Cuddling my dear Nia

I am not a huge fan of ironing so I only do those items that I deem absolutely necessary (no sheets or underwear if you know what I mean!). So on Thursday, finding myself caught up (kind of!) on the constant stream of laundry, I decided to tackle my pile before it got too big. The kids were watching a DVD so I sat in the living room with them—I like to spend time with them while simultaneously ticking some chores off the list. Well, it was full steam ahead and I was whizzing through my pile… there were just a few things left to do. That’s when I needed to go to the other couch to sort out Johnny. I set the very hot iron on the iron rest at the end of the board and went to help him. The older girls were on the couch with us and Nia was playing on the floor—let me just say, this won’t be as bad as it sounds like it will be! Anyway, Aria picked Nia up just because tshe likes to do that sometimes. I saw danger looming and said, ‘Watch out… there’s a hot iron right there!’ As Aria turned to look at me, Nia’s thumb connected with the piping hot metal and she started to cry—big time. I rushed her to the bathroom and put her hand under the cold water faucet. She fought me so I didn’t leave it there very long. To tell you the truth, I didn’t think it was very bad. I smeared some aloe vera gel on it and came back to my ironing. She fussed a bit, but was tired as well, so I put her for her nap and she seemed fine after that. I didn’t really think about it; like I said, I didn’t think it was all that bad and the cares of the day crowded out any other thoughts.

It wasn’t ’til nearly 24 hours later that I actually saw it again… it was on the under-side of her thumb, so not in an obvious spot. But when I saw it, my heart sank—it looked bad. But it was also old by now, so I figured nothing really could be done for her. I just kept an eye on it. It wasn’t ’til the next day I actually called the medical profession, wondering if I should be putting antiseptic cream on it to ward off infection. That’s when they told me I needed to take her to A&E (ER). ‘Do you know where the nearest A&E is to you?’ the woman on the other side of the line asked. ‘Yes’, I said in a very unexcited voice. Yes, I knew where it was—in Chelmsford, a half hour drive by car. But I had no car as John was at work in a city an hour away. It was the middle of Saturday afternoon when everyone is occupied and even if someone COULD take me, I had four kids and no carseats. A taxi would cost a good £30-£35 and that would only get me there. I had to take the bus. Since moving to Maldon, I’ve not actually taken the bus anywhere. So John found out all the details for me and I set out with four kids in tow. Thankfully, they found the whole thing to be a great adventure—Johnny was especially pleased to be travelling by bus. We had to transfer once we were in Chelmsford and finally arrived in A&E an hour and a half after we’d left Maldon. I said a quick prayer that the receptionist would not be mean—they are sometimes. She was lovely and we were seen quite quickly.

Consensus: Nia has a bad second-degree burn on the side of her thumb and they gave her antibiotics to ward off infection and I have to go in again on Tuesday to have it looked at and dressed again. Poor baby, but she’s taking it completely in stride. Her movement doesn’t seem impeded and though she’ll have a scar, that could eventually go away (like by the time she’s 18, the doctor thinks!). The biggest danger at this point is infection.

It’s easy to feel guilty as a parent when things go wrong that you could have prevented. But I thank God that I don’t have to carry that guilt: the guilt of leaving the iron where the kids could get burned, the guilt of not holding that little hand under the water for very long when I should have known better, the guilt of not realising that this burn needed medical attention quickly. God takes that and brings grace, and also a thankfulness to my heart knowing that things could have been so much worse. Now I stand in faith believing that the burn will heal quickly and well.:)

John and Johnny on cliff-edge

‘Hush!’ I forcefully intoned in a loud whisper. It was the second morning of our vacation and things were NOT going well. That is to say, they HAD been going well—great, in fact, with a splendid day at the beach the day before, a woodland walk, fish & chips, and a most delicious homemade scone with Cornish clotted cream—divine. And despite my fears to the contrary, the previous morning had gone so amazingly well, with the kids sleeping till almost 7 and then quietly colouring while they waited for us to get up. But not so THIS morning. The cool mist that had descended during the night kept the brightness of the sun to a minimum and people were happily tucked away in their beds. But not so with our children. And instead of colouring harmoniously together in the still morning, they were squabbling… and whining… and generally creating a bit of a hub-bub. Both John and I were losing our cool and I was thinking about how awful camping could be with kids. After over half an hour of this, John said, ‘That’s it. We’re leaving.’

