{I Forget}

Sometimes I forget. It usually happens the minute I walk through that door and smell those books. The sirens beckon and I forget to stop my ears. I forget that I have four children and four hundred responsibilities. I even forget the fact that I'm a fairly slow reader.

The only thing I remember is that I'm in love with books. I pile them up, pull out my library card and they're all mine for three whole weeks.

There's probably no way that I'll read them all in that amount of time. But these are the things I forget.

They sit on my nightstand with the others I've already started and I admire them and visit them as frequently as I can. I read a chapter here, a chapter there, depending on my mood and the genre that best matches it. I copy passages into my journals and notebooks, trying to hold on to a bit of the wisdom and wit. Sometimes I actually make it through the stack. Usually I don't.

But I forget this. And so I go right back and do it all over again.


Currently absorbed in 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess by Jen Hatmaker which a dear friend delivered right to my doorstep. Loving it. It has me laughing, praying, seeking and searching. Have you read it? If so, we must talk. If not, we must talk. 

{The Speech}

Apparently I tend to get a tad high strung during school hours. Perhaps this has something to do with the fact that I have four children in four different grades and I like things to be perfect. But I could be wrong about that.

When they were younger it was necessary to supervise every child during every minute of school lest writing somehow morph into wrestling. As they've gotten older, however, I've noticed that I now have the luxury of actually leaving the room from time to time to tend to other pressing needs around the house. Like facebook.

Ever in need of control, I've developed a habit of preparing my children with very thorough instructions when I know that I will be out of the room for a few minutes. Even if it's only to use the bathroom. It goes something like this:

"Avery? Mommy has to go potty. I'll only be gone for a few minutes. So while I'm gone, you must stay in your seat and work diligently on your math page. Let's see if you can finish this row and this row before I get back. Do you understand? What did Mommy say?"

She repeats.

"Very good. Now, Aidan. I have to go to the bathroom. No guns. No Star Wars. Yes, you can still be Han Solo. But be a diligent Han Solo. Stay focused. I'd like you to be done with problem five when I get back."

The child nods.

(A brief word here about the phrase, "Work diligently." My children have heard me say this so many times that they are fully aware of its magical powers. My pixie has been know to croon, "Mommy? If I work very diligently while cleaning my room, may I please stay up a little bit past my bedtime?" Of course, my love. Diligence above all else.)

Well, this morning, after chugging my way through another glass of water, it became necessary for me to leave the room. I delivered my room-vacating speech with eloquence and clarity, convinced that everyone would be able to independently follow instructions for two-and-a-half minutes. (I've timed it.)

Upon my return, however, I did not find Miss Kate working diligently on her math page. I didn't even find Miss Kate. But I did find her math page. And across the top, a note hastily written above warped polygons:

Please stay calm. She's pooping.

Apparently children need to use the bathroom from time to time, too. This child anticipated my reaction and in a fit of desperation scrawled the excuse for her absence. One shouldn't be expected to draw polygons when experiencing uncomfortable pressure.

I was tactfully confronted with my tendency to run a very tight ship. So in an attempt to ease up on my burdened children, I've decided that I shall henceforth deliver a revised exit speech. A pooping clause is definitely in order.

{Other People}

The sun was out so I figured that we should be, too. I suggested a bike ride and quickly did a mental scan of the area to determine which route we should take. Then I remembered a nearby trail which wound its way through the park and back up into our community. Seemed like a good idea, so I printed up the map and figured that we could easily handle a few miles.

The kids were game and quickly donned helmets. When they saw that I was putting together a backpack with snacks and water, they too put together backpacks with snacks and water. Which meant that I no longer needed an entire backpack for snacks and water. I wasn't going to complain one bit about that arrangement and reduced my load to a small bag which would nestle quite nicely in my bike basket. Just like Toto heading to Oz. 

We hit the road. The trail head was about a mile from our house so of course we biked that part, too. So far, so good. We found the trail rather easily and with shouts of glee the kids veered off the main road and careened into the wooded path. I thought it would be a rather paved sort of trail, but it turned out to be a rather not paved sort of trail. They careened and I wobbled and prayed. They screamed and I wobbled and prayed.

