Grace Momma

Today is a momma-needs-grace-day.

Normally on Mondays I keep a regular schedule of getting kindergarten offspring off to school, jumping in the car to go to the gym and getting baby to bed for a nap.

But today, my heart is heavy about things I understand and things I don't understand. My emotions are whacko and my baby is energetic.

So I sit.

And I brew some coffee.

I watch a Discovery channel show on mammals. Tush, meet couch.

And I put a frozen pizza in the oven. Just for me.

Being a stay at home mom means no days off. Few breaks. Little time to re-charge.

So I'm popping a pizza because I don't have bon-bons. And because I'd like to eat something without someone picking food off my plate or begging for my food with bright blue eyes. Darn cute, compelling eyes.

I'm watching animals on TV because I don't want to watch anything else that would make me feel lazy or inept. Plus, they're kind of cute.

With a little mental rest and physical pampering, hopefully my baby will wake up from her nap to a smiling momma.

A grace momma.

"Arthur" Luther King

"Mom, did you know that Monday is Arthur Luther King's birthday?"

Suppressing a smirk, I inquired further: "And who is Arther Luther King, Morgan?"

"He's a man who took down signs at water fountains that said 'Whites only' so that black people could also drink from them."

I smiled and said, "Yes he did, Morgan."

______________________

It isn't often that I think about race relations or Martin Luther King's contributions. This past Saturday offered me the opportunity to give to others and get out of the house a bit. I jumped at the chance.

My church was arranging a get-together at Roseland Christian Ministries. The center offers meals for homeless, shelter for women and children and housing programs for families. It's an incredible place that mostly serves blacks. I learned the reason why:

I was informed that the city of Roseland used to be, largely, a Dutch populated place. But several decades ago, industries moved out of the Roseland, took most of the Dutch with it and left a middle class black population with no real jobs. It pretty much devastated the city.

I've been in cities where parts of the town are in shambles, but I have little recollection of seeing a city with such widespread poverty. If I were to summarize the city it would be thusly:

chained link fences, broken

dogs

bars on windows and doors of all buildings, residential OR commercial

unusual window treatments (newspaper, for some)

old cars

I know a picture is worth a thousand words, but I took no camera to Roseland. I was there to be a part of Roseland, not to document my brief stay there.

When I arrived at the center, I was told that I would be helping in the Women and Children's Center. My main job for the first few hours was to take plastic toys and wipe them down with bleach water. The cleaning water quickly turned various shades of gray as we sanitized. At one point it turned a color that was slightly reddish brown and I wanted to gag.

After a few hours of cleaning, we were encouraged to interact with the women and children. The operative word there is "encouraged" because, honestly, the women wanted little to do with us.

There was a large room with couches lining the periphery. In every couch there was a woman, maybe two, and they were all sleeping or in various forms of slouched wearyness.

I knew enough to not expect a welcoming committee from them.

A lot of emotions can pile up when one is a stranger in a shelter. I expected to feel grateful that our family had employment, or grateful that I had a home or (can I be honest?) grateful that I wasn't them.

Oddly enough, as I looked at these weary women I thought to myself that I have been in this state before.

Not unemployed.

Not squatting in a shelter.

No, these women have been through MUCH more than me.

But the emotional wearyness of being a mother, of having little means to change a particular situation... I have been there.

I didn't see women who were a different color than me.

I saw women who were mothers, doing them best with what they had.

I felt akin to them; I'm pretty sure the feeling was not mutual.

I didn't feel pity for their situation; I felt empathy for their souls.

So I did the best thing I knew to do for these women: I loved their children.

It wasn't difficult to enter into these little ones' lives. Kneeling to their level offers them an opportunity to look you square in the eye and give you a shy smile or offer a slobbery piece of puzzle. I wanted to scoop them all up and take them home with me. I wanted to make chocolate chip cookies with them and offer them a place to run. I wanted to rescue them from a world of mismatched, dirty couches and very weary mothers.

One little girl crawled up to me and a little boy followed her and picked her up.

"What's her name?" I asked him.

"I dunno," he said.

"Are you her brother?

"I never met her before," he clarified.

