{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.

{Are You Crying Yet?}

The other night when we shared our Christmas favorites around the dinner table, I mentioned two songs that I particularly like to hear on the radio. My younger kids don't quite get it yet, but to "like" a song (at least in my mind) often means that it brings tears to my eyes. (This is why I anticipate bawling my way through Les Mis in two weeks.)

I have a hard time explaining this emotion to them, but it has to do with the ache of beauty. I think you know what I mean. Isn't it strange that beauty can cause pain?

This evening as I was out running errands with Aidan and Avery, one of "my" songs played on the radio. I frantically waved my arm toward the back seat and shouted, "This is it! The one that makes me cry! That Canon one I was talking about!"

At this point I envisioned them quietly folding their hands in reverential awe. It didn't happen.

"Are those supposed to be boys singing?" She demanded. "They sound like girls."

"Well, sweetie, I think it's a boys' choir. They're young . . ." I explained.

"Oh."

I let my spirit soar with the strains, only to be brought down again.

"Are you crying yet?"

"Not yet."

We headed in the direction of Daddy's office. She knew that we were going there, yet still she shouted from the back seat, "Where are we going?"

Deep breaths. I wanted to soar. She didn't get it.

"Are you crying yet?"

Aidan chimed in, "Are you crying yet?" They leaned forward, hoping to see their mother's face in tearful contortions.

"Are you crying yet?" 

And believe it or not, I did have tears in my eyes. The music was beautiful (albeit interrupted) and the lively chatter of my children reminded me that I truly had much to be thankful for.

Would you like to take a listen? Maybe it will make you cry, too.







   

{Within Our Reach}

The Mist and All
Dixie Willson

I like the fall,
The mist and all.
I like the night owl's
Lonely call --
And wailing sound
Of wind around.

I like the gray
November day,
And bare, dead boughs
That coldly sway
Against my pane.
I like the rain.

I like to sit
And laugh at it --
And tend
My cozy fire a bit.
I like the fall --
The mist and all.

This month I'm purposing to give thanks. We're off to a rocky start (going on day eleven with at least one person sick) but I'm finding there's still so much for which I'm grateful:

Creativity . . .

Humor . . .

Flexible education . . .

Art . . .

Visitors . . . (chuga-rum!)

And always, always, for him . . .

For every day of November I plan to share an aspect of my gratitude on my facebook wall. Many are joining me. Would you do the same, either here, there . . . or anywhere?

Because gratitude paves the way for joy.

The gloom of the world is but a shadow; behind it, yet within our reach, is joy. Take joy.

Fra Giovanni

No Time for Parties and Fun

The other night before bed, Avery Kate chose two Little Golden Books for her story time. I have a fondness for Little Golden Books. In fact, I kind of collect them. Especially those illustrated by Eloise Wilkin. I digress.



One of the stories she selected was Walt Disney's 1950 version of Cinderella. Now, in my opinion, Cinderella is one of the greatest princess stories ever told. Of course it's been altered quite a bit over the years, but I really appreciate Charles Perrault's original adaptation. Cinderella is kindhearted and completely selfless, serving her family with joy. In the end, she is rewarded beyond her wildest dreams and lives happily ever after. It's a great story.

So I'm reading the 1950s version, which introduces us to Cinderella's many woes. Of course she lives in a faraway land with her "mean old stepmother" and cruel stepsisters. Her duties? I'll share: "Cinderella cooked and baked. She cleaned and scrubbed. She had no time left for parties and fun."

I stopped. This job description sounded awfully familiar. Where had I heard it before? Oh, yes. That's right. This is MY job description. I cook and bake and clean and scrub. I have no time left for parties and fun. Woe is me.



However, if we keep reading, we see that the next line changes everything for Cinderella:

"One day an invitation came from the palace of the king." And the rest is history.

An invitation from the King is all it takes, my friend. One word from Him and everything is turned around. It removes the servant girl from the pitiful plight as one who has "no time left for parties and fun" and elevates her to the position of heir. Royalty.

Of course, the job description might not change a whole lot for the time being. There will still be cooking and baking and cleaning and scrubbing. But to know that we've been noticed by the King? Even loved by the King? Whoa. That makes it all worth it. It might even cause us to take on a joyful Cinderella countenance as we go about our duties. The singing and humming and all? Not a bad idea, now that I think of it.

And we don't have to worry a bit about the apparent lack of parties and fun. The best is yet to come. Because as we all know, the prince and princess always live happily ever after.

There Will Be Grace

Remembering grace when . . . .

*The washcloths are all missing and it's bath time. Because they make excellent shoulder pads for boys who want to play football in the back yard.

*Avery wants to pretend like she's a dog. This means lapping up water from a bowl on the kitchen floor. It also means rolling around on the bathroom floor after a bath with brother trying to dry off her "paws." (This is rather unfortunate because my bathroom floor is not the cleanest place in the world right now.)



*School takes longer than anticipated because Aidan just has to finish his bridge.

*Mud is tracked into the house because little people love to work in the garden.

*I come home to a messy living room because the kids can't stop thinking and learning and creating and exploring.



