Thursday, March 27, 2014

...of chilly days and little boys...

Another bright, sunshiny day with bright blue skies and biting wind.  Old Mother West Wind herself has blown in; i am not quite sure what she did with her Merry Little Breezes that felt so much like spring a few days ago.  But they are gone for the time being, replaced by winter again, for now. 

Little boy has finished his homeschooling for the day and is happily bowling on the wii.  My domestic checklist is checked off, at least for now.  Cookie dough is mixed up and put in the fridge to cool.  Supper is taken out of the freezer and thawed.  Clean wash is put away.  House is not spotless, but reasonably clean.  Furnace is filled (with firewood) against the wintry chill of the wind outside.  Inside it is warm and cozy--at least it is where i am cuddled up in my chair under my fuzzy covers as i write this.  (The wind rattling various and sundry windows and branches makes it a little chilly around the old walls of my home.)  It is a quiet day here at our house and i am queen of my castle.

When we entered our two oldest children into a small private school shortly before Christmas of 2012--the smaller school being less intimidating for them than starting at our large public school after having been homeschooled from day one of their school careers--it was a bit of a financial pinch, but do-able.  When our little guy became of kindergarten age, hubby started doing the math and asked if i would be able to handle homeschooling one, just for kindergarten.  Three kids in private school was just not financially a good decision for us, to say the least.  I looked at his math and thought “uh, yeah; i can definitely homeschool one.”  We also were beginning to entertain doubts about our youngest child’s readiness for a  kindergarten classroom setting.  Since we had already pre-registered him before the finances conversation, we decided to have the kindergarten testing done to see what the teacher’s opinion was.  Based on the tests, she did not feel that he was ready; and based on his lack of any kind of consistent ability to sit still, that he probably would not be a good fit for her classroom.  So he was not accepted into their kindergarten program anyway.  This put my doubts to rest.  It seemed that we were meant to keep him at home for one more year.  We did not pursue having him re-take the test at a later date.  Part of me was unsure of how i would do with another year of homeschooling--the anxiety and depression had become less debilitating, but something i was still learning to live with.  But the other part of me was relieved to keep my little buddy at home a bit longer. 

Our school year has kept the same pattern of ups and downs--some days i am tired and frustrated; but many more days i am thoroughly enjoying my little guy.  He is adorable, and funny, and delightful, and a bit wearying.

The beauty of homeschooling is the things i get to do with my children.  I have time to read to them, to cuddle and watch movies with them, to answer questions and look up things that i do not have instant answers for.  Just to be with them.  The downside is that i do not get a break.  This past week, i was taking a lot of deep breaths and reminding myself to be thankful.  But for the most part, today was restful in its smooth sailing. 

Except for one small ripple on the quiet sea of domesticity.

My littlest boy loves volcanoes.  He loves to talk about them, to read about them, to look up pictures of them.  He has spent many happy hours (and i do not exaggerate when I say hours) looking at a globe and pinpointing the countries, islands, and oceans that hold his favorites.  I would guess that, by now, he knows more about geography than most adults.  He will watch Sesame Street, if he must, but he much prefers a weather channel special called, “Raging Nature--Volcanoes,” that we recorded on the dvr some weeks ago.  He can recite most of it. 

There is a volcanic island, out in the Indian Ocean, near the islands of Java and Sumatra, that was once named Krakatoa.  In 1883, Krakatoa erupted with tremendous force, sending most of the island into oblivion with the loudest blast in recorded history.  With this 1883 explosion, Krakatoa, as the world knew it, was gone.  In the 1920‘s, Anak Krakatau (or “child of Krakatoa“) arose from the caldera of the 1883 explosion.  But its name is no longer the lovely, poetic Krakatoa.  Of course.  It makes sense that the new island is referred to as Anak Krakatau, “child of Krakatoa,” because it arose from the remains of Krakatoa. This, to me, as an adult, is not a tragedy.  Krakatoa is a lovely name, but my world will go on as before, no matter what its name has been, or becomes. But to a little boy who loves volcanoes; and most of all loves his beloved Krakatoa, this changing of the names is a sad and terrible thing.  And, sadder and more terrible it is, that his mother has now become insistent on his telling the story of Krakatoa correctly if he must tell it.