Toto remained strapped in place and we safely made our way through the forest, the boys taking the lead and shouting, "Watch out for that switchback!" when appropriate.

We found a trail marker which tempted us with a park only 1.8 miles away. No sweat. We'd come this far, why not add on a couple more miles? I raised my eyebrows and grinned at the panting children. "There's a park up ahead! Let's go!" They pedaled wildly.

After a number of steep switchbacks and several moments where the trail seemed to disappear altogether, we finally found the park. It was another one of those "coming home" moments, for this was the park that always hosted our church events when I was growing up.

I became all nostalgic and pointed to the field where my dad had played softball, the covered area where we ate jello salads and various mystery casseroles, and the slide which was especially slidey when wax paper was involved.

The children were happy to romp where I once romped, and I was happy to watch them do it.

We ate our snacks and played for a bit, and I turned my attention to the trail map. I used the very exact method of measuring the trail with my finger and realized that it would probably be more efficient to continue our loop and head home rather than turn around and back track.

For some reason the children looked dubious, but I convinced them that loops are more rewarding than going back. They finally agreed and we pedaled on.

The trail took an interesting turn when I saw that there was construction up ahead on the main road. Not quite sure what to do about it, we decided to charge on ahead and see what would come of it. By this time the sun was getting hotter and our legs were definitely lacking in enthusiasm. There was a large hill up ahead, so we dismounted and walked our bikes until we could pedal again.

It was about this time that Miss Kate began the glaring. Glaring of the "Why on earth are you doing this to me?" variety. I assured her that we really only had one more hill to go and the rest was easy-peasy.

Unfortunately, that last hill was rather long. We dismounted yet again and began the ascent. At this point we were on the main road, so the climbing was accompanied by my frequent hysteric shouts to, "Stay right! The cars are coming!" They were probably only coming at 25 miles per hour, but when they're coming near your babies, much shouting is in order.

The glaring continued along with frequent moans. "I can't do this, Mommy." Glare. Groan.

"Yes you can, honey! You're doing an amazing job! Look at how far you've come already!" It really was remarkable. Her little legs on that little bike, pedaling all afternoon.

More glaring. More moaning. And then she thought to level me with the insult, "This is the kind of thing that happens to other people. Not us." I'm not sure who "other people" are, but apparently they're the people who abuse their children by making them bike up horrific hills.

At this blessed moment I was inspired. "You know what's at the top of this hill, Avery?"

"What?" She moaned.

"The Donut Nook." I waited.

All four children whipped their heads around at the magic words and chorused, "Can we go?" I said yes. Their rubber legs miraculously gained momentum.

We finally arrived at The Donut Nook where the children collapsed at a booth after ordering their treats. They didn't have much to say. When they weren't eating they were still panting from the torture which only "other people" should be forced to endure.

When I asked them if they were ready to go home they mutely nodded and I encouraged them with the helpful fact that it was only about mile away.

Like cows sensing the barn they trudged onward. The boys suddenly raced ahead, invigorated by the maple bars, and we girls faithfully brought up the rear with a substantial amount of moaning and panting.

The barn finally achieved, my livestock collapsed. They were absolutely silent. They barely mustered enough energy to find a spot on the couch, grab a book and disappear into various other worlds. Worlds where "other people" do things, but certainly not us.

I took another look at the map. The trail looked so tiny on that page. I had forgotten to factor in the miles that it took us to actually bike to and from the trail. I was just looking at the trail itself. Turns out we did about seven miles that afternoon. Not bad. I looked at my sprawled children and felt something akin to pride.

I'm still not sure what "other people" do, but if we did it that day, then hey -- I'll take it.

{Passing By}

My mom, sister and I compared emotions and goosebumps on Saturday and it was unanimous: Parades are so great. And downright emotional, too.

The ceremony, the precision, the patriotism.

Uniforms, rhythm, flash and sparkle. What's not to love?

(If you ask Miss Kate, she'd say that clowns are not to love. "Noni? Please warn me if a clown comes to talk to me." Noni warned.)

