Messy Is Beautiful

Air flowed in, and out, punctuating a second, and then another one, as I caught my breath at the end of an early morning Sunday beach run. I was staying in a rental cottage, and the sea sounds and saltiness brushing across my skin felt dreamy. My fingers clicked open the iron gate, leading back to the sidewalk where I headed home to my waking family. The sun was still low in the sky, rising hopeful with each bit of air that swirled in, and each time my rubber tread pushed off the pavement, I felt more excited for the day. Along with my feet, my limbs propelled me forward, while my lungs tried to slow me down. The sky sparkled cyan atop bright yellow and orange daffodils lining white picket fences, with green lawns that carpeted the foreground of Victorian cottages. It was like I had been dropped into a Beatrix Potter story and a bunny had just hopped by. If I followed him, the next page could take me anywhere.

Then I heard a loud bark that blasted the question into my head, “Did you remember to let the dogs in?” and that simple thought was like a snap above a zipper of items that zzzzzzzd down the crooked pathways in my brain. Each zip pierced me with all of the stupid things that I had done yesterday, all of the impossible things that I needed to do today, all of the undone things that I needed to get done for tomorrow, and the next day, and the year after that. It also reminded me how I would fail at all of it, and how I would get nothing much accomplished, even if I tried my hardest, but I had better run along anyway. I had better get going FAST. My heart pounded at the bone between my breasts, perspiration dripped from my temples, dropping to the landing of the porch where I had arrived with a THUD.

So what did I do? Well, I ran up the stairs to my room, past the sound of the TV, and I flopped on to my bed to write. Maybe the pen could help ease my mind….And here’s the gist of what I wrote:

What if I were to flick off the high-pitched cartoon yapping at my kids, and proclaim that today is like a cake that we can mix up. We can make it thick and heavy, or light and foamy. We can spread it around, lick it, inhale its aromas, and layer its luscious colors and flavors. We can make this day into one of kite flying, of running our toes into the cool ocean ripples, of tossing a neon Frisbee through the air, above the carmel-colored sand, and laughing when it spins perfectly into our outstretched hands. We can eat sweet red strawberries and make egg sandwiches with crispy, buttered toast. 

We can abandon our responsibilities and simply delight in this day. 

Today can be a day to put away our worries, our fears, our anger, our disappointment, our expectations, our embarrassments, our shame. I’m going to stuff all of that crap (that pretends life isn't supposed to be messy) under the big shoe bin in closet, where it can’t get away. I’m going to press the door shut with the force of my body. I’m going to lock it there TIGHT so that we can live like a family really CAN live… gripping and hugging and eating up every second of time together. Messy or not.

Alleluia!

That’s sort of what I wrote (I admit, I edited.)

And guess what? It worked! I drifted out of my bedroom once again smiling. I emptied all of the crappy stuff in my brain into the closet and simply abandoned it. (Thank God the closets are big in this place.) And then I went on to have a day full of memorable moments at church, at this cottage, in the kitchen, and outdoors with my kids and my husband. 

The snapshots of my day weren't perfect. They were better, actually. Real life today was richer than words or pictures. It was like deep dark organic chocolate spilling all over and making a ridiculous mess, but tasting so darned good, anyway. It made me think, "Give me more chocolate. Now!" It’s flavors were satisfying because I didn't mind getting dirty. I could smile at the messiness of our day, I could clean it up with my fingers, sweep my tongue over it, and get it all over my lips.

I’m thankful for this minute, and the next one, and the next that I have to live a messy, beautiful and real life with my family—when I’m able to transcend the worries from the past, fly over the fears of the future, and simply eat up each delicious moment that we have. Together. Now.

Maybe Love Is Enough

“Why do you put up with me, Mom? Why do you keep caring about me when I am so bad?” he asked. “Why do you love me even when I am mean to you?” A little while ago my nine-year-old was sitting in the dark on the couch downstairs, arms wrapped around his knees.

