Found

My schoolgirl had an unsettling moment this weekend.

While mingling with friends after our Sunday church service, Maya's friend interrupted my conversation with the report that they'd been playing, but he suddenly couldn't find her anywhere. Not a bit concerned at first, I gave the sanctuary a quick scan, my eyes not detecting the familiar sight of the bouncing hair and pink-striped shirt I'd tracked moments before. Assisted by my sister-in-law, I began to scout around. She headed for the nursery, I checked the stage. No luck. She searched the Sunday School rooms downstairs while I walked through the main women's restroom, my heart beginning to beat more anxiously. Meeting up back in the lobby, both of us empty-handed, we were just beginning to ask the other adults in the vicinity to aid in the search, when my eyes fell on the doorknob of the small lobby bathroom. It jiggled back and forth, panic obviously on the other side. Running over, I pressed my ear to the door and heard faint crying.

"Maya?"
"Mommy! Mommy, I'm stuck!"

Relief flooding over me, I called encouragement to her through the door, giving instructions on how to open the lock. In almost no time at all, the door was open, and she collapsed into my arms, cheeks streaked with tears.

Throughout the next several minutes, I attempted to calm her down as we sat together on the floor. I stroked her hair and whispered, "It's ok, it's ok." I told her that the lock on that door was tricky, and assured her that I would work with her to figure it out. I spoke about how, had she been unable to open the lock, we could have removed the door to get her out. Still, she wept and trembled. And then, finally...

"Mommy...I was afraid that maybe you would never find me."

And there it was. The fear underneath the tears. Finally understanding, I looked into her eyes and spoke the words her heart needed to hear. "I would never leave without finding you, Maya. Never. I would just never stop looking."

Within seconds, smiles replaced tears.


In Tim Kimmel's book, Grace-Based Parenting, he cites three core needs that all children possess: a secure love, a significant purpose, and a strong hope. I witnessed all three of those needs manifested in Maya in the aftermath of her experience being trapped in the church bathroom. The very first thing she needed was the security of my embrace. The next was the assurance that so significant was she in our lives that we would never, ever give up on her.

And then, the third. As I tucked Maya in bed last night, she spoke again of the bathroom incident, however this time it was to recall something Mark told her after she relayed the story to him later at home. "I was worried I wouldn't be found, but Daddy told me that I'll always, always be found," she said, sighing contentedly.

Hope. A strong hope.

The hope of being found.

It's a hope, a need, that beats in my heart as well. The incomprehensible love of a Shepherd who guides my life and counts me as precious. The grace and forgiveness of a Father whose welcome never grows weary and whose promises stretch across eternity.

In a life wrought with circumstances that leave me rife with insecurity, heavy with insignificance, weary with hopelessness - the lock is loosed, the door is opened and I fall into the arms of a Savior who whispers the truth that I am found.

I will always, always be found.

Several times yesterday after our return home from church, Maya requested that I recount for her the tale of what happened when she was locked in the bathroom. No fear left in her voice, she eagerly asked again and again, "Mommy, tell me again about how you were looking for me everywhere. Tell me about how you found me." All smiles as she takes it in. What could have haunted her memory as a frightening experience instead has taken root in her heart as one that proved love, significance, and hope.

My challenge is to live the same story. To cultivate a joy that wells up in my heart as I sit in His presence, come before Him in prayer, ask Him to speak to me through His Word.

"Tell me again about how You found me."

Schoolgirl

I blinked and it happened.

My eyes closed and she toddled toward me, all chubby-armed and wild-haired, babbling her first words.

They opened and she sat next to me on the couch yesterday, all lean with freshly-cut bangs, easily reading books aloud to me from cover to cover. My heart swells proud and breaks open with the bitter sweetness of it all.

I breathed in and she was two, no interest in pink frills or princesses, much preferring trains and trucks and wholly unimpressed with the world of branded merchandise. We were so pleased with ourselves for avoiding the gender-stereotyping and character-driven madness that lines the toy aisles.

I breathed out and she'll skip into Kindergarten tomorrow, clutching her beloved, personalized Ariel backpack. And a significant piece of my heart.