For six years I was in marching band, so I was especially goosebumpy when the schools marched by. Plumed hats at attention, white shoes gliding along the pavement, instruments catching the flash of sunlight overhead.

But the most exciting part about this year's parade is that my Bethie took part.

Her gymnastics team sparkled, twirled and tumbled down the main drag, and it was beautiful. She looked so tall and stately. So confident and poised. My girl.

We screamed and waved. She beamed and waved back.

She continued down the avenue and I wanted to follow. I wanted to walk with her for the rest of the route, watching her sparkle and shine. Watching others watch her.

But that wouldn't do. I knew there would be other friends and family members along the route to cheer her on. She could do this one without me.

So I let her pass by. I reveled in the moment, hastily wiped a tear and returned to the other children. Children who had blue popsicle tongues and sticky hands and bags full of candy.

They, too, will have their moments to sparkle and shine.

Moments where I'll watch and let them pass me by. I won't be able to follow.

But that doesn't mean that I can't scream and cheer, wipe the mascara-streaked tears from my face, and revel in the beauty of a child becoming, a child growing up.

{How to Be Perfect}

There was much racing and shouting followed by the inevitable, "Last one there is a rotten egg!"  I have no idea what game they were playing, but it was loud.

Miss Kate was soon calling the shots, and the taunt quickly took an unexpected turn. Upon realizing that she would be the "last one there," she blurted out, "Last one there is . . . perfect!"

And that sealed the fate of her siblings. She was the perfect one.

I laughed and scribbled yet another Avery quote in my journal.

The more I think about it, though, the more I realize how right she actually is.

The concept is certainly not new. If you've flipped through the New Testament lately, you'll see that it's a rather prominent topic. Prominent and, at times, hard to swallow.

The last shall be first. 

The greatest among you shall be your servant.

Humble yourself as a child.  

Deny yourself.

The greatest example of this is Jesus Christ. He proved that the last One, the true Servant, is the perfect One. The One who served until death. The One who even begged His Father for a way out . . . but only if it was the best way.

Turns out it wasn't the best way. The best way was straight through hell. So he went.

He sacrificed all. Putting the greatest need of humanity before his own rights, He became last. And in so doing, He was raised victorious. He conquered all. And remained perfect. 

Perfectly obedient, perfectly good, perfectly wise, perfectly God.

We, His creatures, frequently don't know what to do with this. We don't like to be last. It's not in our nature to serve. (Or if we do serve, it's hard to do so with the purest humility.) This service system is counter-intuitive and, frankly, a bit too risky. We might lose something. Or not be noticed. Heaven forbid.

As I find my children growing older and more capable, I realize that the opportunities for service in my home are changing. I have to consciously remind myself to continue to cultivate the heart of a servant. They don't need my help in the bathroom anymore. (Glory be.) They don't need help getting ready for bed or getting dressed.

So I no longer serve by the daily dressing and bathing of my children. Tasks which, at one time, I thought would never end.

Lately, I've even been able to walk away from the school room to attend to other responsibilities, knowing that (at least for a time) they will stay focused on their work. It is quite likely that I could sit with a cup of tea and read all day long and they would be just fine. (Messy, but fine.) These people are gaining independence, and they like it.

I like it, too. But it puts me in a new position of awareness. Because it is crucial that they still learn how to serve. How to be last.

I have a chicken roasting in the oven. As soon as my children became aware of the menu, certain members immediately started arguing over the drumsticks. Hot commodities, those puppies. Yes, they still need to learn. Deny yourself.

This means that now, more than ever, I need to model service. These children still need to see their mama in action. They need to see that the only way through this game is by choosing to be last. By thinking of others. By serving, serving, serving.

It's so unnatural. But it's not impossible. We have a perfect example. And He loves us. He desires us.

Which means that now, more than ever, I need to be spending my time with Him. In Him. Abiding. I need to listen to the rhythm of His heart which beats with passionate love for His children. I need to bathe my thoughts in His Word and really learn the rules of this game.

Not because I want to win, but because He already has. I want to live in His victory.

It's true that I'm still a bit of a rotten egg -- at least for now. I kind of stink at this whole serving thing. But I'm continuing to train under the best. And I do believe there's hope for me yet.