The words hurt. Only a second before I had felt furious with him. He had thrown bananas all over the kitchen in a rage. Then he had refused to go to bed. He was exhausted. I wanted him to go to sleep because I needed time alone. And clearly he needed to rest.

Today I took him to just one class at school. We removed him from school a couple of weeks ago because his anxiety was getting so bad, perhaps from so many attempts to "fix him." Today he went without a 1-1 aide, which for him seemed to feel like driving the car (finally) without the damned mom in the front seat. I (the damned mom) waited in the hall, helping him get to the one class, trying to stay behind and appear inconspicuous. I carried a pencil that I had carefully sharpened. It was the best I could do to help.

“Don’t you need this, sweetie?” I meekly asked, tiptoeing behind. He didn’t care about the pencil. Or the math. He just wanted to talk to a friend. One friend would do. He ignored me.

I could see that his whole goal for being there, at school today, was to connect, and to be acknowledged. (I wondered if connection and acknowledgement could possibly be more important that any education or degree or job title or parenting technique.) And I could see his eyes and his gestures seeking a way to fit with the other kids. At school they call this “social emotional education.” I knew that the sounds, the scuffling, the back and forth of bodies, the chaotic language thrown around, were all making him feel like needles were pricking through his eyeballs and eardrums. I could feel how hard it was. And yet I could see him still trying to fit. It was painful for me.

How can I tell my son how to fit?

I want to take it all away. I want to wrap him in a bubble, carry him around under my arm, only allowing love to get inside. I want to protect him from the mean, the angry, the expectations, and the judgement.

But I’m just a mom.

“Why do I keep on caring? Why?” I said in the dark. I was holding back tears for my child who was suffering. Again. And I thought, “Because I don’t deserve you, my beautiful boy. But here you are. Given to me anyway. I have made hundreds of mistakes that are too long and embarrassing to tell you. But look at me! I’m still cared for. I have your Daddy, I have this house, I wear these clothes and I got to have you, and your brother and sister in my life. And so how in the world could I ever not care for you. Not love you? How could I not?” Then I opened my lips to pull out the words to try tell him….

I am just a mom, but I feel like that is enough tonight. A mom's love is enough.

Let's Stop Lying

“Mama. I’m afraid of dying. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to see my gecko again in heaven.” said my 9-year-old.

“I’m afraid of dying too, Love. But honestly, I am afraid of a lot. I try not to be, but the truth is that I have big fears.”  I admitted.

“I also feel really bad about the things I have done that are bad. Things from the past. Like when I hurt my gecko on purpose when I was six,” he confided.

“Uh huh. I have a lot of things I feel ashamed about too. Things that I have done. Bad things. Like when you were little. I pushed you once. You hit your brother and I pushed you out of the way. I was so angry. You were only two, and he was one. And I felt so ashamed of myself. In anger, I shoved you.”

His eyes opened wide. Relief and curiosity and disbelief washed over his face, releasing the tension, allowing hope to reflect from my eyes to his. He saw that I am weak. I am human. I am like him.

“Really?” he begged for more details. Each one that I provided made his face relax a little bit more.

I wonder how many of us adults try to pretend to have all the answers, for our children’s sake, or for the sake of coworkers, or maybe even for our own sake. We want people to like us, maybe even worship us, believing that we are not weak. We are strong. Like little lying Gods. Pretending that we know so much. Pretending we feel no shame. Pretending we make no mistakes. Pretending we are completely sure of the future.

Let’s tell the truth.

We are humans who do not know what tomorrow looks like. We don't know if we will be diagnosed with an illness this week, or if our hearts will stop before we finish reading these words. We do not know if a member of our family will do something horrible tomorrow, or if a car will collide with ours when we drive to the grocery store. We do not know if even the next second will come.

So that is what I explained to my boy.

Faith is in the admitting all that we do not know. Faith is in the believing that there is some great One who is taking care of us, who has our backs, who will continue to care for us for eternity. We don't need to know the details. Because, whether we like it or not, we have already accepted the fact that we don’t know what tomorrow will look like. We simply have faith that it will come. That the sun will rise.