They told me it would happen. All of those veteran moms and wise friends and elderly strangers at the grocery store. With wistful sighs and pats on her head, their own memories playing like filmstrips behind misty eyes. At times I could glimpse the future and see it happen, could recognize it happening already. At others I was too caught in the momentary struggles to appreciate the perspective.

It goes so fast.

Each night this week as I've tucked her into bed, we've snuggled up together, she and I, for some “special, big-girl talks”. It's a tradition we plan to continue one night every week for as long as she'll allow. She pours out excitement about school and meeting new kids and meals in the cafeteria, sprinkled with worries about bullies and who will help when she needs a Band-aid. I speak reassurance and reminders, offering words about kindness to all, and seeking for close friends those who make her feel good about herself; about confidence in who she is and the work of her Creator within her. She takes it all in, and asks if grown-ups still have trouble with those things. I smile and say yes. We do. “I thought you would say that”, she replies. And I marvel at these moments when she's wiser than her years.

She bursts with delighted giggles as I remind her how very proud her Daddy and I are of her. Our big five-year-old girl who collects Care Bears, loves Jesus, and names her favorite activity as “snuggling up with my Mama”.

We pray and lie close. We blink in the dark and breathe deep.

And I savor every blink and breath, because now I know.

Stepping Again

Once upon a time I was a blogger.

Not a great blogger or a frequent blogger. Not one with fancy graphics or an easy-to-navigate layout. But it was my little space on the internet; my safe-haven for feelings and thoughts that longed to escape the confines of my nearly-always-spinning mind. I wrote about things that made me laugh and parenting moments etched on my heart for eternity, and my faith and my friends and the ridiculous adventures of finding particular pant styles and my reflections on the world around me – just trying to sort it all through.

And then blogging hurt me.

So I did the only thing I knew to do with the pain and just forced the door shut. It wasn't worth it anymore.

The problem is that the words were still there. My heart was still there. Paralyzed by a straightjacket of fear.

I spent a long time trying to convince myself that I was better off living under that fear. That I simply wasn't strong enough to open myself up again to the possibility of hurt.

I had forgotten two important things. That He has not given me a spirit of fear (2 Timothy 1:7). And that He is made strong in my weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9).

And so here I am again. Trembling fingers gently wiping the dust off of this web address. Choosing to trust not in my anxieties, but in the hope of He who has given me a love for the written word. And more importantly, who desires that I learn to lay my fears at His feet.

Here we go again.

Noah

Nineteen months old. So hard to believe. You've entered the wildfire age of toddlerhood, where you grow by leaps and bound seemingly every day. This week you discovered the thrill of momentary flight, hurling yourself repeatedly off of the couch into Daddy's waiting arms...and attempting the same tricks when he wasn't quite ready for the catch. And this week we discovered that you don't so much enjoy taking turns with your sister (not surprised) and that you can count to ten (completely shocked).

And tonight...oh tonight. My favorite moment of the whole week. When I laid you down in your crib, sleepy-eyed but still awake, I covered you with your favorite fuzzy green blanket and stood there a moment, leaning over to gently rub your tummy and return your big smile. After a moment I let my hand just rest on your chest, feeling the gentle up and down of your breathing. And then I felt your two little hands grasp two of my fingers, continuing the circular motion of the tummy massage. And so I stayed a minute more, gazing down at you as you gazed up at me. It was one of the occasions I've had so far as a parent where I suddenly knew without a doubt that I was to savor this moment. That I'll look back on this night as I dissolve into a sentimental puddle on your first day of school. That I'll remember it wistfully when you're fifteen years old. That I'll tell you about it someday when you're all grown up, causing you to smile, shake your head, and say, "Oh, mom."

Finally, I gave you a little pat.

"Night night, Bubba."
"Nah Nah"

"I love you."
"luh loo"

Melt my heart, why don't you. My sweet, crazy little boy. You seem more grown up to me all the time. So for now, I'll treasure these days when you love puppies and bunnies and "choo choos" and Barney and platefuls of cheese and blueberries and reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear 14,367 times a day. When you think your big sister is the coolest thing ever and follow her around all day long, preferably wearing her shoes and jewelry. When you announce the people you love every single time they enter a room. When you dance your heart out to the Wiggles and sing everything to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. When you charm friends, family, and total strangers with that big, mischievous grin.

