Good, Clean Fun

The other day as I was wiping the kitchen counter clean, I used a tad too much dish soap. A sudsy white canvas appeared, begging for little hands to come and create. Aidan and Avery were nearby, and eagerly tested this new activity. Their fingers swirled and circled while tongues peeked from their mouths -- a true sign of concentration. It was a hit.

Yesterday afternoon, I again invited the girls to have a go. It was a true Pacific Northwest spring break day -- gray and oh-so wet. The boys were at their cousins', and we girls needed a diversion. I had suggested shopping, but the girls declined (I quickly felt foreheads for signs of fever.) When I grasped at straws and finally suggested counter art, their eyebrows shot up and they raced to the kitchen. Pleased that they were eager for something so simple (and much easier on the budget), I bubbled the formica.

This time we added music and silicone brushes to complete the artistic effect. After a while, feet became involved (it always fascinates me the way kids think outside the box). At first, timid footprints were pressed into the suds. But before long, Little Miss Avery Kate was skating across my mother's kitchen island, shimmying to Dean Martin and the Beach Boys. It was a sight to behold.

The boys came home that afternoon to find me innocently wiping the counter clean. The girls were looking quietly at books. And their hands and feet were remarkably clean.

The Way That I Know You

You don't know me yet, sweet girl,
The way that I know you;
I've seen your glow transcending time,
Shining through this brother of mine,
This father who now cradles you.

You don't know me yet, sweet girl,
The way that I know you;
I've skipped beside a little boy
With baseball cap and lego toys,
This father who now cradles you.

You don't know me yet, sweet girl,
The way that I know you;
I've pitched a tent and fished the streams
With boy whose life is filled with dreams,
This father who now cradles you.

You don't know me yet, sweet girl,
The way that I know you;
I've climbed into a great orange Scout,
A young man driving me about,
This father who now cradles you.

You don't know me yet, sweet girl,
The way that I know you;
I've passed my son to uncle's care,
While cap and gown adorn him there,
This father who now cradles you.

You don't know me yet, sweet girl,
The way that I know you;
I've seen deep pools in brother's eyes
As he beholds his precious bride,
This father who now cradles you.

You don't know me yet, sweet girl,
The way that I know you;
I've heard the pride in brother's voice
Who calls his sister to rejoice,
This father who now cradles you.

You don't know me yet, sweet girl,
The way that I know you;
I've waited here, with brother there,
Tending your mama with loving care,
This father who now cradles you.

You don't know me yet, sweet girl,
The way that I know you;
I've seen your eyes fixed on his,
My brother knows how deep love is,
This father who now cradles you.

Enthusiasm

I came groggily into the kitchen on a Saturday morning. My eyes, still trying to focus, were greeted by warm sunlight filtering through the maple trees into the nook. Suddenly those bleary eyes were completely focused. Several unmistakable signs alluded to strange child activity. My mom's salad bowl. Sopping wet hand towels. Mitt conditioner. A glove. And Aidan.

It was the first day of baseball practice. He had a brand new glove, and daddy had promised to show him how to make it nice and flexible. A little soaking, a little oiling, storing it under the mattress . . . . But daddy was sick, and Aidan wanted to make sure his glove was ready. So he took it upon himself to soak his glove in the early morning (in my mom's lovely salad bowl). He was careful to clean up the water (with my mom's lovely hand towels). He found Drew's glove conditioner and applied. Liberally. And he was smiling and proud.

I couldn't help but be impressed by his enthusiasm and ingenuity. After a quick scan of the kitchen I saw that there really wasn't anything to be alarmed at. He had placed the bowl carefully on the counter, and the towels were sitting in a nice, soggy heap. The only problem was that he now had a really wet glove . . . and we had to leave in less than an hour.

Thankfully, that blessed glove was made of leather. I popped it in the oven. Thirty minutes at 200 and the toothpick came out clean: the glove was done. So we raced out the door -- the smiling boy, the well-conditioned glove, and I.

Reaction

It makes me cry every time. I've probably seen it half a dozen times, and it never fails to do something to my heart. Why is that? I'm sure it has something to do with the choice of song -- I grew up with a steady diet of the hills being alive with the sound of music. I'm sure it also has something to do with the fun choreography and the funky remix. My sister and I attempted many such stunts once upon a time (somewhere in our youth or childhood . . .).

But it's more than that. I think it has something to do with the onlookers in the video. I'm not sure if the passers-by were staged or if they were genuinely taken by surprise when 200 dancers suddenly took to the floor at the Antwerp, Belgium, train station last March. I like to think it's the latter. I like to watch their faces and think about how real they are. I like to think about how real it is to have something amazing happening right before our eyes, and how real it is to have a dozen different reactions to the same scenario.

