{Star Wars and Sunshine}

He wanted a Star Wars party with his friends. I said yes. He began to list (in great detail) the many light saber games and duels he planned to stage. I started to pray for sunshine. We both got what we wanted.

Friends, let me tell you something. The Lord cares about the small details in our lives. As we prepared for the party, I prayed that it would be special for Aidan and special for his friends. We pulled our ideas together, and Aidan wrote plans and "bulletins" like crazy (he wanted to hand out programs).  But I still wasn't sure what to do about party favors. I searched Pinterest for ideas and quickly ruled out the option which involved the mother dressing up as Princess Leia. I saw something about using swim noodles as light sabers, but they looked too floppy and I wasn't sure how they would work.

Well. Two days before the party, I had an hour to zip into Fred Meyer and come up with something. I prayed. Often when I go shopping I pray for wisdom and decisiveness (I desperately need both). This time I prayed that a really fun idea would pop into view. And fast. Almost immediately, I saw the noodles. I pulled out a lime green tube and the wheels began to turn. We could cut them in half. And decorate them with duct tape. Boys love duct tape. Voila! A craft and party favor in one. Thank you Lord.

The day dawned beautifully, and Aidan's eyes shined the entire time. The light saber creations and ensuing battles and games were a hit (literally), and I was extremely thankful that Jamie had a few youth group game ideas up his sleeve that could be turned into Jedi training experiences. We weren't wanting for diversions, that's for sure.

As Aidan finally bid his friends goodbye, I again thanked God for the day He orchestrated and for the boy we celebrated. From the friendships and sunshine right down to the "bulletins" that Daddy helped print and the lime green noodles that became super fun light sabers, the Force certainly was with us. And I didn't even have to dress up like Princess Leia.

{Double Digits}

I didn't think he'd ever fall asleep last night. Way too much excitement. But he finally did, and I was at last able to tip-toe into his room to leave a "pillow present" for my almost ten-year-old.

A note slipped under our door this morning (much too early, I might add) confirmed that he not only received the gift, but that he loved it. Such a simple note, but I love what it captures about our Aidan: his spontaneous heart of gratitude, the joy he finds in simplicity, and a bit o' wit to boot.

Last night, as he fidgeted and squirmed in anticipation of the big day, he reminded us every few minutes that this was his last such-and-such as a nine-year-old. His last dinner. His last bite of dinner. His last good night. And his last bedtime blessing. Then, as I blessed my still nine-year-old, he, in his sweet, comical wisdom advised me, "Savor the moment, Mom!" And so I did:

The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make His face to shine upon you and be gracious to you. 

The Lord lift up His countenance on you and give you peace.

This morning as I looked through the birthday pictures, Phil Wickham's Beautiful started to play in the background. Tears threatened. I thought of the beauty that it is to raise a child. The beauty that it is to be loved by a child. And the beauty in knowing that it's happening. Right now.

Once again, I find myself heeding my son's advice: Savor the moment, Mom.

{Incontheivable}

She bobbed her hair and lotht her two front teeth. And now sheeth turning theven. I jutht can't thtand it.

{King of the Day}

He turned nine this week.

This boy who is probably developing a permanent curve in his back from being hunched over LEGOs for hours on end.

This boy who still jumps up and says, "Watch this, Mommy!" His scientific mind always creating, undaunted: "Just because of my smartness I might know it."

This boy who seems to think that if he adds the phrase "a bit" to a sentence it somehow grants him immunity. Such as a recent comment to me, "You're a bit big."

Or (horror of horrors) a lovely comment to his piano teacher (aka his grandmother) during lessons: "Your breath smells a bit like borscht."

Ahem.

We celebrated this child on Wednesday. As Miss Kate said, "You're king of the day, Aidan!"

King Aidan chose pancakes for breakfast. For dinner? Steak, baked beans, and cole slaw. He's his father's son.

The dessert request was rather specific, too. Chocolate cupcakes with blue frosting and mint chocolate chip ice cream. I didn't complain.

We gathered round the table and I opened the book that chronicles snippets of time long past. Here I've recorded kid words and phrases and antics. We go back on special occasions like this and laugh over what once was.

My heart aches a bit though, too. To hold nine years in book form and to see how quickly it's all sped by. Right down to Aidan's own prophetic words at age five: "When I'm nine I'll forget this day and what I said."

I wrote it down that day. Sure enough, we did forget the day. But we kept at least one line of words. Words keep.