I love you.

I guess you could put it that way...

This afternoon, I was doing some pre-nap reading to Maya from her children's Bible storybook. We finished with the story of Jesus restoring the blind man's sight, and as I shut the book, the stalling questions commenced.

"Mama, why were that man's eyes closed?"

"Well, that man was blind. He was born unable to see. His eyes didn't work. So Jesus healed him and he could see again."

"How did Jesus do that?"

"Do you remember in the story about how Jesus put mud on his eyes?"

"Yes, but I mean, how can Jesus DO that?"

"Oh, well Jesus is so powerful that he can do anything, remember?"

"Like what things?"

"Um, anything."

"But like WHAT? Please tell me!"

('Please tell me' is the ultimate in stalling tactics, when she senses the end of a conversation approaching. But I decided this was an important line of questioning, so I listed a few things that Jesus could do, and then remembered another story reference.)

"Hey Maya, what about the other story we just read? Do you remember the one about the storm? When Jesus and his friends were in the boat and the storm came and his friends were scared? Remember how Jesus talked to the storm? And the storm stopped. So even storms listen to Jesus. He made the storm stop."

She considered this a moment and then observed, thoughtfully...

"Oh. Well, that was clever."

Indeed. Yes. Divine...astounding...clever...something like that.

Perspective. It's a good thing.

Earlier this week I was having one of those days where life felt frantic from the moment my eyes opened. The kids were cranky, my plans for the day were getting altered right and left, and I had a pile of errands to run and tasks to accomplish. By the time noon rolled around, I found myself loading up a fussy baby and sketchy three-year-old, facing the prospect of not one but TWO grocery store stops. Without yet having had lunch. So let's just say I wasn't in the best frame of mind from the get-go.

Store visit number one was not pleasant. We don't shop there often, so I was completely turned around as we navigated unfamiliar aisles, searching for items that (inexplicably) didn't exist in this particular shopping establishment. (You have strawberry, lemon, and funfetti-flavored gallon buckets of ice cream, but not VANILLA? That is bizarre. And inconvenient.)

Oh, and compounding all of this? The Halloween display towards the front of the store that featured a blow-up pumpkin that slowly opened every thirty seconds or so to reveal...eventually...come on now...yep, almost there...seriously now...a friendly little ghost, "popping" up (I put that in quotes because popping should really constitute quick movement) with some fake bags of candy. Why was this problematic? Because although one repetition of this process is enough for any sane person, the suspense is not lost on a preschooler on the second round. Or third round. Or...well, you get the point. So every time we would come within eyesight of that area of the store, Maya would yell, "Mama!!! I want to see that ghost again! He might pop out with the candy and I want to see him because he's a nice ghost and not a scary one and he has candy and why is it pretend and if it was real could I have some and could I have some candy sometime and why does he pop up like that and does he have friends and why does he live in a pumpkin and who gets to eat the candy and why is it all orange and why does the store smell like cinnamon and sometime can you make a pumpkin that blows up and can I touch the ghost and why is he nice and can I SEE him again because he's REALLY COOL, Mama!"

Or something to that effect.

So by the time we headed back to the van, having viewed the wonders of rudimentary Halloween decor several dozen times more than necessary, we were all a little frazzled. Maya was upset because we were leaving "such a fun place and I want to come here again sometime PLEASE...(repeat)..." and Noah was crying because I wouldn't let him eat my cell phone. And I was feeling a bit like George Costanza's dad in the Seinfeld episode with the self-help tape. ("SERENITY NOW!")

Arriving at store number two, I had one thing in mind. Get in and get the heck out. Well the thing is, though, that this store has car carts. Not the kind with the video screen, because I do not do those. And that's a rant for another post. These are just the kind where your child can sit up front, spin a little wheel, and yell things back to you that you can't possibly hear because you're about two cart lengths behind, with a thick layer of red plastic blocking all sound travel. It's actually not a bad situation... Anyway, Maya likes to clean her vehicle before driving. So as I'm strapping Noah into the front of the cart, she grabs a sani-wipe from the nearby dispenser and begins her car wash. (Focusing, mind you, on the TOP of the car. Not any part that her hands will actually be touching.)

