laptop, she smiles.

“Oh, I knew more than you realized.”

And it makes sense now. I knew they prayed for me. I heard them. I saw them.

Decades ago they knew temptation howls terribly loud in the heart of young adults growing and learning.

Later that night, before going to bed, I turn off the kitchen light. Confetti and gift bags still sit on the table. My mind goes back to the conversation with my mother – growing up, all the things she said, but mostly the things she didn’t.

In those still moments, I understood her heart and it’s much like your dad’s.

“You’ll never do anything that will make me stop loving you. Ever.”

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our expectations of church

We wake up in a new town in search of a new church. We visit one we’ve heard good things about.

We drive onto the campus for the first time on a Sunday evening. Two of you are in nursery; luckily the hall is easy to find with a bright painted mural stretched from the front entrance to the back door.

As I walk into the preschool room, blue plastic chairs designed with you in mind, I see two ladies wrapped tight in conversation steps away. I shift my weight from one foot to the next feeling like I should be fiddling with my locker or looking for homeroom.

Minutes later the nursery worker breezes in, apologizing for being late, and the two women speed past me with not so much as a nod.

I sign my name and yours on a piece of paper, and check the box confirming you have no allergies. I find my way into the brightly lit sanctuary.

Slumping into the seat of the new church, in the new town, I feel incredibly small and a little lonely. I miss my parents.

As the music begins, a trio of women march confident onto the stage with microphones in hand. In the center of the group is the dark-haired woman I’d seen in the preschool room – the woman who looked straight through me and saw nothing.

She sang harmony with her hand pointed to the sky.

I remember thinking this church is not for us. But to spite that snubbed experience, we came back week after week. We stayed and served there until we moved closer towards home years later.

I know sometimes my expectations of church are a little skewed. Aren’t churches designed to meet all our needs?

:: Immediate friendships.

:: Newest and best facilities.

:: Trendy curriculums.

:: Churches should always make us feel good about ourselves.

Of course not. That’s just not true.

Churches are the home base for believers — a place to celebrate, learn, worship, encouraging one another to go beyond the four walls and into our communities.

If our eyes are set on people, what they say and what they don’t, we’ll find ourselves disappointed time and time again. We’re all just men and women – flesh and blood, hidden stories and scars. But if we come to church allowing ourselves to be vulnerable, washing away the mask of “we’ve got it all together” – the church may surprise you.

It won’t meet all our needs, but it will bring us closer to the Christ who can.

“Not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day drawing near.” Hebrews 10:25

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what mornings are made of

It’s been two weeks now. She usually comes in the morning, but sometimes gallops in after dinner.

She’s the chocolate lab we made the mistake of feeding one time. I called the animal shelter to see if anyone was looking for her. And they were. Within minutes a black car pulled into our driveway, the woman behind the wheel shaking her head. She lived two miles down the road, the wife of a local veterinarian.

“Lucy, what are you doing?” she sighed, “Get in the car.” And with one point of her finger, the big brown dog jumped in the backseat.

“It’s my fault, we shouldn’t have fed her,” I confessed with you standing by my side.

“How many kids do you have?” she asked.

“Three,” I told her, “This is my son, Garrett.”

She smiled and said, “Well, she’s not coming for the food. She’s coming to play with your children.”

The woman tells me she doesn’t have the energy for big dogs anymore. Her kids are grown and her husband is busy and all her other animals are up in age.

We tried ignoring Lucy when she popped into the yard the next day, hoping she’d go home. And she eventually did, but only to traipse back through flowerbeds hours later.

But I couldn’t help feel sorry for her. She just wanted attention.

I looked through the window this morning and found her outside our laundry room, stretched across cold brick steps. She had a slobbered-on tennis ball in her mouth and spit it out as soon as the glass door opened.

And I gave in.

In mismatched pajamas you ran to her in the rain. She’d finally met her match with your energy.

Half an hour later I walk back in the house mumbling. My hair is frizzy, I’m two steps behind a trail of muddy boots, and now I have to change my clothes.

You are oblivious, sopping wet you peel your shirt off and make your way into the den.

“Thanks, Mom.”

I can’t help but smile as I wash the dog hair off my hands. Gross.

Slobbery tennis ball. Muddy puddles. Mismatched pajamas.

It may be what good, little-boy mornings are made of.

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surely mercy and goodness

Your grandfather preaches from Psalm 23 Sunday.

And before Bibles are even opened, I’m thinking about the white stuffed bear that recited the Lord ’s Prayer all those years ago. You played it over and over; I secretly wished the batteries would conk out. You were just a toddler, big bows and pink cotton candy tennis shoes.

You learned Psalm 23 from that white’ish bear with the golden halo and you’d recite it for anyone who’d listen. It became words tucked inside your little heart, long before you’d understand the gravity pull of green pastures and still waters.

Your grandfather talks of Psalm 23 and a shepherds love for his sheep, shepherds with a crook in one hand and a watchful eye over their flock. He cares for them all, but is ever so mindful of the sheep who wander. The shepherd quickly leaves behind his flock in search of the one sheep that strays away.

And the shepherd brings the sheep back.

Again. And again.

The shepherd knows when the sheep leaves the flock there is danger outside of his protection.

The shepherd’s love is so deep that he goes to extremes to keep the sheep safe. If a sheep continues drifting away, he’ll do the unthinkable. He picks up the sheep, places his hands on its leg and breaks it. It sounds horribly inhumane, but the shepherd knows he can’t protect the sheep if it continues to wander. And while the sheep whimpers in pain, the shepherd holds it, pressing its wool against his chest. And for weeks, a month, however long it takes to heal, the shepherd carries the sheep.

When the sheep is ready to rejoin the flock, he is placed in the grass. But there is something noticeably different about the animal. He walks with a limp.

He isn’t as fast as the other sheep. He stays close to the shepherd. He needs him more than ever. In the time the sheep was carried, their bond was cemented.

And although we aren’t sheep, we have a tendency to wander. Your grandfather says it well Sunday,

“We have a tendency to waste our lives, to want our own way.”

But if we choose to follow Christ, to stay close, need Him more than ever, Psalm 23:6 says, “Surely goodness and mercy will follow us all the days of our life.”

Your grandfather reads Psalm 23:6 again, for those who may have missed something (myself included).

Surely goodness and mercy will follow you.

Surely.

Not wealth and abundance. Beauty or perfection.

No, it’s so much better.

Surely goodness. Surely mercy. All the days of our life.

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