We kept other words, too. The words that reminded us of the time that he walked into the kitchen with marker all over his face. When questioned he casually shrugged, "I just wanted to look awesome."

Words are powerful. I turn to the page that holds words of a five-year-old Aidan who sighed, "I'm glad that you're my mommy and that you're here."

Something catches in my throat. Tears blur my vision and I know exactly what my words would be, should they be written down this day.

I'm glad that you're my son and that you're here.

{She Sparkles}

I call her my sparkly girl. She's eleven today.

We enjoyed our traditional Sunday afternoon tea followed by glimpses of her childhood in the form of journal entries. I've kept a notebook or journal of some sort on the counter ever since Drew started talking. As my kids do or say the things kids do and say, I jot it down, knowing that we will one day enjoy reading through them again.

Today was one of those days. It was delightful to remember the time that she, as a toddler, got stuck in her car seat and quoted from The Tale of Peter Rabbit, "I'm caught by the large brass buttons on my jacket!"

We laughed as we relived the time when she came sauntering into the kitchen and shrugged, "I guess John wanted all of his food . . . ." A red flag went up. We ran to the goldfish bowl. Yep. She had dumped the entire container in.

My heart soared as I read to the family an entry from 2004: "I told Anniebeth that everything she did was for God. She ran into the hallway and said, 'Mommy! I'm doing arabesque for God!'"

She still dances and sparkles and shines. My prayer for this girl is that she will continue to grown and shine in the light of her Savior, doing everything for Him.

Soar

Her brown hair danced in the wind as she raced, barefoot, down the shoreline. A brand-new birthday kite clenched in her fist, soaring above, Daddy running alongside, close and strong.

My heart, it soared, too. Soared with love for this child, now six, who amazes, delights, challenges and lives life to the fullest.

My dreams, they soared, too. My throat constricted as I dreamed of the future and remembered the past and I didn't care if that meant that I was crying right there on the beach.

Beauty has a way of doing that.

My prayers, they soared, too. Complete, utter gratitude lifted to the only One who could orchestrate the beauty before me. The beauty of a child becoming. The beauty of a life placed in eternity, placed here alongside my eternity.

I longed to dwell in that moment. To keep it, bottle it up and hold onto it with fists clenched tightly as though the kite might get away.

Because the truth is, it will get away.

It will soar on the wind, caught up in a dream that will dance on the wings of wild ambition. My fists cannot contain it.

But eternity can. The One who holds eternity can surely hold a kite string.

So I can let go. I can praise with open hands. And I can let my baby soar.

Vignettes

The elephant on the roof was the first indicator that the weekend might be a tad unusual. I offer you, here today, a series of weekend vignettes.


(This has nothing to do with the elephant on the roof. Just some cuteness I wanted to share.)

Scene One: The Purple House

I should clarify that I already knew there was an elephant on the roof. But Little Miss Avery Kate did not. And she didn't believe me, either. Now, Miss Kate prefers to stay home. In her jammies. This is not always conducive to productivity and errand-running. So sometimes mama needs to say things like, "It's okay! We'll get to see the elephant on the purple house on our way home from gymnastics today!"

It happened to be April 1st. She was, understandably, rather dubious. But, I kid you not, we passed the purple house, the roof of which is adorned with various large safari figures. The elephant's trunk is raised as if saluting the nearby crocodile, while the tiger is posed charmingly in the corner. We craned our necks long enough to catch sight of a gorilla. We all looked to Avery, expecting her to clap with glee. Her response? "It wasn't very funny. Not funny at all." I'm not sure what this child requires in order to be amused.

Scene 2: The Park

Saturday morning dawned bright and promising. I proposed that we head to the park to enjoy the surprise sunshine. Drew and Bethie were away for the afternoon, so I bundled up Aidan and Avery for the jaunt. Naturally, we wore our winter coats. Because that's just what you do in the Pacific Northwest. By the time we had biked to the park, the wind had picked up. Considerably. I pulled my hood tightly over my head, but it kept blowing off. Avery complained about the hair in her face. Her legs were tired. We stood there, disoriented. Thankfully I had remembered the Law of the Wild which, according to Annie Dillard is, "Carry Kleenex." We wiped noses, attempted the swing, and finally found shelter behind the bathrooms. Going to the park should not be a painful experience. We went home. Just before it started to hail.