Krakatoa wikipedia

We have gone back and forth about this for some time--a long time, in fact--this afternoon.  An honest mistake we all make from time to time.  An honest mistake is something to be forgiven and corrected.  But this child has been telling this story to various and sundry people far and wide, purposefully reversing the order of the two names and telling it incorrectly to make Krakatoa the still existent volcano and Anak Krakatau the island that disappeared into the ocean 131 years ago.  He is usually a very honest child (sometimes painfully so); but in this, he was intentionally telling his story incorrectly to suit his fixation with how he feels things ought to be.  I left it go for a while, thinking he might move along to the next fascination, or come to terms with this name change, or whatever...but it only got more muddled as he went along and it came to the point where enough was enough.  Time to tell the story correctly. 

(A year or so ago, he was fixated on the number 29 for quite some time.  Instead of telling people he was 5 years old, as he was then, he very seriously told anybody who would listen, that he was 29.  If corrected, he became very angry and insistent that he was indeed 29.  It was funny at first, but became something we had to put a stop to.  That too was a painful thing for him.  How he loved the number 29, and wanted it to be his very own.  But he got over it in time--although he sometimes still talks about “when i was 29.”  The story telling of Krakatoa was going to have to go the same route.) 

“But,” he tells me--as i break his little heart with this news, (tragic sniffing, a sob here and there) “I never got to call it Krakatoa.  You see,” (very earnestly, as if explaining to a small child) ,“I wasn’t born then.”

I turn away to wipe the smile off my face and pull out a few strands of hair in aggravation.  I don’t care about the name.  But i do care about the truthfulness of my little boy.  It seems like such a little thing.  Does it really matter?  But it does.  We cannot rearrange history to suit our particular obsession with a name or a volcano.  Sigh. 

I am so glad i have my little boy home for one more school year.  But some days I feel a little inadequate to the task.

And then, like flipping a switch, he is back to being the cutest six year old under the sun.  i bask in the sweetness of little boy hugs, and admire his adorable little face behind his glasses.  He tells me that I am his Princess Toadstool from his SuperMario Bros video game.  (Note that, though it is flattering and a lovely name and all, i did not use Princess Toadstool for my blog identity.  Though it is lovely.)  He says he is Prince Toadstool and that he will save me from Big Bowser (the villain) when Big Bowser steals me.  A little boy’s heart already engaged in the eternal drama of saving the princess.  But still little enough to thoroughly enjoy measuring flour and making cookies with his mama.  Wanting to know if he was a good helper.  He was.  I told him so.  And he was contented to know that he helped his Princess Toadstool.   He loves me, so very much, in spite of the times i have to be the old meanie and insist on the truth.  i am so very glad that he and I did not miss this year at home.




And now a bus has stopped at our house, and my big kids are home too.  The afternoon quiet is shattered, but my home is full of love and happiness.  The cookie dough is still in the fridge, ready to be baked.  The soup needs to be put together for supper.  The kids are hungry and want a snack.  My hubby will be home after a while.  He will be hungry too; and will be glad if i have supper on the table right away.  So the sweet tasks of motherhood and family go on.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

...a letter from Anne...

A sweet letter written to me by my dear friend Anne, which I am posting here with her kind permission.

My dear Rose;

Kindred spirit... I feel the need to write something... in hopes to confess!  Usually, when one things of confessing, one's mind goes to the ubiquitous confessional box and confessing to a priest (or other person of God or the cloth) one's sins, then being judged, given tasks to remedy the sin, or words of prayer and sent on one's way in hopes of conquering some hidden sin or being absolved of the sin, yet not quite knowing how to get to the root of said sin.  However, I believe there is another kind of confession.  For instance:
con·fess [kuhn-fes]
verb (used with object)
1.
to acknowledge or avow (a fault, crime, misdeed, weakness, etc.) by way of revelation.
2.
to own or admit as true: I must confess that I haven't read the book.
3.
to declare or acknowledge (one's sins), especially to God or a priest in order to obtain absolution.
4.
(of a priest) to hear the confession of (a person).
5.
to acknowledge one's belief or faith in; declare adherence to.