‘Where are we going?!’ I asked incredulously.

‘I don’t know’, he responded vaguely, yet confidently, ‘but we’re going.’ We quickly got the kids in the van though I felt like I was in a bit of a daze as I quickly tried to think of what we might need on this Spontaneous Breakfast Adventure… I mean, the kids hadn’t even eaten yet and Johnny was still in his pjs!

We drove just outside the little town of Lizard and saw a road for Kynance Cove. We had no idea what ‘Kynance Cove’ was, but it was the only road that seemed to lead in a westerly direction toward the coast. So we took a chance.

And it was amazing… everything about our breakfast! But I’m getting ahead of myself.

We set ourselves up in a big grassy parking lot at the end of that road. John started cooking up potatoes and eggs on the cooker he’d shoved in the van, and I got the kids their cereal, positioning them around a wee, makeshift table. A few dog-walkers were out and about at the early hour and I imagined we looked like a little cluster of travellers—I sure FELT like a traveller.

After eating up all our ‘vituals’, we felt much better. It was still early, about half 8, so I thought we should just meander down the path that said it led to the cliffs. I led the way with Nia strapped to my back. Quite suddenly, there was such a glorious scene spread out beyond me. The cliffs bounded steeply down, galloping toward a blue-green sea; great, rough rocks shot out of their aquatic foundations, reaching toward the paleness of an early morning sky; and further along the rocky cliffs lay a cove of white sand, seemingly hidden from the world and awesome in a way that takes one’s breath away with the hearfelt conviction ringing out, ‘There IS a God!’

We carefully traversed the path along the cliff, keeping careful watch over the kids (not a place to trip!) and made our way down, down, down until we reached the flat, sea-washed sands of the cove. The beach was like a labyrinth with its great rocks and cliffs stowing caves in their bosoms—here and there they wended their way into the rock, sometimes coming back out into the sunlight, sometimes burrowing deep and ending in a narrow crevice or vast cavern.

We stayed there for the whole of the morning. When we first arrived, no one else was there and we relished the feeling of being the only ones on this secret ‘Swiss Family Robinson’ sort of island. John and the three older kids stripped to their underwear and braved the chilling water; I ventured to turn up the bottom of my jeans and paddle about the shore:).

It was an amazing morning (even after other people began to arrive!)–such a gift from God that we almost missed out on.

Going camping in Cornwall for just three nights seems a bit crazy when it’s 7 hours away… especially with all the work involved to prepare. But our trip was FULL of goodness. It was like God crammed so much of it into those two full days we were there and we ended up coming away feeling blessed. And even that stressful morning was to push us into doing something we wouldn’t have otherwise done. And the fruit of that was exceptional good—good like a homemade scone slathered in jam and clotted cream!

Loving some time with my mischievous Kiera- Oct 2010

‘I just can’t cope with this anymore!’ Even as the words jumped up and out of my mouth, I hated them and wished I could pull them back… or better yet throw them into a black hole of oblivion. The racing clouds above me made it cold or warm in turn and I was speed-pushing the double-pram up the street to Aria’s school. Though Kiera was complaining of a sore leg, I was forcing her to ride her scooter, determined to keep her OUT of the pram (she IS four afterall!), yet still moving along at a fair pace. I was running late—again. I felt like life was beginning to run on fast forward and it was causing stress to ooze out of every pore. And Kiera, needless to say, was not very happy with all this. She heard my words and turned back from where she pushed herself along up ahead and said firmly, ‘You CAN cope with it.’ I was thankful for that truth from my little daughter’s assertion. ‘Thanks Kiera’, I said sincerely, seeing her point. ‘I needed that.’

This was yesterday afternoon as I did the notorious and often ominous, school-run. But it could have been most mornings or afternoons when I’m on my way up to the school. I have a thing about being on time, but having three to four children to get ready for ‘the run’ means I often miss my mark. As of late, with more going on in my life, this stress over the ticking clock has been getting out of hand.

