Living Like I Am Dying

Moments ago, the life we lived in Marin County changed into an elegant pattern on the horizon, eventually a dreamy spec, disappearing into a silent, white mist filled with light. Marin is a rich memory now, living in my soul. A memory that has transformed me, like the horizon, and filled me with light.

These past weeks as I packed our lives away to move our family to Fairfield County, Connecticut, the layers of loss have been whispering to me-- loss of a quiet, light-filled home surrounded by open space, of curvy, mountainous backdrops, a perfect climate, laid-back clothing, healthy fresh food, a lush vegetable garden, bobcats, hawks and quail, slow-moving cars, dramatic beaches, and endless trails for me to run, bike and hike on.

But thank you God for showing me that saying goodbye to the people I love is deeper, richer, and much much more painful than the loss of the rest of it. Those Marin people have forever transformed me. 

In the past few weeks, I felt surprisingly free. I started living more passionately, less guarded. Leaving felt a little like part of me was dying, and so I craved one last chance to hike with a friend, hug the person I had been too afraid to hug, have that big party I never made time to organize, and lunch with the moms whom I admired. I needed to tell the truth-- Tell people why I loved them. And what a miraculous experience this telling became! I lightened. And the deep pain of leaving had a surprising joy in it. I could see how blessed I have been, and how much goodness, how much God there is in people. 

There is God in the nanny who lovingly helped me bathe my children, brainstormed with me weekly about their challenges, patiently followed my insane schedule, courageously endured the echoing noise, the fights, messes, moods, tantrums, my forgetfulness; and still she responded with kindness every single time I needed her. 

There is God in the homeschool teacher who came to my house for three years to teach my boy just exactly the way that worked for him. The woman who created lessons to meet his needs, stepped over cats and dogs to get to her "classroom," who cut apples, endured bugs and reptiles, hugged me and reassured me on the days when his challenges were eroding me.

There is God in the friends, particularly in my diverse faith group, who shared their doubts and fears, who trusted me enough to ask for help, who offered me theirs, who encouraged me to grow, who accepted me despite all of my inadequacies.

There is God in many more teachers who loved my children, supported me, drove across bridges, went beyond the extra mile. God in the naturalist who nurtured an awesome love and understanding of nature in my children. God in the grocery store check-out clerk who aways grinned though her hands shook from disease, in our therapists, and in the moms at the soup kitchen who graciously shared their lives, teaching me about suffering.

I pray that the Marin in my soul helps me to continue to aim to live as though I am dying-- that every day I can see and share how God flows through the special people He places in my life. And I pray for a free heart for you and me, a heart that sees the God in people, glorifies all that is good, shining the light for all to see.

I Miss The Oohs And Ahhs

I feel fruitless today. My head aches with boxes unchecked. My appetite is gone. I am a spindly tree that is blowing around in the storm of circumstances I have no control over, branches about to crack. (My sisters will probably call me after I write this, concerned that I'm either a nervous wreck or that I am over-sharing, but here I go anyway...)

Motherhood does not always feel like it is this healthy, growing upward fruit-bearing experience. Particularly not to an "I-should-feel-so-blessed-to-be-able-to-stay-home-with-my-kids" mother like me. And I have a feeling that God wants me to share the low-down, rotten, moldy days just as much as he wants me to share the fruitful ones. The pale-faced pictures where I don't have my crap together are much more interesting (don't you think?) that the ones where I try to make you think I'm a supermodel mom who doesn't miss a single blessing. 

Truth: I am not smiling all the time, not a picture of a beautiful tree-like mother praying peacefully throughout the day, using gentle words at all times with my children. I do not look like I'm in my early 30s. I do not post many pictures of myself on Facebook because they would horrify most audiences.

Last month when I told a hard-working friend that I couldn't remember what day it was, she replied, "Oh, you probably don't need to know the days because you don't work!" Stammering, I tried to bumble out that I do, in fact, need to know the day of the week in order to deliver my shining stars to school with homework complete, bags packed appropriately, have the home-schooled one ready for the right class that day, have the other one off to dance class, the other to swim practice, get those valentines completed by that day, purchase the groceries, respond to those ten emails about various volunteer commitments, feed myself something in the middle of it all, run like hell (because I feel like I am not able to breath so I better get some exercise,) and then get that one picked up from here on time, being sure not to forget the other one over there. 

I do need to know what day it is. Damn it.

As a designer/illustrator I miss having my own business, being creative every day, getting all dolled up, giving presentations, hearing the "Oohs and Ahhs" for making concepts come to life, and then getting paid for them. I loved those Oohs and Ahhs. I miss having somewhere important to go. More important than Whole Foods. I miss looking somewhat cool too. I used to look like an artist, not a gym-clothes-wearing, SUV-driving MOM.