Special attention to number 5 stated above: "To acknowledge one's belief or faith in; declare adherence to."  My point is this: Why am I not confessing more of what God has done for me?  For instance, I am sick of being in such a cold climate, another blizzard (we've had one every day), cold, snow, wind, day after day and pain with it all blows right through the metal in me.  But tonight... ahhh tonight, my husband and son are making pizza, the wood stove has a lovely fire in the box, the girls are having delightful little girl/sister secrets and rainbow looming after a day of school, and Deano... Dean Martin is serenading us with his magical voice.   I've felt like I've been exiled for the last several years, but even so, God has blessed us.  The kids are doing so well at their school and we all enjoy it so.  It makes me feel like I've gotten one more piece of my old happy life back - a life that I thought the enemy had shattered for good.  But nothing could not destroy what God had planned ["no weapon formed against us shall prosper].  God had a plan for us; plans of hope and a future, not pain [Jer29:11]

I feel so happy I'm nearly ashamed; so full of hope that I feel foolish.... and I wonder at my Savior who came Himself to get this prodigal, and I know I have done nothing to deserve this Great Love.  I am tempted from time to time, however, to feel guilty over how happy I am.  I was in such pain from my own sin and from the sin that someone I loved so very dearly brought into our lives...I lived with such a dark and dying soul... he scared me; he scared us.  But God protected me and He used everything  that I had gone through prior to that time to help me stay safe and keep the kids safe.  It’s truly a miracle... God wastes nothing.  Nothing in our lives, good or bad, is wasted once given to God.  If we give it to Him, and then wow... we're given a robe of Righteousness, a feast... as I look at my feast - which is abundant in wholesome, down home, simple love, I am puzzled how I got here.  The last many years had been so horrible... what happened?  And yes, its still cold outside, snow is still falling, skies still grey, but there is somehow an opened heaven over our little log cabin.  Peace.  Peace that passeth all understanding.  9:11].  The season of my deep pain I feel is coming to an end. 

All of this makes me think back to the time when I had finished radiological technician school.  It was grueling and the wonderful Christian chiropractor I was working for paid for it as well.  All of my religious training told me "You'd better do perfectly well, otherwise this good God-fearing man will have wasted his hard-earned money on you.  Don't screw this up! "  I went through the course, passed the test and came back to work with all kinds of facts and measurements in my head but still wondering how to do my job as a rad. tech. perfectly.  I couldn't possibly remember all of that information and found my mind going blank.  I was stressed to say the least.  Stressed with worry because despite the fact that I passed the test in school, would I pass the test at work.  And then I walked back into the office...

Every morning at the office we started off in prayer; inviting the Lord into our day, asking His blessing on us to do His work for everyone that came into our office.  But immediately after our prayer time on that day that I was back, Dr. looked at me and said "OK; forget everything you learned in school and let me show you how our system works. "  I was extremely relieved.  Not because the school was worthless, by any means, but because the X-Ray machine that they had at the school was an entirely different set up than what we had.  Dr. was able to explain how simple his X-Ray machine was to use.  It really was.  We still used calipers, and things still had to be calibrated and monitored, but it was so much simpler than I realized.  Before I saw it at this unattainable task that I could never achieve because I understood radiological physics to a degree, but a very small one.  I felt so helpless and dumb compared to it all... And yet, it was so simple, once the task of understanding it all was gone.  I didn't have to understand it completely; in fact, no one does completely understand any scientific fact or part of our universe completely, we just are able to see a "window" if you will into certain areas, and this brings awareness, but also more questions.  This was so much like growing up in church for me; do this, don't do that, say this, pray this,  but don't ever pray that; read this, study this... the list goes on and on... But when He came to me; when Jesus came to me, I didn't have to completely understand, I just needed to follow.  But sometimes some of the old teaching comes into play, and I have had the very sad revelation that not everything I was taught in church showed the true nature and character of God.  I was often showed a stern God, and through living with much pain I figured I was doing something wrong, because I was taught a judging God.  But, as I have devotions with my children in the mornings and we read the Gospel of John I realized the words of Jesus "Even the Father judges no one, for He has given all judgment (the last judgment and the whole business of judging) entirely into the hands of the Son, So that all men may give honor to the Son just as they give honor to the Father, Who has sent Him."  5:21-22 [Amplified]