Deep, huh?

I can think this way right now because I have to face the fact that I know very little about my future.

We pulled our oldest son out of school because it simply wasn’t working for him. So we don’t know where he will be next year. We have been talking about many plans, including taking a year off and traveling across the country homeschooling (and have decided that this would look good on a blog, but would torture part of our family. So we will not go this route.)

My husband has quit his job, so we do not know where our income source will come from in the next year. We don’t know what our “standard of living” actually is.

And, due to the last item, we are putting our house on the market, so if our house sells, we do not know where we will be living next.

Where does this leave me?

Living. That's where. Living with a faith that is growing as quickly as the clouds float by my desk. Living keenly aware that everything I have is guaranteed to be here only for this moment. And so I need to grab it, hold it, cherish it, and move on to the next second that, once again, is a miraculous gift. I cannot predict where the next blip of air will come from. I cannot possibly say who the next reader of this blog post will be. I will not try to pretend I know how my words will affect one single heart.

I am certain of only one thing— this moment.  In it, I hear my own soft breath mixed with raindrops from outdoors, and I smell the warm oniony soup simmering in the kitchen. I feel the rubbery surface of the chair beneath me and the tap of the keys under my fingers. And I feel hope. Hope that the words that I type may reach another soul who can taste them, drink them, and reach them forward, mixed with her own ideas, to share. Share honestly. Listen.

Maybe faith comes with admitting to knowing little. Perhaps God needs you and me to have the tender heart of a child, willing to wonder in the dark, so that he can speak to us. Maybe strength comes from admitting weakness. And teaching only happens when we can become the pupil alongside of our children. When we share the journey with them.

I am thankful for this moment on the page, in my chair, sharing my thoughts, and for experiences and words that may have possibly connected you to me.

Bluebird, I am Sad

Copyright Amy Aves Challenger 2014

Bluebird, why are you staring at me?

I watch your dark shimmery eyes through the thick panes of my tall window, casually snacking on seeds with your neighborhood friends. You chirp to one another making morning music that sings to the grassy field with little effort. Crickets and bullfrogs call back to you, and you know you are not even close to alone.

Not alone like me.

Your bodies flitter as sky colored angels, just dropped from heaven, to entertain the heavy lives down here. We plod along. Though you may be a mother like me, bluebird, still you are free to play, to jump, to dance, to peck, to holler, and to fly away at any moment.

Bluebird I’m tired.

I envy your perky crown of feathers, your carefree fuzz able to go whichever way it chooses. I admire your ability to balance on every surface as though the earth is only a playground to you. Your tiny dots of thought glance at me when my back is turned, tending to a child’s scream or catching a falling orange glass of carrot juice. You see that I am arched over like a bending branch, my bones cracking and tired. You wouldn’t dare rest on me. You might fall. Mothering has worn me. I am a shut-in, trapped among the smell of dirty socks, sweeping crumbs for pleasure. I am a heavy vessel living above flat feet sliding a broom across years of dusty floors.

Bluebird I am sad.

I cannot find the right place for my child this week. He feels lost, and he has told me so. How I wish I could simply hop over to another tree, and find some new fruit, a new home to rest upon, just like you do. I yearn to feel the cool damp wind in my hair, to float above this place, to carry my boy on my back, smiling down on the world like I imagine every bird does.

Bluebird I have hope.

My child saw your face, he heard your song, and he smiled. “Look at the bluebird mom! I want to live in the forest, with the animals, out there,” he said pointing, as he watched you gobble up the seeds we poured into your house yesterday. I wonder if you came here to feed our souls, to tell us that our homes are temporary, and our problems are as transient as the molecules of air that you glide across. I wonder if you are my gift today, reminding me that all mothers are sisters, and maybe I can fly off to a mysterious land this morning, even if only for this moment, just like you.  

