Little Kingdom

It is more than a little daunting to be the solitary daily ruler of this miniature kingdom. To be the Solomon when disputes break out over whose toy is whom, who gets the last cookie, who is responsible for the mysterious sticky coating on the kitchen floor. Always, always I feel the little eyes on me..watching..watching. How will I settle this argument, show grace where it is needed, justice when the time calls for it? How to show love and yet establish firm boundaries.

I hear myself quoting Scriptures, recalling the life of Christ, how he treated others, how he looks on us. I listen to myself and I hear the past, voices of my parents, repetition of the same thoughts and ideas. Is it real to me? I stop myself for a moment, three pairs of solemn brown eyes regarding me. Does this have weight and meaning for me now, in this world we live in, in this moment fraught with tension and feelings of dissension. It does. They do. Somehow these are not just words, it was not just one man's journey. The power of that revolution, the passion of that heavenly Prince leaving grandeur to seek me out just the way I am, captures my heart again. There is weight in how I live each day. The way I go about my work, the way I take time for ones smaller and quiet their insistence, teach them to love peace, to seek out a quiet moment to study, to ponder, to dream.

Somehow the world outside has become too busy to dream. Always connected to something and yet disconnected from everything. No time to sit in the stillness, appreciate the hush, breathe it in and wonder. At times I love the quiet, the calm, the separation so much I have pulled too far away. Seeking to rectify wounds of the past and distance from hurtful relationships I have also rejected the hope of new friends, new people to bring a dash of difference. I have set my mind to serious study of what it means to be a parent, a mentor, an example. I spend the hours reading and researching and asking questions and attempting to focus on what I'm called to do.

We have decided to take the wooded road, the path that is a little less traveled as it were. Several months ago we cut off cable. We have found such incredible serenity in not having the blaring, clamoring noises filling the background. No bedtime rush to get little ones tucked in so we can catch that program or clear a few more off our Tivo. A long, refreshing breath. Quiet. We have thoughtfully and carefully and prayerfully examined what the example of others brings to our children. Some relationships we have felt necessary to considerably lessen the amount of exposure. They have voiced many questions, perceived so much more in situation than we ever believed. Actions really do speak louder than words. And the words we say are absorbed and then watched to see if the actions follow. "Truth forever on the scaffold. Wrong forever on the throne. Yet the scaffold sways the future and behind the dim unknown, standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own." (James Russell Lowell) So if day in and day out we are striving to show them what truth means to be lived out then it would only make sense that those we spend the most time with would need to be active, living examples of ones striving to live in truth...

More than their growth I find myself growing in this parenting journey. Stretching beyond what I ever thought I could. Learning to give up my desires and wants, learning how to say no, to back up and start again, to have grace for myself. And we are changing, going in new directions, trying new things. Some well meaning family and close friends have expressed displeasure or lack of understanding but our resolve is firm. We have to cut the course, lead in the direction our family must go. With firm conviction and strength of resolve, ever looking higher and further and deeper. Quieting the strident voices outside and not losing focus on the prize. We are raising little men and women here, people who will make a difference. And they can only do that, can only be that if we choose to be different.

Golden

It is that beautiful hour now. The golden time just before sunset. I think someone once called it the gloaming. The wind whispers through the budding trees. Underneath the soft swaying branches three earnest little pilgrims go on about their daily work. The oldest, brave adventurer sister leads the way, calling out tasks for the younger boys; gather a rock here, a twig there. They are all busily constructing some imaginary playhouse or hideaway, a castle, a cabin, a kingdom all their own. Nearby sits their great white protector and friend, calmly enduring his nightly fur brushing. Their daddy and oft favored playmate smiles at their antics and stops to swing one up on his shoulder or admire a newly caught butterfly.

Everything is still and ripe and golden. The world seems new and untouched. And it is for them. They haven't yet encountered the dragons, the destruction of their castles in the air, the loss of their surety as they canvass the road before them. And it should be like that. The world should still be fresh and budding, ripe with the promise of adventure and full to the brim with hopefulness. The rosyness should still be glistening on the earth they trod. Tinges of sadness and bitterness and regret they partake of each day. And that is good as well. They must learn early to drink the cup-bitter and sweet. Mourn the losses, hold onto the hope. Shake their heads and sorrow at the cracked earth they trod, yet ever looking towards the horizon. The great things to come.