Children were taking care of other children who they didn't know. And most likely, their mothers were children when they had THEIR children. I knew the cycle existed, I just didn't know it started so early. I'm used to white bread women who hover constantly over their children and wipe the noses of their infants before they even BEGIN to sneeze.

This world was quite different from mine.

I'm not sure what Dr. King would say to me personally about how to improve race relations. But for my part, it wasn't about being some great hope.

It was about seeing that these homeless women were proud and weary. They were worthy of being seen.

Hopefully these women will have the courage to see it in themselves and make a voice for them and their children. That is my prayer.

Blessing

One month ago, my grandfather died. He was my first grandparent to part from the earth. I consider myself fortunate to known my grandparents for so long. Somehow, however, the goodbyes are no less difficult.

Before my grandfather died, he called me on the phone. He had been in and out of consciousness for several weeks. What's more, when he was awake, he was ill and had trouble speaking. But on the evening that we talked on the phone, he was strong. He sounded almost well.

We spoke about some family matters. Before my grandfather left the conversation, he said something in a strong clear voice: "Emily, you have always been good to the family. God bless you."

He didn't say "God bless you" in the cavalier way people do when they sneeze or feel they should say something religious. His tone was thankful, as if the words were never said before until he said them right then.

I've heard of people blessing others before they died, but I've never experienced it until now. I've read about people fighting over blessings of their fathers in Scripture. And to be honest, I've always thought it was silly to fight over blessings. They seemed like wispy wishes.

But today I feel differently. When someone takes some of their last breath to say words of strength and love and hope to another, they are unforgettable; they're life-giving. And that's how I felt-- like he took some of his air and put it inside my lungs.

It's been one month since my Granddad died. Today I was a little teary-eyed. I felt scared about something. But when I remembered my Granddad's blessing, I felt strength. Strength in God and His mighty gaze. Strength in truth and true family. I felt blessed.

May you know blessing today as well.

Dinner Out

A dinner out with Dan if I acted like baby Eve.

____________________________

Waiter: "Good evening. Would you like to see the menu?"

Dan: "Yes, please."

Me: (Clapping)

Waiter: " The specials tonight are Ritz crackers and oatmeal cookies."

Me: (More clapping.)

Dan: "Um, okay. That sounds kind of strange for a 4-star restaurant, but I'll go with it."

An appetizer tray appears moments later. The Ritz crackers have an unknown pasty substance on them. The oatmeal cookies are bite sized.

Dan: "Look, dear! Your favorites."

Me: Looking at them skeptically. I take a small bite.

Dan: "You know, hon, if you don't like it, just put it on the side of your plate. Letting it drop out of your mouth like that is rather embarrassing."

Me: More tongue spitting.

Dan: "Let's move onto the cookies, shall we?"

Me: Clapping and giggling.

Dan: Takes a bite of the cookie first. "Um, I'm not sure you're going to like this kind. It definitely has a different flavor."

Me: I take a huge bite and start gagging.

Dan: "Sweetie, little bites. Little bites. And please don't throw your food on the floor. If you don't like it, I'll take it from your plate."

Me: "Uh-oh."

Dan: "I said stop it. Stop dropping your food. Do you want some more crackers, then?"

Me: Clamping mouth shut. Can't penetrate. Starting to grunt.

Dan: "Oh dear. Sweetie, it really is considered uncouth to mess your pants at the table. Can you wait until the bathroom."

Me: More grunting. Face turning red.

Dan: "Are you all done, then? All done?"

Me: "Dada!"

Dan: "Waiter! Check, please. This food was atrocious. My very accepting wife could hardly swallow one morsel. We will never be visiting this restaurant again."

Waiter: Sees food all over floor and smells something fowl. "I'm sorry your visit was not to your satisfaction sir. Can you please tell your wife to stop wiping her nose on my jacket?"

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December Hath A One Year Old

There is a little baby in the house who is responsible for my weary lids and my full heart.

She is now a one year old. And she has me absolutely smitten.

Today, for the very first time, she said "Mama".

Well, okay, she has said "mama" before but it doesn't count because 1) she said to to an inanimate object and 2) she said it with a whiny, tired voice.

