hurry up and slow down

I walk into a lamp lit bedroom, pull covers up, tuck toes back under blankets and soft hair behind small ears. I pause. The first of the day. I marvel at the little nose on the face of a girl. She has her grandfathers nose, has since birth, though hers is fairy-kissed with freckles. I touch dream-filled heads. These people, my little people, how obvious it seems to me in the stillness of night, that I am anything but still. I rush about trying to keep just one step ahead of my responsibilities. Don't I though, have a responsibility to these children? And isn't it the most important one of all? How often do I add them to my agenda? They are, of course, with me all day, everyday, but most of that time is spent going through the motions of an overfilled existence. I kiss checks and turn out the light.

Children so naturally know the art of stillness. It is well disguised in the busyness of little bodies running through the house, but they know 'still'. They teach me this everyday. They see through the lists and schedules. The clock is not a ticking task master - taking, taking, taking. In the asking for one more story, in the dawdling of little legs, in the world of imagination which sweeps them in as chickens are feed and early morning chores await, they teach me. And in the stillness of the night, as I tuck them into bed they ask without words that I be still and listen to their hearts as they speak. They can so easily see what is important and those things that matter most.

Why all this rushing? I think I am filling my bucket. Actually, I am turning it on end and pouring to empty.

I know what I should do.

But I am afraid.

I am afraid of being left behind, of missing some grand adventure. I am afraid that my children will miss out, not be as happy as they could be with a long list of accomplishments. I am afraid that I am simply not doing enough. Enough helping, enough learning, enough serving. Somehow the things I do become who I am, and I feel like I am simply not enough.

I need to learn to say no. And the person I need most of all to say no to is myself. I need to trust that these children need me, not a thousand distractions. They need time to just be and play and pretend and discover who they are, not what they can do. There is a place for that, but it is not first.

What am I teaching them? That happiness is found in the "badge" of busyness? Outside of us, of who we are?

We are not our list of accomplishments. We are not the clothes we wear, the things we collect, or the miles we run. These children have my love because they are mine, alone, that is all.

I want to lock away the world, close my door to the many things that vie for my attention. Days blur together into weeks. Children turn another year older. And still I rush. This rushing, it is aggressive, intrusive, unwelcome. How do I jump off the roller coaster? 

I close my eyes and pray for help. I pray for balance. I pray for guidance. I pray most especially to lose the desire for the praise and approval of the world. And He whispers that I am loved. His is not a love given as a 1st place ribbon. He loves not for the talents I have or the many things I accomplish. He loves me because I am His. There are no requirements for His love. And I yearn for understanding.

I long to live life on purpose, intentionally in each moment.

I turn off the computer. The cell phone is put away. I forget the outside world, if even for a few hours each day, and give to my children what I am blowing to the wind. I fear sometimes I cannot possibly give them everything I think they need. Then, when I still myself, I realize that although it is true - I cannot give them everything - I can give them all of me, that is all I have. If I am divided and frayed, that will be my offering to them, these precious children. Life is busy, but what am I busy doing?

I take sacred advice from one I admire. I will not wear busyness as a badge. As children run circles around my legs and pull on my sleeves and heartstrings for the one thing they need the very most, me, just me, plain and unprepared, I can be still. I can live life in that moment and learn from little wiggling limbs the art of stillness inside. I long to develop a heart that can capture the wonderment each moment this beautiful life has to offer, as they so naturally do. I need, in all my Martha like anxieties, to learn to be like Mary and just be in each moment.

There in the stillness I discover more is not what is asked for. Less of so many of the unimportant things in life - that is where I need to start. In that place of less there is more, so much more. With less I see clearly. I discover me, who I truly am. The more beauty I see around me. So much less is occupying those sacred corners of the heart. And I am filled with so much more to give. 

October's end

 By the end of October we seem to be settling deep into fall. 

The whether is changing, the daylight decreasing.

We fall father into books, the handi-crafts come out, and we begin to embrace winters arrival. 

With the help of some videos, the kids and I set out to perfect our bread making skills.

Fresh bread and warm soup is had for dinner.

A stack of wood awaits. Christmas is coming. 

Tate helps Darren set up a quilting frame. 

Egg production is slowing down. Chickens settle in for winter.

Leaves - everywhere I look, are gathered by children, and pressed between the pages of books.

Lights are turned off and candles lit. Warm drinks are poured and board games pulled out.

And on the very last day, dad ends it all with a bang, as is tradition. 

Fireworks are launched for wide, excited eyes. 

Summer has faded long ago. A new season begins. 

And we welcome all the gifts it offers.

turn the page

There comes a time when, no matter where you have come from, no matter what you have been through, you must simply learn to turn the page. I spend so much of my days wishing I could rewrite the past. I need to remember that I have the power to create the kind of life, the kind of home I would like to have. The squabbling of children, the selfishness displayed cannot alter my vision. As hard as it sometimes seems, it is, and always will be, up to me to decide, every minute of every day, what kind of home I will create. This work is never done.

Not only must I not be weary in well doing but I seek to find that joy that periodically evades me. It is there somewhere, even in the midst of disaster, if my outlook is tuned into my vision, if I maintain focus.

I have been abundantly blessed with powerful, gentle, strong, soft, righteous women in my life. I look to their goodness and examples. I cling to their coat tails. Through my association with them I am strengthened.

But there are moments of weakness, fatigue and self-doubt.

She is everywhere in many forms. She is up and baking muffins before the first of her wee ones tumble downstairs in warm, wrinkled jammies. She is eternally optimistic in life. She is a spiritual giant. She is accomplished. She is dedicated. She is educated. She runs marathins. She joyfully makes dinner for her family, everyday. Her hair is always perfect. Her clothes are always cute. Her children always behave. She never tires. She never angers. She is all. And I, I in comparison, am so weak.

And that one word - it is the seed of destruction. The door is left open only a crack and in it comes, an unwelcome guest. And, yet, I welcome him in, open arms. I don't see him for what he is, for he disguises himself as friend. But he spills his poison like black ink on clean parchment, until I no longer see what is good and right in me.

I cry as I watch. My children gathered round me, some on my lap, some at my sides and even my feet. When wondering faces question wet eyes I tell them of the good message in the movie just watched, ask them if they heard it. Darren smiles and says, "You find the good message because you look for the good message. I? I look for the good message? Yes....... I do. Why, then, do I forget to look for the good message inside, my good message?

My tummy is rounded from 5 babies. My hair rarely is let loose from its daily binding. I haven't exercised in weeks. My oven sits empty and cold. Yet I have a good message. There is so much I do. There is so much I am. There is not time for wasted days in the company of comparison. He is no friend. And she, she does not exist.


My eyes open to the joy that is there, awaiting my discovery. I focus on my strengths, the things I do have, the person I am, not what I lack.

So when my life does not look the way I envision, and I fall short of spectacular, I will not despair, nor entertain comparison. I will seek the good message - the vision is up to me. And then I find myself rising to the occasion of possibility and potential. But not hers...mine.

It is time to turn the page. 

It is dark. The house lay sleeping, safe roof over sweet cheeks and soft hands. I wake before sunrise and tiptoe down stairs, pull out the cookbook and begin to compile ingredients. My smallest early birds sense my wakefulness first and pad on down, rubbing sleep from wide eyes, under dream tangled locks. We mix batter and fill tins. My oven is warm, my heart even more so. This morning I bake muffins for those I love, not because I need to be like her. I bake muffins because I can. I become the mom I want to be. 

I hope that I will always be in the becoming.

{link below: Beautiful and inspiring - for all mother-hearts} 

10 Point Manifesto for Joyful Parenting