I’m a muddled mess of questions. I’m seeking answers, not knowing if they even exist.

I’ve spent weeks, searching. Pulling a bit here, reading another piece there. Trying to make sense of this life.

When so much of what one thought to be true, thought stood for truth, exemplified it, is swept away, a hole is left in its place. A gap.

If that wasn’t Truth, what is?

I’m not talking Jesus here. I know Jesus is Truth.

But I’m talking all the other stuff. There is so much… stuff.

When the formula didn’t work, what is left… exactly? The thing that seemed “right” was done, the thing that was supposed to give the end results. A long, lifetime marriage for my parents… a happy, “multi-generationally vision-ed” family. Everyone was doing what they were supposed to do. (Well, almost everyone… but I digress.)

The formula doesn’t work. Formulas never do. People have hearts, and those hearts often wander.

“Cling to Jesus,” they say. And I am. Only Jesus.

But life must be lived. And how? What is truth anymore?

Voices, coming at me from every direction, speaking various versions of “truth.” I know what I though when I was 10, then a slightly different version when I was 13, and again something different when I was 16.

I’m not blaming my parents for this in any way, being that even as a young girl, I was a seeker who veered off on paths all my own. Even on the paths my parents did lead us down–many they would admit weren’t the best–were sought because they wanted something different, something better for their children. They didn’t know how to be Christian parents and were learning with each step. They were doing the best they could. I don’t hold them responsible for my questions.

But here I am now, having watched so much crumble.

We were so certain that each of those things was Truth. The people on one side point to verses, Greek roots and texts, claiming Truth. The ones on the other side do the same.

Who is right?

Jesus. Jesus. Holding on to Jesus.

The questions scare me. Venturing out of the security of the formula isn’t comfortable. It is terrifying. I feel guilty for the questioning itself. How dare I?

But it is necessary.

Job asked. Thomas needed visual proof. And yet Jesus loved them. He gave them the answers they sought.

He isn’t afraid of my questioning. It doesn’t change Him or who He is. The Truth will stand, regardless of me.

He gently leads, and guides, and reminds me to gaze at Him.

Perhaps that’s the only Truth I need to know.

I know. Crazy.

But I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. Not because I truly loved every minute of the bathtub ordeal (which I did), but because of what we got out of it.

This little man:

Our Bubbie.

We had no idea how precious you’d be.

Bubs, we love your smile.

And your giggle.

And your phrases.

OH, your phrases.

“Blank-blank, too?” Asking for your blankie when you wake up, swollen eyed and smiling.

“Brang dees?” “Bring dees?” Dees is the pacifier, which you still love. We always said we wouldn’t have a toddler with a binky. We said a lot of things. Now we don’t say things.

“Bruhbuh!” Brother, whom you love. Most of the time.

“E-eat?!” Your constant request. It’s almost always for apples, grapes, or pears. Or fries.

“Whatch moonie?” You LOVE movies.

“Whatch Pete Pan?” More specifically, Peter Pan.

“Be fun! Be fun!” You’re kind of obsessed with him.

“Ship ‘live! Ship ‘live!” You swing your sword around and cry, “Ship Alive!” Quoting from your movie, of course.

“Gi’nt! Gi’nt! Fi-f-f-fummmmmmmmm! Fi-f-f-FUMMMMMMMM!” Giants. You kinda have a flair for the fantasy.

“All. We. Yike. CHEEP. Haf. Gone. ‘Stray. ‘Saiah. Phree. SIX.” Quoting Isaiah 53:6, like Brother. You have no clue what you’re saying.

“Good guy. Good guy, Dad!” You’re meaning to say “bad guys.” You say this with a furrowed brow and try not to smile.

“Coff-coff? Hot? Coff-coff? Jink? Pease?” Okay, so our two year old needs his cuppa. Don’t judge.

“Come, Mom. Come-come, Mom.” You take my hand, insistant and ready to show me what makes you happy. I love this one.

You light up our life, Merritt Will.

Happy Second Birthday, little one.

~*~ the finished scarf ~*~

A symbol of moving forward.

We’re all moving forward, because we could never go back.

We would never want to go back.

It’s now been a year since things were normal… a year ago today, we were all at Disneyland together, celebrating Merritt’s birthday.

The boys haven’t seen their grandfather since that day. Troy still asks where he is… does he live at the fire station now?… if he’s coming back… if he loves us.

But Merritt doesn’t remember him. At all. Can’t even point to him in a picture.