So... the question is this: If the Father didn't judge me, and Jesus judged me, and died for my sins.... why am I still judging me?  Well, perhaps I need to forget a lot of what I was taught by religion and start learning from the Master.  Jesus Christ.  The Holy Spirit, Whom Jesus sent after Him.  And if He's saying that I am cleansed by Jesus' Blood, white as snow... who am I to judge and condemn myself for loving someone who was broken?  Who am I to judge myself? Does the clay give commands to the potter?  Does the earth rule the heavens? No!  So, the next question is: if I see all of this foolishness, why don't I stop partnering with that and instead start partnering with my promises in Christ?!?

Perhaps more on this later...

much love my dear friend,

Anne





reply from Rose to Anne:

My dear Anne,

Oh, thank you.  i needed this reminder, this morning.  And seeing you write this, I can see the healing beginning.  You are so, so right.  I love the illustration of the chiropractor.  The task of understanding it all is gone.  ("I don't have to understand it all to recognize when He is there...")  It reminds me of what Katy's mother says in Stepping Heavenward, when she tells Katy that she needs to "learn Christ, on your knees."  All of what we know in our head, learn in doctrine and theory, is not useless, but will never take the place of what we learn when we sit at His feet.  ("Mary hath chosen that good part, and it shall not be taken away from her.")  He will heal you as you learn Christ and sit at His feet.  I am sure of that.  Anyway, kiddos are awake, must go.  love you!
-rose

Saturday, March 15, 2014

...he will be sadly missed...

About a month ago, I posted something called "...and the band softly played..."  This wonderful group called Celtic Thunder, they have lifted my spirits more times than i can count. 

I am so sad to write that one of their lead singers, George Donaldson, passed away this week from a heart attack.  His presence in the group will be sadly, sorely missed here at our house. 

Here is a link to an article with more details.

George Donaldson article  

...and the band softly played...

another from the archives...bless my blessings


Another from the archives...this was written in a long ago spring, almost nine years ago.  My four year old little man is now thirteen and as tall as me; my 16 month old baby princess just turned ten years old.  Another little boy, now six years old and as charming as they come, has been added to the mix.  My house still is not quiet until the children are in bed.  And some days i still do not enjoy them as i should.  But i have learned, over the years, how quickly these years do pass.  And what a blessing they have been.

Bless my Blessings

The house is quiet.  In the house, the dishwasher is running; outside, twilight is falling.  I hear the evening noises through the open windows and a few stray cars pass, and some truckers who never seem to sleep when the rest of the world does.

I picked up enough of the mess (the one that follows my 16 month old baby princess) so that I will not trip over it when I come downstairs in the morning.  (There is not much that is more depressing than to wake up to a mess in the morning.)  I picked up soggy, muddy clothes from my 4 year old little man who splashed, and splashed in the mud with such glee.  (Until the inevitable mud in the eyes, of course.)

Tonight I was a woman on a mission.  My goal was to get my flower bed completely weeded before coming in to put my little angels in bed.  I was interrupted with a few minor things like the aforesaid mud in the eyes, and detouring a baby princess from things that might get her into trouble.  And then, as I admired my handiwork, and picked up the chaos that followed my two darlings’ day, I realized that I watched them without truly enjoying them tonight. 

Oh, I know that sometimes work just has to get done.  But tonight I could have worked and still enjoyed them just a little more.  I refuse to take myself on a guilt trip, but Lord, could you give me a more grateful heart tomorrow?  Keep my voice from being sharp.  Help me to be consistent with their discipline, so that they know their boundaries are the same no matter what mood Mama is in.  Keep me from being annoyed when they are childish, because they are children.  Help me to teach them to be pleasant, and keep them from being brats.  Help me to make the best use of my time, and to honor You and my family with everything I say and do.  Help me to be satisfied with my sometimes messy, sometimes dirty, house that is mostly decorated to my budget rather than my taste.  Fill my cup full of love and help me to embrace the life that You have given me. 