Scene 3: The front yard

After the hail subsided, the sun shone once again. Miss Kate informed me that it was perfect kite-flying weather. So she made her very own kite. The diamond-shaped paper was criss-crossed with an extremely sturdy crayola marker frame which was very liberally taped in place. The pink yarn tail was adorned with Kleenex, pinched just so in the middle in order to form lovely, frail little bows. But the best part was the "Watch me, Mama!" that issued from my girl's lips as she headed out the front door in her coat, scarf and hat. Up and down the sidewalk she dragged that merry kite. Cheeks flushed, head tossed back, sheer joy personified. It was contagious. Cars passed, passengers pointing and smiling. Joy caught. Joy shared.

Scene 4: The Family Room

She announced that the parade was about to begin. We took our places on the couch (it was raining again) and waited eagerly. The familiar strains of some ancient VBS album floated through the room, and in came the star of the show. Clad in a pink leotard, she reached into her shoulder bag and began to throw note cards and rolls of toilet paper at the applauding audience. This is a perfectly normal thing to do if you have been raised in a town that boasts a paper mill. Every single parade that Miss Kate has attended has featured rolls of toilet paper being hurled violently toward screaming fans. It's a sight to behold. The note cards, in case you were wondering, were individually penned, "Evry buty hav a good time."

Scene 5: The Kitchen



I've been trying to say "yes" to my children more often. This means that strange things often happen, such as marshmallows being roasted over the stove or plum pits appearing nonchalantly alongside clay figures. I'm a bit nervous about the pocket knife that Drew nearly landed on when going to bed last night, however. Apparently little brother was on the top bunk whittling away at a stick or something. Will need to do some investigating into the matter.

Scene 6: The Boys' Room, 1:50 a.m.

Of all the unusual things that have happened in the last few days, perhaps the most remarkable is the fact that this wee boy



suddenly morphed into this young man:



It happened at 1:50 a.m. this morning. He became a teenager. This boy who used to call me "Mother Bear," this boy who used to be obsessed with dump trucks and garbage trucks, this boy who used to sleep with the Field Guide to Birds of North America and the yard debris schedule tucked under his pillow, this boy who casually dropped comments such as, "The isopod is a parasite that lives on swordfish . . . ." at age six. This boy, now thirteen.

I've been told by the wise women that it goes by quickly. I've been told to enjoy these days, because they are fleeting. I've been told that I will look back on the diaper days with fondness and longing. I'm here to tell you that those wise women were absolutely right.

But I'm also here to tell you that I'm thrilled at what lies ahead. True, this child no longer pretends to be an aardvark or Thomas the Tank Engine. Instead, he hangs out with his friends, dribbles a ball non-stop and has an appreciation for electronics. But this same young man also makes his mother tea. He reads to her. He tends lovingly and creatively to his volatile little sister, expertly distracting her when the "tantrooms" threaten. If this is any indication of what's to come, I say bring it on. I welcome with open arms, Drew, my teenage son.

Yes, it was a good weekend.

Waking to Gratitude

I forced myself out of bed this morning after sewing way too late. That's what tends to happen on birthday eves. But I knew the cinnamon rolls had to be in the oven so we could share birthday breakfast together before Jamie left for work.

I washed my face, shuffled out of the room . . . and I was greeted by gratitude. A white sheet of paper lay on the floor outside our bedroom door. My dear Aidan's scrawl proclaimed, "Thank you!!!" Folded on the inside was the succinct sweetness,

Dear Mommy,
Thank you for the pteridactal!
It's sooo cute!!
Aidan

He had found his pillow present. He was thrilled with the little stuffed dinosaur. And his first response was gratitude. Written gratitude.

As I prayed with my eight-year-old tonight, I thanked God for a son who began his day saying thank you. A son who smiled all day, a son who attacked me with hugs all day, a son who jumped for joy when I said we would do science for his birthday school work, a son who has brought us eight years of sheer delight.



Like Aidan, I can't help but write the gratitude. And this boy has reminded me of the beauty and holiness of a day that begins with thanksgiving.

From the #800s . . . .

*A fresh blanket of snow
*cancellations
*smiles first thing in the morning
*daddy on guitar
*son at the keyboard
*laundry away!
*re-organized school room
*just enough eggs
*finding the perfect gift
*son putting away the groceries
*country roads
*snow on distant hills
*Winnie-the-Pooh with Avery
*little girls in pink leotards
*tiniest buds on the trees
*the first crocuses
*an eight-year-old boy