*I find tweezers on the front porch. Again. Because someone must have been listening when we read about insects today. (It also explains the jars of creepy crawly creatures on the nature table . . . .)

*Bedtime takes forever. Again. Because there's a law that sisters must whisper and giggle before falling asleep.

* * * * * *

The house is finally tidy. The children are finally asleep. I finally have a bit of quiet.

I know it will only be a matter of hours before the cycle begins again. The washcloths will disappear. There will be mess and mud and mistakes.

But there will also be grace.

I will need to fight the urge to hurry, the constant drive to cross items from my list. The instinct to race through the day and miss the beauty in the mess and the mud and the mistakes.

Because there will also be grace.

I will need to remember that I just taught Little Miss how to tie her shoes. She can't learn it in just one sitting. I'll need to sit with her tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

I'll remember that sitting with my daughter while the world spins and jolts and rushes about me is the very best thing that I can possibly do. Because she'll figure out those shoes in no time. She'll skip away to embrace even bigger challenges. Challenges that will often be messy and muddy and full of mistakes.

And in those moments, I'll be ever so thankful . . . for grace.

Upon Reaching One Thousand

Like many around the globe, I've been mesmerized by the tally of grace. For the last few years, Ann Voskamp has challenged thousands to seek the thousands: To chronicle one by one the beauty in every moment, the grace in every heartbeat.

Last week I reached the big mark. One thousand.

When I started my notebook months and months ago, I was convinced that reaching the thousandth gift would be a huge milestone and worthy of much celebration. I couldn't wait for the joyous penning of #1000.

I was a rather inconsistent chronicler, but as the numbers soared and the gifts poured, I indeed felt the joy. I loved having a record of God's goodness in my life. My heart raced as I entered the 900s. I was almost there. I knew that my day of celebration was just around the bend.

But I was wrong.

You see, my gratitude journal is also a scrapbook of sorts. Each page contains not only my list of gratitude, but also my kids' memorable quotes, event ticket stubs, programs and brochures, pictures and sketches.

But this page in particular, this page on which I reached #1000, happened to hold just one piece of paper. A program from a memorial service. For a baby. Dear family friends whose daughter lived for a mere twenty days.

How could I record praise alongside death? How could I express gratitude when life seemed so unfair?

When I first started my gratitude journey, it was easy to focus on the beauty. The sunset glow on apple blossoms, the verdant forests, the taste of summer strawberries. What's not to love? It's easy to give thanks when "God's in His heaven and all's right with the world."



But what about when things aren't at all right with the world? Where is the joy in that?

This, dear reader, is the great paradox. The mysterious shift. The kingdom that makes no sense at all but is somehow absolutely perfect.

How do I know this? Because I've seen the greater, deeper joy that comes through loss. The joy that comes out of brokenness. Perhaps even a sliver of the unexplainable joy that Christ wraps around His children as they work their way through the agony of death.

You see, this thousand-mark page also recorded another series of events in my life. Time shared with my grandparents.



Just months ago, my grandmother lay in a hospital bed in Southern California with a dangerously low heartbeat. I cried and prayed and wanted desperately to hop on the next flight out. But I couldn't. So I kept on praying.

God intervened. Her heart and body miraculously gained in strength. As she healed, she ministered to those at her bedside, giving God the glory. We rejoiced to hear that she and my grandfather would indeed be able to make their annual trip north.



So for the past two weeks I truly reveled in the moments my Nanee and I shared together. As she recounted the events surrounding her hospitalization, she drew special attention to a word that the Lord used again and again throughout her healing.

The word? Joy.

My eyes filled with tears. There it was again. The eucharisteo that Voskamp writes about. The grace we receive from our Father, the thanks we give because of it, and the indescribable joy that fills our spirits when we dwell in a spirit of gratitude.



Because of my grandmother's experience, I was that much more aware of how precious our time was together. We came too close to not having it. So for the whole two weeks, we crammed in as much togetherness as we could. We lived in the moment because we knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that every single moment was a gift.

My eyes were wide open, that I might not miss a single gift. Especially the gift of now.



Throughout their visit, my grandmother demonstrated yet again the way she has perfected the art of living in the moment. I watched the way her eyes sparkled as she wove stories for my children. I watched the way she deftly pulled together darling outfits on our annual girls shopping trip. I watched the way she engaged in conversation with others, treasuring their company.



I watched her live and delight in the moment, the way she always has and the way she always will.

This, my friends, is the only way to live. In moment by moment gratitude. This is the lens through which we must view life in order to experience true joy. Yes, even joy in brokenness, even joy in loss. The lens that goes so far as to enable a young couple to treasure every single moment of twenty priceless days with their daughter. To treasure the little fingers, the little squeaks, the little pink bows and the little pink dresses. To store up in their forever memories the snuggles in mama's arms, the last waltz with daddy. And to count it all joy.

It's true that as I recorded my one thousand gifts I wasn't counting on brokenness. I wasn't counting on loss. But because of them, I've tasted the true depths of joy.

And the result? I simply cannot stop at one thousand.