Thank You for little warm wiggly bodies to cuddle.  Thank You for a little boy who climbs into bed with me and takes all the covers.  Thank You for books, and books, and books that we read—simple stories about fuzzy ducklings for a little girl; more grown-up stories about losing teeth, and appendixes, and Curious George for a little boy who often has more curiosity than he knows what to do with.  Thank You for rain, and puddles, and the smell of crushed lavender when a baby princess tries to help me weed my flowers.  Help me remember to savor the sweetness of life, and to find pleasure in all the little things.  Please bless my little blessings tonight!

Sunday, March 9, 2014

...a song that made me happy...

This is a song that just made me happy today.  I love the harmony of a barbershop quartet, and these guys, a group called Crossroads...well, they are simply marvelous.  Enough said--click on the link below to watch.

Crossroads--Roll, Jordan, Roll 

Saturday, March 8, 2014

...and spring might just come yet...

Friday evening

And today, it seems like spring just might come yet.  The sunshine is beautiful, the sky is bright blue; the snow is melting and the mud is glistening.  (Spring=mud, at our house...)  I did the cleaning, a bit more thoroughly than I have done it of late.  (The dried mud on the linoleum was past being simply swept up...it needed a good scrubbing.)  The sheets, and some clothes, i washed and hung outside to dry.  I marvel at how life’s deepest fears can be calmed by something as simple as hard work; something as clean and fresh as the biting glare of the sunshine and brisk winds of spring.  There is something about “hanging out the wash” that banishes darkness.  The darkest corners of the soul seem to be opened to the light and fresh air, when the smell of clean sheets and clothes is in the air (and all of them set dancing by the “Merry Little Breezes of Old Mother West Wind,” to quote Burgess)...

What a glorious day, to have such joy in my work.  After weeks and months of being cooped up indoors, of working every day to keep the pain in my mind and anxiety in my heart from taking over and rendering me useless to my Lord, myself, and those around me.  Yes, even on my bad days, I am much better.  So much better than I was, back in those days when I wanted to crawl under the bed with the dust bunnies.  Modern medicine is a blessed thing for we who suffer from depression and anxiety.  Behavioral therapy techniques do work.  But what is glossed over, in therapy or in the doctor’s office, is the realization of how hard is the climb upward, to get better.  Absolutely, it gets easier.  But the battle is never completely won.  So a day of beauty, of joy, of hard work to tire the body and ease the mind, is a welcome day of rest.

Again, I quote Amy Carmichael, from Rose from Brier, where she spoke of how the phrase “enforced rest” rankled, when she was confined to her bed in pain.

“...the mail brought a letter which discoursed with what sounded almost like pleasure on this “enforced rest,” and the silly phase rankled like a thorn...So this was supposed to be rest?

...[but] how can they, the unwounded, know anything about the matter?  But the Lord our Creator knows (and all who have ever suffered know) that pain and helplessness are not rest, and never can be; nor is the weakness that follows acute pain, nor the tiredness that is so tired of being tired that it is poles apart from rest.  He knows that rest is found in that sense of well-being one has after a gallop on horseback, or a plunge in a forest pool or the glorious sea--in physical and in mental fitness, in power to be and do.”


And my illness (though, from the outside, to an onlooker who did not understand, it may at times look like an “enforced rest“) this illness--the agony of mind that renders one limited, sometimes severely limited, in ability to shoulder the sweet duties and cares of a family; duties that should be mine; and that i desperately wish to do--this is not, and never can be, rest.  It is utter pain and weariness, though it cannot be seen from the outside unless one can look into another’s eyes and through those windows truly see the soul.

And another passage from Miss Carmichael’s book, a few chapters later...

“True valor lies, not in what the world calls success, but in the dogged going on when everything in the man says, STOP. 