But here, finally, was where it happened. Noah was babbling excitedly at the prospect of gnawing on the seat strap, Maya was singing a little song as she cleaned an obscure section of her car, and I was silently counting the minutes until naptime. And that's when a woman, in probably her mid-fifties, enters the store. And as she passed by, she slowed down for just a moment, took in the scene, gave me a wistful half-smile, and simply said, "I miss those sounds."

Now, I frequently have people stop when we're out in public to coo at my kids, talk to them, or tell me they're adorable. I've had more people than I can count tell me things like, "Oh, hold on to every minute...they grow up too fast." And while I know it's true, and know I should be taking that advice more to heart some days, I hear those things so often that I tend to forget them mere minutes later. But this woman's statement stopped me in my tracks. Both literally, as I paused mid-buckle to stare at her back as she walked briskly past us through the entry doors, and emotionally, as there was something about the look in her eyes when they met mine that spoke volumes about the reality of her words. I imagine that her children are grown, or nearly so. That those simple times of car seats and cart straps, urgent mid-store potty breaks, baby babbles and silly songs, are now just precious memories. I miss those sounds. She meant it.

So as I looked down at my sweet boy, now happily grinning a three-toothed smile at me, and over at my daughter, now working at disinfecting the car's wheels, I suddenly felt a welcome rush of contentment. A small part of that, in all honestly, was likely the knowledge that a Starbucks kiosk awaited me just inside those automatic doors. But mostly, it came from the much-needed dose of perspective that God had just gently placed before me. There will come a day very soon when I will walk, without thinking, towards those bright red and yellow carts, only to realize that my child has neither the desire to use one nor the ability to even fit inside. There will come a day when the only things I need the front section for are my purse and a latte. There will come a day when the sounds around me are quieter, calmer, more predictable. And while those days will bring new blessings and joyous seasons, I know I will likely notice the young mother, looking slightly rattled as she maneuvers her noisy children through the store, and I will both smile and ache at the same time. And I will miss those sounds.

I'm thinking relocation was a good decision for Grandma...

At dinner last night, Maya asked us who makes water. Choosing the simple answer over the scientific, we told her that God makes water. The trail of resulting, unsatisfied questions finally led to an explanation, by Mark, of how there is lots and lots of water on the earth. He gave a very nice, detailed description of rivers, lakes, oceans, etc.

Taking this all in, Maya nodded seriously and said, with understanding, "Ohhhh. Is that why the Indians live in Mexico?"

*blink*

- - - - - -

Last week Maya was feeling sad one morning about Daddy going to work, so in order to cheer her up, he hopped out the door on one foot. The plan worked, as she dissolved in giggles and waved a happy goodbye. Then she turned to me with a logical question.

"Mommy, did you do that when you used to go to work for cats?"

Me: "Ummm...did I...when I...what?"

Maya (exasperated): "Mommy! You know! When you worked at your job before I was in your tummy and you worked for cats!"

Through much sorting, I discovered that she was thinking of the story I had told her about how we came to own our second cat Bogey, after he was hanging around outside the office where I once worked. Apparently, she thought that was why I went to work - that I was paid in cats or something? Which is only slightly less odd than the scenario I was originally envisioning out of her question - that I was actually employed by cats.

- - - - - -

Maya has a fictional grandmother. This grandmother is neither of her two actual grandmas, but is a character that she brings out in conversation sometimes. Apparently, this grandmother is sometimes involved in stories from her Sunday School lessons...

(One recent conversation)

Me: "Maya, do you think you'd like to take swimming lessons sometime?"
Maya: "Oh yes! I love to take swimming lessons. They're my favorite! I used to do that with my grandmother."
Me: "Oh. Really?"
Maya: "Yes. She used to live at Sodom and Gomorrah, but she doesn't live there anymore."
(pause)
Me (inwardly): "EEEEEEK!"
Me (outwardly): "Oh, I see. Well...great, then. So, about those swimming lessons..."

- - - - - -

Three-year-olds. Their minds collect information so quickly that it results in a delicious combination of incredible insight and total confusion.