As I sit writing the sun is sinking, casting its rays on the sleeping boy in the swing nearby. Growing and changing by leaps and bounds. How was it only 7 months ago we casually strolled in for a check up and ended up staying to witness a miracle?

Parenting is the hardest gig I've ever experienced. The joys are rainbow rich and the sorrows and sacrifices cut me to the quick. The whys, the whatifs, the unanswered questions often keep me awake at night. I have been so in and out, forever and completely altered by this experience that I cannot imagine it ever ending. And yet it will. This wild ride will end with its laughs and trials and twists and turns and sky high exhilaration. And my little companions will grow beyond us, beyond this cozy nest and go on their merry way.

But for now things are simpler. Seemingly unchanged and yet changing. Our little girl still runs off with braids flying to catch a lizard, the two brothers still tear around on little bikes with teddy bears tucked in for a ride and my littlest chick still gazes at me like his personal fairy godmother, nestling in the crook of my neck and sighing contentedly. And this tiny world keeps on spinning, still within our grasp. And now seems like forever.

The Other Side

There are moments when I come to realize, truly, viscerally, deep down in my soul realize, just how brief and small my experience is. How limited, a "flash in the pan". How many times I look at people but not into them as someone once said. I don't realize that the woman bagging my groceries so slowly might be suffering her own private heartbreak. I fail to wonder whether the man who cut in front of me at Starbucks might be rushed and terse for reasons other than the need for a caffeine fix.

Never has this hit me with such weight before now. Will was feverish and achy and not quite himself for 3-4 days. We brushed it off as a bug, something minor he picked up at Sunday school or the grocery store. Moments of normality, a laugh, a familiar bout of mischief would ease our worries and lull us into thinking he would get over it on his own.

But late one night we heard his little feet pad into our room and he was heaving and coughing and having trouble breathing. Calmly Tim announced it was time to take him into the ER.

Pneumonia. What followed was a taste, a glimpse into the nightmarish reality that other dear parents and families face daily. With cheeks flushed rosy red and eyes bright with fever Will kissed me goodbye at the door. One of those half open mouth, wet, all over your face kisses that little boys are so good at. "Goodbye Mom, he said, "you know I might not come back.." That completely felled me. After putting on a brave face to wave goodbye to the little blue hooded figure hunched in his carseat, I wrapped my sweater around me and sobbed against the side of the house. Ever one for premonitions and unfounded fears, his parting goodbye filled me with a sense of foreboding.

What followed was a week of early morning doctor visits full of steroid IV's in his legs and upper arms, our countertop littered with assorted meds and eyedroppers and cups. Life as we knew it had ceased to be for those days as sickness moved in close. Will was weak and feverish and gray. At the beginning he battled with us over taking the nasty meds in succession, after a couple of times he didn't even fight anymore. That was when it started to sink in. He was ready to go to bed (willingly) before it was even time for dinner. Often we would turn our backs for a second, get engaged with one of the other children and find he'd already climbed up to bed on his own. Nothing was the same. He didn't want to eat or play, didn't chase the cat or bear hug the dog. He just lay there, hurting, quiet.

At the end of the week what was supposed to be his last round of IV's turned into a hospital stay. My heart caught in my throat as the elevator opened onto the pediatric unit. Never had I thought I'd find myself there, going to visit one of my babies. I had to squeeze back the tears when I walked into the room and saw the tiny little body with an IV in his arm, the curly little brown head on the great big pillow,big brown eyes regarding us as we entered. Putting up with all th nurse and docs and all the meds and prodding and breathing treatments. I stopped asking why, stopped feeling embarassed that maybe this was all my fault because I hadn't been a good enough mother. I was overwhelmed in those moments with sheer gratitude.

I felt thankful-for a husband who helped to shoulder the burden, who handled all the loose ends and questions and gave me a place of solace, who prayed over our little man, who made him laugh, who insisted we still have our family movie Friday together in the hospital. And we did, cozying up around Will's hospital bed with our bowls of ice cream, letting the giggles slip out past the scary questions hovering nearby.

Thankful- for a God that was never more than a whispered prayer away.

Thankful that this chapter of sickness is closed and the brave little hero heads on to his next adventure.