And let me be clear, I wouldn't have been humble enough to leave the "oohs and ahhs" and paychecks (not that they were that high) if I hadn't been given a very sick newborn eight years ago. After his birth and then open heart surgery, he has needed me near him every day. His needs have not lightened over the years-- they have been the calling of a lifetime. And through becoming sensitive to his "high needs" I have learned how much my other two children need me around, too. So I have stayed "at home" with them.

Giving my career and my independence to my kids has been a long, lonely trail for me. I feel isolated, dependent on my husband (I HATE this part), and in all honesty-- valueless on days like today. I can write you an essay about why I am NOT valueless. And why every mom (working or stay-at-home) is not valueless because, of course, taking care of children is one of the most important things we can do in our culture today. Giving and receiving love. But the truth? I FEEL valueless. 

Which brings me back to God. I know, I know, I know...God! Bad Amy. I'm not supposed to value myself according to the empty standards of this world. What God offers me is so much bigger than paychecks, Facebook photos, Oohs and Ahhs, Cool Clothes, Big Important Jobs, and Prestige. 

What is my value? I suppose my value is as tiny as the hearts I helped my 5-year-old cut at the lunch table today. It is as minuscule as the time I spent listening to my 7-year-old tell me how he feels about boys who hurt him at school. Or as significant as the moment I had with my 8-year-old yesterday when we casually chatted in the car about the definition of marriage and how and why some people have babies before they get married.

Value=relationships. Value=having time to listen. Value=love.

But I still feel like dirt.

So God, seriously, please help me and other moms out there to be nourished by your acceptance, your value, your love. Feed us the rich fruit, the tiny slivers of motherhood that are as precious and valuable as diamonds. I pray you keep us strong, especially on the days when we feel worn out and fruitless. Shape us with your values, straighten our way. Help us to be honest with you and with each other that although motherhood is beautiful, It is damned hard.

Amen.

Exploding The Box

"Don't touch me!" he wailed. "Give me space!" his arms flailed around him, grasping and hitting at the air. He appeared to break an invisible box, grasping for his own space. Slowly breathing, I backed away, knowing that though we were late to school, my eight-year-old needed a flexible mom (rather than the type-A me.) He needed to escape the eat-breakfast, brush-teeth, coat-on, out-to-car, on-time box we live in every morning. Over the years, my ADHD boy has taught me that pressure, shame, or reprimand when he has lost "my way" will shove him further into chaos. If I look carefully, I'll see the light of the son God designed, not the eight-year-old Stepford robot son who fits my shallow space.

Beeeeeeeep. A 7-year-old boy I'll call Sam leaped from his grandfather's car last week (ironically a metal box on wheels) ran across a street toward the Lego store, and was hit by an oncoming car. He flew out of his shoes, sliding across the pavement. Three teeth broke, his collar bone snapped, and his body was scraped and burned by the pavement. Though traumatized and suffering, Sam is alive, thanks to God for putting a slow driver behind the wheel of the car that hit him. 

Last year in kindergarten Sam was thriving at my middle son's small school. Though he was disorganized, he made people smile with his giant glittering soft eyes and sweet nature. He appeared to love learning, plus he was super smart. It was clear to me that he wanted to do well and was liked by all. 

But starting early this school year Sam's first grade teacher found him distracting and an obstacle for her plans in the classroom. Rather than creating solutions for Sam, she started sending him to the principal's office regularly. Often his mom would receive complaints and calls asking her to pick him up early. Academic problems? No! He was advanced. Hurting or offending others? No! But he didn't fit into this teacher's classroom box with his disorganized verbose behavior. So in a period of three months, the complaints, criticism, dismissals, and (I think most importantly) the lack of love for Sam and his mother wore him down. He became a child consumed with anxiety and self-hatred, and not surprisingly his symptoms worsened. At Christmastime his single mother who cares for her sick parents was asked to pull him from the school and place him in public school. The pressure unraveled him (and his entire family, which further undid him) to his current state of almost zero impulse control and self-esteem. 

Still, I learned, boxes can be even more literal for kids who don't fit the mold, after the head of a special needs school on the East Coast told me just this week about a traumatized student. He came from a school where his teacher repeatedly put him in a cardboard box in the hallway to make him stop moving around in class until another student reported it to a parent. 

Or boxes can be literal prison chambers since, believe-it-or-not, another director of a different school confidentially told me this week about a hyperactive boy she is helping through PTSD after he was repeatedly put in a locked "scream room" (think box with light) with two "guards" outside at a public school.

Needless to say, I have cried more than a couple of times this week over these images. So what is going on here?

Here's what I think-- soon the only thing that will differentiate human minds from technological devices will be in our ability to smash, stomp...EXPLODE the robotic boxes we put around people, particularly our children, around ideas, around our world. 