All this flashed through my mind at discipleship group last night as Rob asked us to picture our funeral… imagine what we wanted to hear people say about us. There were four different categories of people, but by far, the one I considered most is what would my family, namely my kids, have to say about me? If I kept going on my current, out-of-control trajectory, they might be thinking, ‘Well, she rushed us a lot, lost her cool if we did something wrong, and was more concerned with being on time to things than with giving us time.’ Yikes! Not the person I want to be. The present focus of our group is imagining the person we want to be and making our life decisions (big and little) to aim us toward that place. And, when I remember to do that, it is SO helpful. I’ve been thinking about it all day. And today has had a vastly different flavour than what my days have tasted like of late. There’s no real difference in how the timetable of my day is spread out; but choosing to see ‘being late’ in perspective and taking the time to enjoy the kids on our school run rather than feeling stressed the whole time, made for a vast improvement—not only within me internally, but also with how the kids felt. They were obviously lighter in their spirits.
One of the things I loved about living in community was that it made me think more before I let out my steam, before letting it escalate to a shrill pitch. It made me aware of how I sounded, how I reacted. I tend to let my guard down when it’s just my family I’m around—God forgive me. But as the Psalms say over and over again, His mercy is new every morning. I started today with that ‘Rachel’ in mind that I want to be. May God give me the grace to have that same ‘eternal’ perspective tomorrow.

Listening- April 2011

Naomi, a munificent friend, with Aria and Nia (Dec 2010)

It was Tuesday. Sausages were in the oven, peas were being thought of, and my weary arm was mashing masses of mashed potatoes; Tuesday—Alpha day. Of course, Tuesday hasn’t always been Alpha day for me, but since the last weekend in April, John and I have been running an Alpha Course for our church. It’s been the first time I’ve done this and I foolishly did not do enough team-building. As a result, I have had most of the details to take care of myself: set-up, cooking, leading the discussions (thankfully a friend has been faithful in doing the clean-up afterward!). It’s not every Tuesday that is difficult; however, every second Tuesday John works evenings so it leaves me to do dinner for the kids and put them to bed in the midst of prepping the house for the group that meets here on a Tuesday night (to babysit the kids while we’re out!) and cook the Alpha meal.

As I frantically mashed those boiled potatoes into fluffy submission I heard some thumping in one of the bedrooms upstairs—Kiera. I hurriedly wove my way through the downstairs mess, opened the door for Lizi who’d just knocked, and rushed upstairs to deal with a mischievous little girl. I came back down into the chaos of my kitchen, racing against the ever-ticking clock. Lizi immediately pitched in to help and gave me the welcome news that her group wasn’t meeting tonight—welcome merely because I didn’t have to worry about the house being left in its current state. With the extra pair of hands, I managed to get out the door, utilizing the double pram as a wagon for transporting piping hot sausages, mashed potatoes, and just steamed peas, not to mention all the other bits and pieces needed for the evening. I got to Custom House just in time and our Alpha group enjoyed a filling meal before delving into the pursuit of theology (ie, discussion about God).

A munificent friend, Lizi, with Kiera (Aug 2010)

I got home with my clean dishes (thanks to Hanny!) just after 10 p.m. wondering how long it would take to tidy and wash up before I could hit the sack. I walked into the quiet house and immediately noticed a difference. Not only had Lizi done all my dishes from the whole of the day that I’d left stacked about my little, square kitchen, but she’d also tidied up every room in the downstairs of the house. I’d left a place that looked like a little whirlwind had swept through and came back to a tidy calm. I hadn’t felt so loved in ages, especially knowing that Lizi doesn’t even like doing dishes!

I often hear from people, usually strangers, that I must have my hands full. They see me out and about with my four kids and wonder how on earth I cope. The truth is, it has a lot to do with God’s grace and a lot to do with my munificent friends. Some of the words that define ‘munificent’ are ‘generous, open-handed, unstinting’ amongst others. It describes those with characters of immense generosity and those who display a giving nature. I am so thankful to the people in my life who display these qualities. So often our culture has this prideful need to be indepent of all others. I know this often comes into play in my own life. But the truth is that we all need munificent friends as much as we need to be the same to others. Since becoming a mother, this is even more true.