My Virgin Flight To Heaven

Have you been to heaven? I have. Seriously! This last week I flew Virgin America to get there. After deplaning, I plopped my cowboy boots on to the pavement, following my husband and three kids to our Minivan rental car, and my blue jeans began to travel through a space where I had never been before.

“We are HERE!” I exclaimed to my exhausted family, as though the pearly gates had opened for us.

The 70-degree air tasted different. Sweeter, kinder, and fresher. My eyes saw a landscape smiling and arcing upward to blue space, lined with little rectangular buildings painted pretty pastel colors, reflecting dots of light before the hills came back down, pouring out gentle rolling paths and roads. I saw spots of peach-colored poppies springing up in surprising places, then yellow and white wildflowers scattered across green expanses of curves. Purple cone flowers poked up like Dr. Suess had propped them next to the curves on the roads just to make me smile. Soft purple grey mountains whispered a wise welcome from far away.

Snap, snap, snap. I took pictures. I wanted more more MORE of this place. I wanted to save it. Bottle it. Package it in a to-go container.

I was in heaven. I was back home, in Marin County, where my husband and I had raised our kids for eight years. I had not been back since our departure just one year before.

My oldest had thrown a tantrum as we had waited for our car. But the air had been circling like medicine, filling my nose, brushing my ears with a strange harmony. As I blocked my boy from hitting my daughter next to the rushing traffic, I barely felt much fear. Worrisome thoughts tried to surface, but they then sort of popped into the atmosphere like little bubbles, disappearing. (Like I said, it HAD to have been heaven.)

Later in the car, over my oldest boy’s nervous banter and flying fists, I tossed out random happy words as though they were freshly picked wildflowers blowing in the wind, “Oh look! Look at that HILL. Look at that SKY. Look at that WATER. Look at the BRIDGE.” I couldn’t stop. My kids peered up at me with slightly concerned faces as I stuck my head out the car window on the highway, smiling at the air blowing my hair into tangles. They became quiet.

It looked like I had devolved into a very naïve toddler. (My 6-year-old once told me that kids live in heaven, here on earth— all the time!)

We had driven these roads countless times before, but in the past, I had not been able to suck in their splendor in quite this way. My tightly wound mind had been cluttered with school issues, with flashing clocks, beeping times and dates. My focused stare had been distracted by my mistakes of the week, reminders of after-school activities, grocery lists, and corners of the house needing cleaning. I could not see this place, all of its richness, very often. In the past, there had just been tiny glimpses, but then my brain had flipped back to the ruckus. Back inside of the blinding atmosphere of stress that had encircled me, stealing heaven right from under my nose.

And all that time, the gates had been right there. Inviting me in.

As our visit continued, I ran along trails similar to those that I had jogged down hundreds of times before when we had lived in Marin. But back then I had been thinking about other things. Problems. What school, what teacher, what way to help my son? Support my other kids. What friend? What way to help myself? So I had not felt the mist that poured down on to the land from the warm sky. I had not slowed down to observe the stripes of pink in the rocks, the tiny green pieces of rock, thousands of years old, buried in the dirt. Often in the past I had taken pictures of the beauty, (I love taking pictures) but I had not FELT it. You know? I had not lived in it. I had not listened to the hum of the wind. Not like this.

And then came the people. I swear, it was like they all wore white wings. Halos danced above their heads. And their smiles were so big that I had to wear my sunglasses everywhere. The moms from school, the church friends, the pastor, the babysitters, the home-school teachers, the nature teacher, the therapists, the old neighbors, the new babies, the work friends, the grandfather, the grocery store clerks, the swim friends, the swim coaches, the old friends from the city, the old gecko Eddie (OK, he isn’t a person, but…) These people were not like REAL people. No sir. They were like those people you picture in heaven. Smiling, hugging, laughing, eating, drinking, playing. Being honest. Looking me in the eye. Loving my kids. Loving.