Here's why today's version counts: I came into her room to pick her up from her nap. She jumped up and down wildly in her crib and said, "Mama" in a happy voice.

I spent a great deal of the afternoon marveling at this child.

I do that. I marvel.

And I usually do it one child at a time.

Plus, Morgan was playing with a friend and not around. It was the "Mommy Marvel at Eve Hour."

I marveled at how Eve has learned to get our attention from her play yard.

Sometimes she poops her pants and smiles at us expectantly.

Sometimes she throws her toys of the yard and gives us a puppy dog look.

Much to our chagrin, she has recently discovered that if she sticks her little index fingers far, far down her throat she will make a very gross gagging sound. And gross gagging sounds sometimes accompany gagging liquid. But most importantly, it gets attention.

Can she walk, you ask. Yes and no.

Can she? Yes.

Will she? Uh-uh.

My stubborn sidekick will only step sure-footedly when big sister is around and she doesn't actually know that she's walked to her. She prefers to remain a quadruped for the time being.

But I do have this: She dances. A lot.

Any slightest beat or sound make her cock her head to and fro like a clock pendulum. Help her if she's listening to something faster; she could put Eddie Van H*alen to shame. Or so I gather.

This age is endlessly fun. The smallest change in octave to my voice will cause her to crawl wildly away from me. And then, just when I'm about to catch her, she becomes scared and runs AT me. It's a technique that I hope she kicks in the near future as it signals daredevilish tendencies.

She's smart, I just know it. Sometimes her eyes give off that glazed expression, but only when she's plain tuckered out. She manages to say Dan's name ("dada") with a sing-songy tone that begs to have his credit card. He responds in such ooey gooey fashion (who wouldn't?) that I check our credit report regularly to make sure he hasn't done so. Seriously, it's a love fest here.

But the frosting on Eve's cake is definitely Morgan. I'm pretty sure that Eve would grow another set of arms if it meant she could touch Morgan all the more. She loves her. She wants to be like her. She plays with Morgan's toys and follows her around the house. It's absolutely precious. And while I'm loathe to admit that the coming years will have me begging for Eve to not follow her sister, for now it's darn cute.

So there you have it. In the midst of a crazy December, there was given to us a one year old.

December

It's been a very different December.

Other Decembers began with a slow crescendo on December 1st featuring Christmas music and baking of cookies and became progressively faster with Christmas parties and cookie swaps. By December 23rd, the flurry of activities turned into a mad dash for the last perfect gifts, a resolution to not spend quite as much the next year and culminated into a joyous frenzied Christmas Day.

But this December, I am worn. It started with a family funeral. Somehow funerals tend to sap more than just a day of visiting loved ones. It's so much more.

And then the month snowballed into a bevy of bereavements from there. I managed to putter into Christmas Eve a bit threadbare. I took a moment to pour some melted chocolate onto a cookie sheet, sprinkle it with crushed candy canes and crack it into pieces for our Christmas Eve night. An hour later we were calling the plumber due to our basement which decided to flood.

With God's help I managed to keep my head screwed on straight throughout this December. And by God's grace, I walked through it. He held my hand at my grandfather's grave. He enabled me to show love to friends who are very important to me, who are struggling. And in a large, watery puddle in the basement, He kept me from crying as my husband and I held each other in the flood.

In retrospect, there really isn't a more appropriate way to spend Christmas Eve than threadbare, poor and tired. There just isn't.

After Christmas, I was reading Morgan a new Bible. It's the Storybook Bible and it's perfect for the kid who says, "I've heard this story before." Absolutely perfect.

As I read Morgan the story of Abraham and Sarah, I wept. I've heard this story 100,000 times if I've heard it once. It was brand new to me. The book refers to God's saving hand as "the Secret Rescue Plan" and calls Jesus the "Rescuer"... It's an adventure book about love. It sees the big picture of each story. It's marvelous.

I read her many stories from this Bible. I couldn't stop. "Why are you crying, Mom?" my daughter asked. "Because I'm happy," was all I could tell her.

Because I'm threadbare.

And poor.

And washed out.

And He rescues me.