Mike, a munificient friend, with Aria and Johnny (Aug 2010)

So this is a little note of thanks to the COUNTLESS people who have helped me, whether it’s been that they’ve watched my kids for me for an hour or a full weekend, helped with my housework, been a listening ear, or spoken some encouraging words. Usually these munificent acts come from friends; other times it comes from the hand of a stranger or an acquaintance. Even as I write, acts of kindness come to mind and I’m left in a place of deep thankfulness.

For this reason, I was a little nervous about adding four more people to our household this past week, despite the fact that I was so happy to know that I’d get to spend seven days with my dear sister and her family. Ten people for one week in our little, hundred year old terrace house meant that space was a bit tight. Our living room floor space that is available isn’t even big enough to support a double mattress, so we had be creative with our sleeping arrangements upstairs. Jessica, Nathaniel and her two kids were in our bedroom (which is, I must add, the biggest room in the house!), John and I moved into Aria and Nia’s room (the tiny back bedroom with the slanted ceiling built onto the back of the house above the kitchen) and were very snug in her single bed:), and Aria moved into Johnny and Kiera’s small bedroom, sleeping on a chair bed on the floor. And you know what? It worked out pretty good! I felt like we were in the middle of some sort of adventure. It’s the same sort of feeling I get when I have to live out of just a backpack for a week.

Sweet sleep in India (2006)

But, all that said, I had a really bad week of wakeful nights. It wasn’t my neice and nephew… I didn’t hear a peep from them during the night hours and wee smas. It was MY children. Nia was so restless and I was out of bed probably around a dozen times a night. The other kids would then proceed to wake up early so I’d go in and lie beside Johnny in his wee goldilocks bed and keep them quiet until it was reasonable to get up. The last night the family was here was the worst of all and I got about 3 1/2 hours in total… blech!

However, the amazing thing is, I was and AM able to function on far less sleep than is ideal. My goal of nine hours a night is but a dream lost somewhere in the haze of mothering young children. But I still ‘live and move and have my being’. I find that my temper can be far worse when I’m tired and I’ll lose my patience A LOT quicker. But the amazing thing is, God poured out His grace on me this past week. Sure, there were moments, as I’m sure my sister can attest, that I ‘lost it’ with the kids. But I felt God’s presence really dwelling with me, covering my weakness.

As I was at church on Sunday (after that night of only 3 1/2 hours of sleep) I had a thought come to me. Jesus knew what it was to be deprived of sleep, but in a much more severe way than I know. The night before His crucifixion, He was kept from sleep. First, He had a last meal with His disciples that went on into the evening; then, they spent time praying in the garden and His spirit was troubled. Then there was a night of accusation and violence as He was put on trial before the Sanhedrin. He went to His torture and crucifixion without the strength that sleep can bring. God was His strength to endure. I admit, I felt a bit awed and humbled. What a Man, what a God, to give so much and pour Himself out… in the midst of human weakness He subjected Himself willingly to.

So sleep… glorious sleep. I savour it; I long for it; I try to get as much of it as I can. But I know that Christ is my strength when I don’t get enough. He is more than able to help me mother my children in a loving, wise way even when I get little sleep. His grace is beyond my understanding and I love Him for it.

So, on that note, to bed. May I have a restful night of plentiful sleep; may God’s grace carry me through if I don’t!

Aria absolutely 'crashed' after our journey by areoplane from Scotland to America (Oct. 2006)

This all happened yesterday—yesterday which was John and my seventh anniversary. We left ALL the kids with friends, and drove the hour and a half to London. Parking wasn’t an issue as it was Sunday, so we left the van a couple blocks from Tower Bridge and ‘hoofed’ it for a while before climbing on the Tube, then the bicycles.