We need to think like God, like an artist. Stop separating ourselves from one another with manufactured, robotic, code-like expectations. But instead I pray that we can look, listen, empathize, problem-solve, communicate, collaborate, and simply love each other. Override tight schedules, lesson plans, budgets, and stereotypes. Look upon God's living creations, young and old, with eyes wide open, relating to every molecule and shade of humanity. Living, breathing flesh is not box-like. 

I pray that teachers, parents, grandparents, friends, you, and I can break down the tiny enclosures that keep us dark and separated. There is great light to be found when we can see our children, educate them appropriately, and love them for who they are. There is a loving future that (I believe) awaits us if we make the effort to truly take in and respect those whom we are blessed to know. A magnificent world where all little boys and girls can discover their own light, their pattern painted by God, and share it with joy.

A Life Without Blinders

What does thankful that look like? I wish I knew how to live more thankfully. My attempts to BE thankful, to express the idea-- they don’t feel nearly sufficient for what I have been given. I suppose only God has the strength to help me. And I have been told that knowing God is being able to SEE all of the blessings.  I have to peel off the blinders. Accept what he gives me with arms opened, head up.

So this Thanksgiving I am thinking about how to live a more thankful life.

Is thankful writing down a bunch of things that I’m grateful for? The golden sky beckoning me to come out and play. My desire to run, to dance, to sing in my 43-year-old body. My three young kids alive and rosy-cheeked this morning, my husband home from work and ready to celebrate a holiday, the beautiful music in the background, the chatter of family over a game of Sorry. The warm cranberry oatmeal I’m making. The Ipad holding the interest of our overstimulated, challenged child so that there is peace... Peace is so good. Good enough to stop what I am doing and come write about it.

Is thankful saying thank-you to the people who have made my life meaningful? Thank you to my parents for spending challenging days, months, years carefully accompanying me to adulthood. They never forget to tell me how much they love me. And sisters. They are always there, forgiving me and loving me, even when they don’t understand me. Thank-you to my husband for grace... despite my moods, my sadness, my intense focus at times to help our son who struggles. My husband has the courage to hold me and embrace with me when I am at my lowest point. He doesn’t let me fall. I never knew this big of love existed.  Thank-you to my church family for caring for my family-- for openly talking with me about my fears and my ideas relating to faith.  And still loving me. Thank-you to the moms who hug me and share their struggles. Or the moms who pick up the phone and call me. I know I am not alone.

Or is thankful an action? Cooking and sharing a meal. Giving away my money. Embracing someone who is in pain. Loving someone who I think I can’t possibly even like. Finding time to organize other people to give away goodness. Connecting with people-- in real life. Letting someone else go first.

Now that I think of it, thankful living could be found in the silence. Sitting still. Hearing the piano that is now playing with little fingers-- miraculously calming his mind. Thankful living could be holding my tongue, listening to an idea-- one I disagree with. Listening and seeing all that God has given me. Breathing it in. Praying for the blinders to come off.

I pray that my life and yours will be a great thanksgiving-- not just on Thanksgiving day, but every day of our lives.

Miracles happen in airports

Dear God,

Traveling is super when you are five! Thanks for showing a tired old mom driving to the airport that a sunrise has at least eight different shades of colors moving, reflecting, and transforming into pictures and shapes each second. A sing-song voice narrated the whole show to me this morning. 

And get this, Skypark has a tall dark brown man with a wide grin (made by you) who gives you free chocolate doughnuts with 312 colored sprinkles on them that you can eat while riding a shuttle to the airport WITHOUT a seatbelt. Plus, if you are five, everyone everywhere wants to talk with you about everything. You can tell them about your cousins, your polka dot suitcase, and how you can hop on one foot. And their blank stares transform into happy animated life when they hear you talking (except that one grumpy lady who wouldn't let me sit by her.)

Praise for Hello Kitty pink pillow night lights which are just right for resting in cars, shuttles and on airport floors. Did you design them that way on purpose? And, oh God, security checks are so darned fun! You get to take off your shoes, skip through a tunnel, and spin these metal spinners that shoot your backpack right out at ya. Then at the airport restaurant-- guess what-- more free food!! Oyster crackers galore (if you are five, you call them "yummies") sitting right next to the grape jam on the table. Thank you!

God, I love my little girl. Thank you for giving me priceless time with her. Time to see the world through her mind. You make miracles happen, even in airports.

Now I have got to ask...Could you help all of us to lift each other up like a five-year-old can? To see joy in tiny places and share it? Could you help us smile on each other, make room for silly laughter and mistakes, like many of us do for a five-year-old? 