Sometimes I'm the guy with the cell-phone, casting a glance and moving on. Sometimes I'm the business woman who has a schedule to keep, but looks back toward the excitement, wishing that somehow there was time to stay and enjoy. But sometimes I'm the lady whose mouth drops open and can't believe what she's witnessing. And sometimes I'm the college-age girl grabbing a friend, saying, "Hey, look at that!" And sometimes I'm the woman dancing and clapping on the sidelines, even though she wasn't in on the rehearsals.

I'm realizing that I want to be that woman. Every day. I want the beauty and music and joy around me to resonate so strongly in my heart that I just can't keep still. I want to grab fellow travelers and say, "Do you see what's going on here?" I want to clap and smile as I witness the song, and I want my jaw to drop when I see what God is doing in my life and in the lives of those around me. Because He's definitely working. And it's music to my ears.

So Maybe I'm a Little Slow

The sticker on the back of my van reads SLO. I realize that this looks like some sort of caution to nearby vehicles, especially to those who do not wish to have their velocity in any way impeded by a distracted mom in a mini-van. In reality, the letters stand for Slovenia, the European home of my brother and sister-in-law. But not many people know that.

I am convinced that I make irritable drivers even more cranky by brazenly advertising the fact that my pace might in some way be delayed. If I say I'm slo, I must be slow. So the inconsiderate motorists ride my bumper. This phenomenon baffles me. I'm actually not a slow driver. I do try to hover fairly close to the speed limit, but my propensity for tardiness generally results in a wee bit of acceleration. I'm anything but slow.

So when I'm caught with a rude driver behind me, I often wonder what they're thinking. What if I needed to be driving slowly right now? Have they thought of that? What if I'm transporting a three-tiered cake? Or an art project? Or . . . a goldfish? Have they considered the possibilities?

Now, yesterday afternoon I actually was a slow driver. But it was on purpose. My little Aidan had a head injury, resulting in a very minor concussion. On the way to the doctor's office, he meekly asked if I might take it easy on the speed bumps. What mother is going to deny her aching child that request? We took those speed bumps nice and easy. The truck driver behind me was not pleased. I really wanted to stop the van, get out and march up to the guy and very calmly reason with him, "Look, Mister-in-the-Big-Fancy-Truck. Take it easy there. My boy is concussed!"

I refrained. Instead, I chose to humbly inch my way over those dreadful speed bumps. But the experience has definitely given me some perspective. The next time I'm behind a slow driver, I'm going to cut them some slack. That old lady in front of me just might be transporting a goldfish to her grandson.

How to Grow a Child

She came home with a cup of dirt. A paper chick on a stick was perched in the middle, and she was excited. "What did you get in Sunday School?" I asked. She eagerly showed me the seeds that had been scattered across the soil and told me that she had to water it right away. So she rushed to the drawer and pulled out a little orange Tupperware pitcher. I was distracted by some other child or some other need and wasn't nearby to oversee the watering.

Those seeds were very well watered.

I turned in time to see the dirt and seeds sloshing like a rice paddy. "Oh, sweetie, let's not give it any more water," I suggested. "Now your seeds need some sun." She reluctantly placed the cup on the window sill and left it alone. I hoped that those poor little seeds were hearty.

The next day she was eager to water again. But I assured her that the seeds were still nice and wet and just needed to sit in the sun for a while. I doubted we'd see any growth, but felt a glimmer of hope for her sake anyway.

And then, a week later, I saw a thin, green blade pushing up from the damp soil. I called Avery over to the sink. "Avery! Your grass is growing!" I was happy and relieved that her enthusiastic gardening techniques hadn't stopped the growth.

As a matter of fact, the grass continued to grow. This morning she thrilled over the several long blades that had emerged. Her first impulse was to water again. "Sweetie," I offered, "if you touch the soil right here, you can see that it's still nice and damp. I think your seeds are doing really well in the window."

She liked the growth, but she wasn't completely satisfied. "But I wanna put more water in so the grass will grow fast," she explained. I smiled, and I understood. We put the cup back in the window and I thought about growing and waiting and watering and rushing.

It's my nature to rush things along. Perhaps if I really water my kids, they'll grow more quickly. Perhaps if we do this curriculum and these sports and that music and have those friends, they'll sprout up just beautifully. I'm just sure of it. So I step in and dump a bucket of water on my little seeds. And then I do it again, just to be sure. Because I want them to flourish now.

And then I wonder why I get frustrated and frazzled. Isn't it perfectly natural for a mother to want to give and do and provide for her children? Of course. But what if the children just need their mother to be? What if they don't need constant, heavy watering? What if they just need to be gently nurtured and patiently cared for in the warmth of the sun?

This is where God's grace is so amazing. No matter how many times I fail, the strong green blades do emerge. They may be sloshing around a bit in the mess I've made, but they are growing. Because my children belong to the Lord, He will work and tend in spite of my over-enthusiastic gardening techniques. And as I blunder, He gently and faithfully reminds me of my role in the process: to rely on the warmth of His Son, that I might more fully experience the joy and beauty of abundant, growing life.