So we keep moving forward. Healing. Loving each other. Laughing. Making a new normal. Trying to figure this whole mess out.

Wondering if we ever will.

A week from now, we’ll be accompanying my mom on her way across the country, following the sunset and a dream of a new future… a happy future.

She’s already said she’s heading to Nebraska… and that there’s a story. So go, hear her story.

It’s a good one.

Or to, you know, people watch.

I don’t know who is more entertaining: the older lady wearing every hue imaginable, several long chunky necklaces and a golfer’s cap–backward–or the younger one with her tennis shoes tossed aside, sitting on her knees in an overstuffed armchair with her laptop propped up at eye level by a stool. Or quite possibly the man who wants everyone to know he is a Very Important Businessman and also that he is Quite Accomplished With The Humor and basically YELLS his conversation while pacing the checkered floor, using hand motions liberally because, of course, he’s talking on his Bluetooth.

Tonight’s winner is probably the Taylor Swift lookalike two seats down from me, who is drinking her venti soy latte with great and practiced flair while flirting with the two young Marines in Abercrombie shirts across the room. A close second goes to the mother, daughter and aunt at the table in front of me, who are simultaneously perusing Cosmo while discussing the soap opera that seems to be their large family. Someone is pregnant and they think the other cousin’s husband might be involved and the other aunt has threatened to kill him. I do believe they have even my wonderfully crazy family topped with that one.

What can I say? I’m nosy. Unless you can think of a nicer way to say it.

Speaking of being nosy, tomorrow (or likely, TODAY, by the time you read this) should provide plenty of opportunity for indulging in such a thing. Over at YLCF, we’re hosting a “Peek Into Your Day” blog carnival, in which we all post a regular ol’ normal “day in my life” style blog post and then all link up at YLCF. The emphasis is on being REAL. (Bet you can’t guess whose idea this was. Certainly not the girl who writes this blog and should just wear a t-shirt proclaiming her affinity for authenticity. Hmm, that’s an idea…) I’m hoping for LOTS of opportunity to be a fly on the wall of some real households.

If you’re just now hearing about this, it’s not too late to join in the fun. Just write up a post about yesterday or the day before (remember, we want to hear about REALITY, so just tell it like it is) and link up. Fun, fun, fun.

Because I’m nothing if not inquisitive. And maybe a bit nosy.

Friday, September 18th begins as usual with John’s alarm startling us out of our slumber. We both tend to believe there is not a sound on earth quite so jarring as an alarm clock’s buzz. I think it could qualify, if needed, as some form of torture.

So, we hit snooze. Quickly.

read more…

And don’t miss the “Peek Into YOUR Day” Blog Carnival, hosted by YLCF next Wednesday, October 28. We’re going to be linkin’, and blog hoppin’, and being totally and completely nosy. So chronicle one of your real, normal, everydays. Post the button. Post your day. BE REAL. Be there.

And then I sink into my pillow, tired mama eyes closing in the late night darkness. Sleep.

When the alarm blares at 5:00am, I’ve already been up with a three year old who woke, sweaty and hot in the fleecy jammies he insisted on wearing to bed. After slipping out of his footed sleeper, he tossed and wiggled and whimpered for an hour, snuggled between us in our bed. His daddy carried his limp form back to the toddler bed, eventually, but thirty minutes later, the other little boy was awake, coughing and crying, the residual effects of a long-lasting cold.

They say the “up all night” era ends alongside the end of infant hood. They’re wrong.

The alarm sounds. My eyelids are heavy and my arm asleep, as is the toddler curled up inside the curve of it. I don’t even open my eyes, irrationally sure even my lifting of the lids or my very breath will wake this light sleeper.

Another quiet morning. Slipping away before my closed eyes.

I need some time with you, Lord. My heart aches, attempting to ward off the chill setting in from lack of those communion mornings.

Later, from the kitchen counter, spreading peanut butter on bread, I feel it again. The chill. If only… time. To sit, to read, to ponder, to pen, to find answers to my questions and curiosities.

We eat breakfast, hurry out the door. Purse, lunch cooler, waters, keys, sunglasses. Rushing.

We drive, heading to the park. Meet friends, talking, playing, running, laughing. Drive home. Naps for boys, catching up for me. Dishes, laundry, check email, put lines through words on the to-do list. A block of time is what I need, Lord. Just a day, an afternoon, an hour. To sit and ponder, finding answers. Time… just time.