Highlights of the day included: that first cycle ride we had from South Kensington to Piccadilly Circus, finding an Italian gelateria tucked off the main road and eating gelato, the prime rib we both ordered in the tall and narrow Italian restaurant, riding double on the bicycle through Hyde park as we searched for a ‘cycle bay’ to find another one, seeing the rough stone of Big Ben towering above us.

Lowlights:-): Sore feet, the heat in the tube, our second cycle ride when we had frustration after frustration in finding available bicycles (when we DID both get one we experienced the reality of how large a distance the city centre of London spans not to mention the confusion of detours!), darkness falling and the stress of wondering if we’d find a cycle bay with two empty slots where we could ditch the bikes, trying to find a tube or bus station to take us back to tower bridge, and the frustration of the day growing ever later (we eventually arrived home near midnight!).

I’m not as young and carefree as I was ten years ago and I am thankful, so thankful, for uneventful, simple routine:). But I must say, the lowlights mainly involved stress of the moment (like sore feet!) and the unknown (like were we EVER going to get back to the van!). So I can look back on everything the day after, when my feet are only semi-sore, and relish the fun and adventure of a day out in London with just the hubby, celebrating our life together.

George Muller was a good ol' fashioned brit who cared for 10,024 orphans in his life. He was well-known for providing an education to the children under his care, to the point where he was accused of raising the poor above their natural station in life. He also established 117 schools which offered Christian education to over 120,000 children, many of them being orphans.

I came across this amazing excerpt from George Mueller. I just had to post it. What an amazing way to consider God, the Bible and our lives! Hope it blesses you the way that it blessed me!

We have, through the goodness of the Lord, been permitted to enter upon another year—and the minds of many among us will no doubt be occupied with plans for the future, and the various fears of our work and service for the Lord. If our lives are spared we shall be engaged in those: the welfare of our families, the prosperity of our business, our work and service for Christ may be considered the most important matters to be attended to; but according to my judgement the most important point to be attended to is this: above all things see to it that your souls are happy in the Lord. Other things may press upon you, the Lord’s work may even have urgent claims upon your attention, but I deliberately repeat, it is of supreme and paramount importance that you should seek above all things to have your souls truly happy in God Himself! Day by day seek to make this the most important business of your life. This has been my firm and settled condition for the last five and thirty years. For the first four years after my conversion I knew not its vast importance, but now after much experience I specially commend this point to the notice of my younger brethren and sisters in Christ: the secret of all true effectual service is joy in God, having experimental acquaintance and fellowship with God Himself.

But in what way shall we attain to this settled happiness of soul? How shall we learn to enjoy God? How shall we obtain such an all-sufficient soul-satisfying portion in him as shall enable us to let go the things of this world as vain and worthless in comparison? I answer, This happiness is to be obtained through the study of the Holy Scriptures. God has therein revealed Himself unto us in the face of Jesus Christ.

In the Scriptures, by the power of the Holy Ghost, He makes Himself known unto our souls. . . . [Therefore] The very earliest portion of the day we can command should be devoted to the meditation on Scriptures. Our souls should feed upon the Word. . . . This intimate experimental acquaintance with Him will make us truly happy. Nothing else will. . . . In God our Father, and the blessed Jesus, our souls have a rich, divine, imperishable, eternal treasure. Let us enter into practical possession of these true riches; yea, let the remaining days of our earthily pilgrimage be spent in an ever increasing, devoted, earnest consecration of our souls to God. (George Mueller, A Narrative of Some of the Lord’s Dealings with George Mueller, Written by Himself[Muskegon, Mich.: Dust and Ashes Publications, 2003], pp. 730-732)

When I was writing for Liberti magazine, I wrote an article on my alone time: that sacred time that I would hoist my pregnant self out of bed, throw on some clothes, grab my Bible and an apple, and take myself down to the riverside for some peace and reflection before I had to jump into my day, all systems go. Well, since having wee Nia, who is a joy and a delight, but doesn’t always give me all the precious sleep I need, I have found getting out of bed earlier than I absolutely need to is impracticable.  Rather than mourn my lost ‘alone time’ that I enjoyed every day, I had to come up with a new plan to make things work. That’s something I’ve found out about motherhood— children are constantly moving into different stages and I need to be willing to change the out-workings of our life rhythms without losing the essence of the rhythms themselves. So, realising that I would go mad without some quiet inserted into my day, I began to contemplate my options.