Or maybe I was different? Seeing differently. I was not afraid anymore. Not afraid to hug. To smile. To share. Not afraid to be disappointed. Joy felt like it was dripping from me.

“What is this?” I wondered. Oh yea— heaven.

And the grumpy people? Of course they were there sometimes, too. I sort of saw that one tall blonde mom with a great big chest who turned her extra long back into my face so I had to back away and end the conversation I was having (cause I couldn’t see or be heard anymore.) She didn’t remember me, of course. And I saw her, um, back. But I saw her image differently… Maybe her stress was too thick. Her insecurities too opaque. Maybe she couldn’t smile much because she couldn’t see the sky. (I felt no better or worse than her. Just undeservedly someplace else on that day.) But anyway, I turned my face away, toward another smile, and POOF, she was GONE. It was that simple. I didn’t look at her again.

I wonder— could heaven be found so easily— any old day, in any old place? Could it be a simple spin of the heart toward the good, away from that other place that pulls down our souls? Could it be a glance upward toward the sky?

Here’s the greatest part: I’m not writing this so that you wish you TOO could go to Marin (if you aren’t there already.) Or live there. Or go on my runs. Or know the same people. See, on my trip I learned that you don’t have to travel Virgin Air to get to heaven. God is not living somewhere else, somewhere far away. I think He is sitting right there next to you. In you. With us all— all the time. Patiently waiting for us to notice. He taps his foot, holding the door opened for me, for you, my friend, my reader, the person who believes he or she isn’t worthy. He opens it for the one who doesn’t believe heaven or God exists at all. He opens doors in pretty places like Marin County, but also in seemingly dreary places like, well, like the slushy East Coast where I live now! (I know, I know, that coast is gorgeous too, but in March, at times, one might think otherwise.)

Anyway, I think heaven waits in the arms of a tree on a grey slushy cold street in Connecticut. It is dressed as a sunset, smiling through a window in a crowd of slightly stuffy people. Heaven is gleaming from the dimples of the messy-haired homeless child holding a fluffy cupcake at the soup kitchen. Heaven is in the embrace of the teacher with the sparkle in her eye who loves my child despite his moods and struggles. It is in the stranger, or the new friend who smiles and asks you how you are feeling.

And so I came back from my trip to heaven with HOPE. Hope that I captured a little bit of my magical, undeserved experience in these words. Who knows, maybe I flew to heaven just so I could share it with you.

And if I remember what I learned from leaving my beloved Marin behind, from my flight to that wonderful place, then maybe I can live there more often, wherever I go. Forever and ever.

Daddy, Come Home!

“Where’s Daddy tonight?” my eight-year-old asked as we sat down for dinner. I glanced up at our nanny, Mona, my husband’s fill-in. We had often joked that she was my other spouse. Like a fixture in our home.  

A paper airplane flew over the table as my oldest boy’s screeching sounds cleaned out my eardrums. I turned to catch him jumping over couches, arms waiving, working his way into what we call “an unsafe place.” My body tensed. Mona took my place at the table as I hopped up to prevent chaos. One-on-one attention for my 9-year-old is always needed, or things become out-of-hand quickly at our home. Dangerous actually. I wondered how we would survive without Mona’s support. How I would stay sane. I hated thinking about that, as my mind generally painted pictures of a lunatic tangle-haired sleepless mom tying kids to chairs at dinnertime, shoveling cereal into bowls with a trowel.

“He’s coming home late tonight,” I answered over my shoulder, “has a very important meeting.” Then I turned to my hyperactive boy, “how bout if you go ride the exercise bike for a bit, T. You can wear the headphones and watch a show.” I suggested. He screeched louder, grinning, disappearing up the stairs. 

“Not again! Dad’s never around anymore.” sighed the eight-year-old. Trying to get my attention while  pushing his food around on his plate, unable to eat much.

My hand found his shoulder, resting there a second. “Sorry love, but…tomorrow he’ll be here.” 