...Let us face it now:  which is harder, to be well and doing things, or to be ill and bearing things?  It was a long time before I saw the comfort that is in that question.  Here we may find our opportunity to crucify that cowardly thing, that softness that would sink to things below, self-pity, dullness, selfishness, ungrateful gloom.”


Is there hope, then?  that in this i may conquer the softness that would sink to “things below”?  that in this i may learn true valor?  valor in the dogged going on when everything in me wants to stop?  Lord, let it be. 

But thank you, O Lord, for this day of rest.  This day to be well and doing things, this day of power to be and to do.

i am weary--beautifully, completely weary.  Weary with the clean tiredness of good hard work, of being outside.  It is a wonderful feeling.  After the pain and anxiety of winter, this wonderful day of drinking in the sunshine and fresh air; and then, this evening of lovely weariness--it has been a day of beautiful rest.

...and once again i wonder if anyone who has not endured the darkness can be truly grateful for the sunshine...


Tuesday, March 4, 2014

...and sometimes, i just cannot do church...

Saturday morning

aaahhh...cannot...think.  House is full of chattering, giggling, little girls scampering everywhere.  Nieces as far as the eye can see.  In spite of my lack of exuberance for general partying, i have been declared to be a fun aunt, because i make excellent pizza.  And because i left them drink soda to their heart’s content and stay up late to watch movies.  Well, it is a party.  I’m not totally heartless.  (...although there will be what we refer to as a “Great Picking-Up” in my house, at promptly one half hour before time for the partiers to leave. Or sooner, depending upon the level of disaster that has been generated till then.  This will be necessary to restore a semblance of sanity for me.)

I cannot figure out why my nieces seem to like me so much (or at all), but it is pretty flattering.  (They also all guessed my age at 30, and said they only guessed me to be that old because they knew I was out of my 20’s.)  And they all showed proper shock and astonishment when I told them i was 35.  So, in spite of the fact that I sometimes feel really old--especially on days like today when I am hosting a 10th birthday party for my little girl--maybe i don’t seem quite as old as I feel at times?

Sunday afternoon

Quiet again.  Well, relatively quiet.  Extra little girls restored to their respective homes last evening; tired, happy, and full of sugar.  This afternoon there is tentative piano music in our house by the 13 year old as he practices.  Lame, bland, boring, kids’ video in background in the other room for the other two kids, volume just low enough so as not to be disruptive to the pianist.  I can feel my I.Q. dropping a few points as i inadvertently listen to the video, in spite of concerted effort to block it out and write.  Effort not terribly effective.

I truly did have a good time with my daughter and nieces this weekend.  We watched old Shirley Temple movies and Little Orphan Annie--girly movies that always draw much protest from her brothers.  What fun to watch with a bunch of other little someones who also enjoy girly movies.  When the movies were done, there were suddenly little girls throughout my house from attic to cellar (actually, I quickly put a stop to playing in the damp, dark cellar...) all playing that they were little orphans.  I kept hearing “we love you, Miss Hannigan!” in chorus, just like in the movie.  Many rounds of Dutch Blitz were played; they took turns on Super Mario Bros and bowling on the wii...in general, it seemed like a good time was had by all.  Even the boring, sometimes stuffy, old aunt had a good time (still basking in the pizza compliment).  After the party was done, we topped it off with an evening at a church roller skating party that just happened to fall on my little princess’s birthday weekend.  The weekend went out in a blaze of glory; we all dropped into bed exhausted on Saturday night.

But by this morning, I was DONE.  I had been so proud of myself and how well I had been doing.  No panic attacks; i was holding it together like a normal mama in spite of happy chaos of a little girl sleepover...even playing a few games with the girls and carrying on conversations, not just giving instructions.  We don't do birthday parties often; but a 10th birthday is pretty special.  My daughter had been looking forward to this party for months.  I was grateful for a wonderful time for her.  Sometimes I wonder how much she realizes and is affected by her mom's limitations.  More than I see on the surface, i am quite sure.  So i was grateful that I could be just a normal mom for her party.  And later, I was grateful to be enjoying, not just enduring, the roller skating party.