Here I sit. I forgot how wonderful it is to sit. And since I'm flying to Chicago today, you are allowing me to rest on my rear end for over 5 hours and think about all my blessings. I never knew flying economy, buckled between my wide-eyed daughter and a stranger, would feel like a big, luxurious gift from you. Better than chips with guacamole or a new pair of shoes.

Lord, I pray we could all think like five-year-olds more often. I think we would make you smile even more than you already do.

Thank you God!

I Need Your Help!

God, I'm trying to reach you! I'm leaving town and I need your help!

Plus, you know I have this huge fundraiser to attend tonight. Thank you God that this year I am not the speaker. Cocktail dress, hair all done, make-up, nylons, high heels. Calm smile.

And to make thing more frantic, tomorrow morning I'm jumping on a plane with my daughter, leaving my two little boys and husband behind while I visit relatives. Second trip away since having kids! I am jittery. Lord, I have zillions of things exploding, chattering, buzzing around in my head. Such as:

Will the house be recognizable when I return? Will everyone get fed, get to piano, soccer, church, birthday parties, Halloween parties, eye appointments, therapy appointments, school?? And will they arrive smelling decent? Will my husband still love me when I return? Will I remember to bring my mouth guard, my daughter's socks, a warm coat, will my clothes match, and will I not get lost on the way to the airport?

And this week as I try to calmly prepare, it seems that you are not anywhere to be found, God. I have tried to find quiet moments to talk to You, but I think I'm breathing too hard. I tried doing yoga at 5:30 this morning, but found myself instead doing 25 push-ups as hard as I could and then kicking that good ol punching bag until I collapsed. Not very enlightening, but thrilling!

You did not make this week easy. Two days ago the pet snake Corny was attacked by the cat. I had to make the decision to have him euthanized. Did you want me to be the type of person who would spend $700 to try to rehabilitate him, or the person who would be able to take a kitchen knife to the little guy and end his life quickly? Clearly, I am neither. I cried so hard when I saw him suffering. Three different vets have now lectured me about snake ownership. I am so irresponsible. Even if the cat did attack the snake after Grandpa was helping my 8-year-old feed it (and then forgot about the snake, leaving it on the floor.) You know I think it was all my fault, and everyone else does too.

And God, my very sensitive boy is turned inside out over the loss of Corny. He has asked me about 1,000 times when we are going to get the next corn snake. He is carrying Eddie the gecko everywhere,  hugging and kissing it. I am paranoid he might leave Eddie somewhere and the cats will have another treat.

But I'm leaving town, and I'm going to get organized this morning...

Except, you threw me another little curve ball. The teacher isn't coming today to teach my spinning boy. She, of course, is sick. And my boy is moving about 40 mph. Running around the house, dogs barking madly, cats skidding out of the way. I just turned on a video so that I could write to you since breathing and closing my eyes is not feeling possible. This feels much more productive.

All I can figure out to do now is to go shopping for a corn snake and pray that you take care of all of the rest. You always do.

Amen.

Are You Watching?

Sorry to sound rude, but are you there this morning God?

I'm shaky. Droopy, tired. I haven't had enough to eat. I don't feel  happy. I need a shower. I have so much to do, but I have no idea where to start. So I'm writing. This helps.

When I'm flailing around, managing the chaos, like I was this morning, I wonder if you are watching. I wonder if you approve of the job I'm doing. Being a mom has felt like a climbing Mt. Everest today. With an 80 pound pack and no water.

You are my Father, so you must be watching out for me, right? I'm sorry to say this but I feel so isolated, like no one notices the floors I swept, the crap I shuffled around, the hair I brushed, the dishes scrubbed, the dogs fed. I'm not laughing today, not making jokes. Today feels heavy.

I know, I know, I'm supposed to have faith. I should know you are there. So could you please respond quickly?

Did you see the careful plan I made to get my hyperactive defiant child into the car? Did you see me smile at my children? Did you see how carefully I controlled my voice when the kids were screeching in response to my boy grabbing toys, throwing things, spilling things, running, shrieking, refusing to put on clothes, refusing to do anything-- out of control. You noticed how I felt-- right? My insides were bubbling, my chest was tight, air was stuck inside of my body, I wanted to run outside and keep running. I wanted to hit that punching bag on my patio really hard. I was not feeling good. Not good at all.

I smiled though as I drove my SUV into school. Even had a little lip gloss on. Moms driving by might have thought I had things all together. Ha! If only they knew.

Thank you God for helping me get my kids to school today. For their hugs despite the chaos. For their twinkling eyes and their smiles. Thank you for teachers with open ears, listening to my little ones thoughts, and making them feel loved. Thank you for sisters who chatter with me on the phone, centering my world, making it slow down. Thank you for husbands who write me love notes in the morning, confirming that the world is a good place.

I'm going for a run now. I'm going to run fast and far. I'll feel better.