It took quite some time, actually, but I’ve finally found something that is working for me—at the moment at least! I make it a point to take a half hour or so out in the back garden to sit and breathe for a while. Then I gather up my tea or coffee (whatever I’m in the mood for) and my Bible or journal and enjoy my alone time—sweet time out:-). Sure, sometimes I’m disturbed by the kids, but I try to do it when they are occupied with something where I won’t be needed; and I try not to let myself be stressed over the little interruptions. As I breathe, I slow down, pulling myself out of the hectic pace of housework, feeding kids, and the school run and into a place of enjoyment and awareness. Sometimes it takes a while, but I let myself take pleasure in doing nothing—in being. Guilt doesn’t come into it, because I know I’ll emerge on the other side feeling refreshed and energized, ready to take on the next thing. It’s amazing how a bit of time out brings perspective!

It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I heard the back garden (yard) referred to as ‘the back door’. I think that it’s a Scottish way of referring to all that lies beyond that well-worn port-hole. Of course, growing up in Canada, I had no end of space to play in the often large garden that surrounded whatever house we happened to be living in. It was a place of tree-climbing, soup-making, baseball playing, and imaginary adventuring. I walked through that oft-used door into a land of my own. I could be whoever I wanted to be there.

Last night I discovered that the gift I had beautifully wrapped for a close friend, which lay waiting under the Christmas tree, was not as perfect as I’d thought it was. The item came up randomly and to my chagrin, my well-thought out gift that I’d planned ahead for and had bought a month and a half in advance would only be welcome because it came from my hand and not because it, in itself, was wanted. As I lay in bed before falling asleep, I found myself racking my brain to think of something meaningful that I could rush out and get for her last minute. My careful planning to avoid shopping in the last few days leading up to Christmas was thrown to the wind and I found myself trying to figure out if I could get into busy Glasgow, without the kids, to (hopefully) buy a welcome substitutionary gift. As we sang meaningful songs this morning in church I still found my mind wandering to the nagging question of what THE item could be. But then God grabbed my attention… through the sermon… and I listened. The man up front talked of how Christmas had become some worldly cycle of trying to out-do ourselves and putting ourselves under financial pressure to make sure we ticked off all the cultural ‘to dos’, the necessary gifts, the hurried last minute ‘buys’ because we must get them SOMETHING. And I was doing this in my mind… in the middle of church. Suddenly, I knew what I was to give my dear friend and my heart lurched a bit, but I also felt good about sacrificing something dear to me.

I have a plant. She is a kalanchoe and her name is Felicity. She only cost me a couple of pounds and she’s been in my possession for about two or two and a half years. She lives in a white tin pot painted in coloured polka-dots and she lives in the warmest, lightest place in the flat– the windowsill in Johnny’s room. I have faithfully cared for her and trimmed her of any dead foliage, watering her weekly, but she wouldn’t bloom. Finally, after following some advice from a friend with a green thumb, Felicity has broken forth in a multitude of small buds. They have grown larger and larger and I think that she will be in full bloom in the beginning of the new year. And this dear little plant, who I’ve talked to and gently handled was what I felt God wanted me to give to my friend.

Perhaps my friend won’t love my wee plant as I have loved her. But she will know that it is a gift from my heart. It is not about consumerism. It is about giving a part of oneself, about true giving no matter how great or little the cost. Every now and then God asks me to give up something that means a lot to me. Part of it is to keep me from becoming too attached to ‘things’. Part of it is to remember that there is a cost in true giving, but that this kind of sacrifice is something beautiful.

And in this time of year when the economy, the salespeople, the advertisements, are in a frantic state to get us to buy, buy, buy, it is good to remember that there is more to Christmas, more to life, than what we get, or even how much we give out. There is joy in simple things. There is joy in true giving. And there is joy in the memories that we make (which rarely has to do with the presents!). And so I savour my walk in the cold of the garden to bless the wee birdies with food. And so I give a gift that means something to me. And I remember Christ.