But suddenly, as I walked into our tiny, bright, Sunday School room this morning, I was absolutely, positively DONE.  Done with noise, done with crowds, done with groups of people.  Our Sunday School class is held in a small room, and any noise is magnified.  Laughter, chatting, squealing babies...when it all comes together, to me, it all seems to be one big noise, even on a good day.  For someone who has a tough time with noise, and small rooms, and crying babies, and being easily overwhelmed by a lot of people...the room has a tendency to shrink very quickly.  Somehow, I got through the Sunday School hour.  I tried to be polite.  When I realized I was closing my eyes and leaning my head on my hands to close out the world (I do this without even thinking about it sometimes), I hauled my eyelids open and tried to look normal again.  People don’t tend to be extremely understanding of someone shutting down and fleeing a room because the group was talking and laughing.  Groups of people do that.  What kind of rotten person cannot handle laughter?  Especially at church.  We are supposed to be joyful, right?  In my case, I am no kind of joyful on a Sunday morning, and it has nothing to do with a lack of love for God.  It has nothing to do with a heart not being right with Him.  It is my brain and my mind, not my heart. 

At one point I excused myself from Sunday School for a drink of water and basked for a few minutes in the cool darkness of the deserted gym where the water fountain was; and as soon as the clock was close to the end of class, high-tailed it out of that tiny, bright, terribly loud room.  But after the Sunday School hour is church.  If anything, church is worse.

For the most part, I don’t like church.  Especially the late service, which has more people, more talking, more fussy kids, and louder music.  My husband and kids have a decided aversion to getting up early enough to be at church for an early service (which is a sacrifice I would be willing to make...but...that’s neither here nor there).  It is so very hard to mesh the normal noise and activity of church with a panic disorder.  There is nowhere quiet to go.  The auditorium is full of people and the music is loud.  In the nursery there are crying babies.  Aaaack.  In the library, there are people walking through to get from point A to point B.  So well-meaning people ask why you are sitting there.  The truth is usually met with bafflement or pity, neither of which is helpful.  So sometimes i ignore the question or just say that our bench is full.  Which it is.  In the basement, it is impossible to hear the sermon.  And then, after announcements and prayer, the toddlers come to the basement for Toddler‘s Church.  Oh, no, not the basement; absolutely not.  So, anyway, i rest my case--there is just nowhere quiet to go, that still allows a person to be part of the group. 

In a large church like ours, where a person cannot get to know everyone, it is impossible to expect understanding from the general group of people.  I go to church because of my kids.  I want them to grow up attending church and Sunday School.  I want them to see that regular corporate worship is important. 

I enjoy the study in Sunday School, when the class is quiet and we are holding discussion on the topic at hand...which, i have to admit in all fairness, is most of the time.  I have learned so much there; and sometimes the verses we are studying are exactly what I need that day.  While i have my difficult days (like this week), Sunday School is, in general, not as difficult as church.  But church is, at best, not easy; and at worst, a dreaded ordeal.  Sometimes I think, “God, how wrong is this?  Why do I feel this way?  Everything a person hears from pastors and Bible teachers says that we should be glad to go to the house of the Lord.”  I wish I were. 

It will get better.  It will not always be winter.  It will not always be cold, damp, dark, and miserable outside.  I will not host a birthday party every weekend.  Sooner or later, my hubby will have a weekend off work again and can attend church with us.  (His weekends off are few and far between.)  Better days will come.

And until those better days come, I refuse to let myself go on a guilt trip over my lack of enthusiasm for church.  Does not He who made me know my mind and heart better than I know it myself?  Does He hold my weaknesses against me?  No.  He allows them so that I may know Him better.  So that I will lean on Him and not my own strength.  I will rest in that.  I will keep making the effort to go to church, although there will probably be some days when I just can’t do it and decide to stay home.  I hope that someday, I will be glad to go to the house of the Lord.  But for now, I will find my rest and comfort in sitting at His feet in the quiet of the weekday mornings.  In caring for my family, in all the little jobs that He blesses, even when they seem endless.  In seeing pictures of Him in the world around me.  This is where He has placed me, right now.  This is the weakness He allows, right now, to refine me.  And it is ok.  All is not well, right now, but all shall be well.