A little while later, I watched my boy storm up the stairs, head hanging over his slouched lips. I followed him, secretly grateful for the intensity of his love for his dad. I was thankful that he expected his presence rather than assuming that dads don’t belong at dinner anymore. Plus, I was a little bummed too.

“He wishes he could be here, honey. He wants to be, but his job…” and I looked beneath his messy hair to see tiny tears quietly drizzling down my boy’s soft skin.

“But he wasn’t here last night, Mom. I barely ever get to see him,” he choked.

“Well actually, you do get to see him more than lots of kids see their dads.” I tried a new sales pitch as I sat next to him on his bed. My angle felt cheap, though true. I thought about my friends with husbands who traveled all week, coming home eventually worn out. How did those dads connect with their kids? How did they really know them? I wondered. Then I pictured my exhausted friends without husbands who had been raising their kids alone because of difficult divorces. And my friends with husbands who worked in the city and could rarely make it home for dinner, seldom even before bedtime, if at all. My eight-year-old covered his head and body with his comforter.

“At least you'll see him at breakfast for a bit!” I tried to cheer him up through the thick cotton, picturing my tall husband running out the door after having a quick five-minute chat with my two kids who got up in time to join him for toast. “And tomorrow he says he’ll be here for dinner.” Though I knew often even those promises fell through.  

I pictured my husband’s brain and body attempting to be here and to be there and everywhere. Like a drone lost in the sky, arcing this way and that, spinning. How he tried to be the best at everything. At work, he felt he was never able to do or give enough. Everyone around him was working over 60 hour weeks, sacrificing time with kids, sacrificing time with community. So there was guilt when he left. At home, he was needed beyond comprehension. The exceptional needs of all of our kids erupted each time he entered our home. They needed to connect with him, to laugh, to share, to have arguments and tantrums and to be picked up afterwards and embraced. They needed to be known. They needed to play ball, to ski, to have Daddy visit school, to roughhouse, to share their insecurities, their fears. They wanted life lived with their dad’s face in the picture.

And my oldest. There were moods to contend with, defiant behavior, doctors to visit, therapists to understand, behavioral reports, the school to meet with weekly. There were new methods for helping him that seemed to change as soon as we learned them. There were new diets, new vitamins, and medication considerations. There was always a new worry, a new challenge.

Meanwhile my husband’s countenance had been becoming paler, his figure thinner, his hair greyer. The moments we could grab together were like gold, even if almost always tarnished because of child's bad mood, a tantrum, or a sibling spat. Our time together hasn't been close to perfect. But priceless time, nonetheless. Each memory has become important nugget in our life, in our children’s make-up, in their stories.

A few weeks ago, after much painful thought, countless meetings and discussions, my exhausted husband decided that he wanted more time in the family story. And so he returned home after resigning from his job. He left for multiple reasons. But primarily he knew that he had to make a choice. He chose our boys, our girl…and I suppose he chose me. He chose to search for a job where he will still act as the intelligent, passionate, creative business leader he is, while striving to balance work and life and family. His decision was incredibly hard for him and difficult for me to witness. He suffered because he decided to press against the norm, to dare to be different. But now, as a leader, he is marching toward a different horizon; he is heading toward a place that encircles families and community and compassion, all bound together by innovative business practices, hard work, and the desire to do good — I think his horizon reveals a complete and gorgeous picture. One that God has given us.

Today my little girl runs to her daddy like she never did before. He folds his long body downward and she whispers secrets into his waiting ear. She tells him stories. My boys hold his hand proudly as they walk to the bus in the morning or to the car after school. Their grins are contagious. They look up and laugh, seeing him draping our girl over his shoulder. They wait to share their day with him.

I don’t know what our future holds, and some days that feels really scary. (Another post will come!) But I do know that my kids are incredibly blessed. They have a daddy. And a good one. A daddy to wrap their little arms around, to laugh at their jokes, to worry alongside of me when they are hurting. They have a daddy who will be an essential part of their stories, into eternity.

Thank you God, so much, for daddies.