Sunday, March 2, 2014

...the music of the traffic...

When we moved to our house, I was looking at it through rose-colored glasses.  I had to.  It was old and needed so much work.  But I could see that under the yellow paint and peeling plaster, it had good bones.  We were offered a rent-to-own deal on it by the former owners, and at that point in our lives and finances, we knew that was our best chance to buy a place of our own.  So we adopted it, warts and all.  With a lot of paint and scrubbing, it became a home where we have lived, laughed, and loved for years now.  I found so many wonderful things about this place--the big attic, the old cast iron radiators that keep it nice and toasty warm (and let me tell you, that means a lot when your normal body temperature is such that your hands and feet are always cold and often blue in the winter time!), the woodstove that my husband almost always keeps filled (one of his best gifts to me was letting me turn the heat up without worrying about how much it costs), my dishwasher (no more needs to be said on that!), the built in bookshelves to indulge my love of old books.
 
But the one thing that I could not get away from was the traffic.  When our house was built, approximately 100 years ago, the road going past it was a lot narrower; and the traffic that went by at the time the house was built was mostly or completely horse-drawn.  But as time passed, the road widened and the traffic picked up.  It is the only 2 lane road that runs through this length of our valley.  While there are a lot of back roads that run somewhat parallel to it, to use them takes more time and an intricate knowledge of the local area.  So all the truckers and other through traffic--and a lot of local traffic too--drive past our house, very close to it. 

I loved so many things about my home, but could not love the traffic.  It is so loud sometimes.  I love the sound of Harley Davidson motorcycles and diesel trucks.  I’m not sure why, but I always have.  But the “Rolling Thunder” on a summer Sunday afternoon began to grate instead of sounding beautiful.  The trucks splashed water on my porch when it rained.  I began to be dissatisfied.  I missed the beauty of the woods behind the house because I was busy wishing that the traffic was not there.  I would look into our beautiful westward view of a sunset over the hills and fields and wish that the cars were not driving through it. 

My life has so many wonderful things in it...but I do have this thing that overshadows all the goodness sometimes.  This depression, this sometimes overwhelming anxiety--the two go hand in hand and one blends into the other so that many times i cannot tell which comes first--no matter how hard I try to squash it, it comes sneaking up.  It’s not always there.  But then, out of the blue, it is back.  It becomes harder to get out of bed in the mornings.  The myriad of mama jobs that I have learned to juggle--not always with the greatest of ease, but somewhat gracefully--begin to look overwhelming and I am positive I CANNOT climb the mountain of a day that looms ahead of me. 

This one thing, if I am not careful, can cast a blight over all of life.  All i do.  All i am.  Can make me feel worthless, as if my worth depended on my performance of each task set before me.


Could there be a lesson in the traffic?  In how I looked at this intrusion on my ability to enjoy other truly wonderful things about my home? 

I began to listen to the traffic.  I can tell you, most of the time, when an ambulance is going by, no matter where I am in the house.  I know the sound of the chains.  I once again love the sound of the rolling thunder of the Harleys.  In the back of my mind, I’m often aware of whether the truck that just went by was run by gas or diesel.  As I sit typing this, I begin to hear the music of an 18-wheeler in the distance and listen till he rumbles off into the night.  Somehow, God has given me the gift of hearing music in the traffic.  If we ever move from here, I may even miss it. 

I am weary, some days, of fighting this battle of depression and anxiety.  But would i trade the mind I have, the gifts God has given me, for sound nerves?  Truly, if I had the choice, would I exchange the very thing that makes me who I am?  No, I think not. 

Sometimes, like tonight, I leave the house to walk back through the woods, up through the field, and bask in the quiet, away from the road.  i soak in the quiet whisper of the woods, still, and covered with snow.

When I am tired, when i am unbearably sad or anxious, I am so grateful for rest when the pain leaves.  But if I had not this trial, I would not be this person.  So...i thank God that He gives me the grace to hear the music in the traffic.