The boys wake. I slice pears. Last load of laundry goes in the dryer. While putting away clean size 4T jeans, I spot the box of 2T clothes that has been sitting in the corner of the boys’ room for over a week. I tackle the swap; size 18 months out, size 2T in.

My arm hold a stack six inches high of little polos and t-shirts. Hangers slip quickly into each neck line and onto the closet rod.

From across the room, I heard a melody. Two little voices giggling and singing. It was their favorite song. “Forever, Author of Salvation, our God is mighty to save…”

Holding a small green hanger in one hand and a blue shirt in the other, I froze.

I’d missed it. It was so simple, and yet I missed it.

It was in that early morning, before the sun peered in, when I spoke to the Lord while cuddling a toddler. It was in the selfless, unconditional love of a husband who encourages and challenges me, strengthens and cherishes me. It could be found as I made lunches in the morning, the boys and I singing silly songs about frogs and teeth and Jesus. It was driving an hour up the coast and meandering with my God through the depths of my heart. It was while watching my boys play with a new little friend at the park. It was the moment when one of them pouted and spoke harshly and I battled my pride in front of my own friend. It was the drive home, listening to music to remind me that Jesus saves and that my completion and hope are found in Christ alone. It was this moment, hearing the sounds of my little men, singing of our Savior.

It was communion with my Jesus.

And I’d missed it. I was holding on to an idea that says if I don’t get up at 5:00AM for the ideal hour of 100% distraction-free time with my Lord, my entire day was shot and my communication with him was broken. Or that until I had a large block of time to do nothing but study and search my Bible, my heart would remain barren and cold.

I’d almost passed right over the Truth.

The Truth is that Jesus sees me right where I am–the exhaustion of a mother, long nights, sick little ones and busy mornings–and he meets me there, too. He reveals his character, his unconditional love, his simplicity, in the minutia of my ordinary day-to-day, if I would only break out of my mold enough to see it.

He fills and warms the chilling heart. He gives glimpses of his glory.

I just have to catch it.

Troy said he was going to ask Jesus, “Jesus, are you gonna help me obey ‘cuz it’s so, so hard?” And, says Troy, Jesus told him, “Yup!”

I was shocked because, lo and behold, that’s the same conversation I had with Jesus just this very morning.

Now, here we are, all piled into our pretty new red couch, and we’ve been talking about “happy things,” as the three year old calls them, or “heppy tings!” as the almost two year old says. Things that make us smile.

Here’s the boys’ list:

• suckers
• chocolate milk
• making pumpkin pie with Mommy (Troy’s constant request the past week–so I spotted the pumpkins at Trader Joe’s this week and picked one up. It’s today’s big project.)
• books
• poems (Merritt is obsessed with Eloise Wilkin’s Poems to Read to the Very Young)
• baby Pooh Bear
• “You make me happy Mommy!”
• The bathtub from Jesus (“What’s that Troy?” “Um, it’s so Jesus can wash my sins away.” Oh. Okay.)
• Coff-coff (That’s Merritt, obvs.)
• Daddy riding his bike superfast to our home after work

My list would include all the same things, since seeing them smile means I do the same, and also a few more:

• Cloudy mornings
• Surprise Starbucks, brought home by my guy, just to make me smile
• A breakfast of fried range fed eggs and a slice of whole wheat sourdough
• Also, the wheat berries sprouting in my kitchen (I feel healthier just typing it–the power of the written word and all)
• My beloved’s strong hand holding mine
• Hearing the pattering of little feet finding our room in the early morning hours
• Knowing the gym is there, even if sickness keeps me away for weeks at a time
• Going on walks… exercise, the old fashioned way
• Making it to church last night, after all
• Hearing that one of John’s young Marines is stabilized after a near-fatal car accident yesterday morning
• Having garage sales… mostly for the crazies we get to chat with throughout the morning
• A little boy who dresses himself in khaki shorts and a beachy tank top in October
• Early morning coffee and devotions while the house is quiet
• Having my beloved HOME…
• Friends who don’t cater to my Crazy, make me laugh and challenge me to be a better me
• Bloggie buddy meet ups
• The anticipation of Tuesday nights… laptop and Starbucks… my night to both be “off” and to “work”
• Kisses
• Sushi–the newest love of my life
• Books upon books upon books… and time to read them

Happy things on a cloudy Monday morning.

What three things are making you smile today?

The couch was bigger than our old one, the coffee table was taller, and finding room for another chair, end table and hutch was going to be like telling my boys that every single hug can’t turn into a wrestling match, because it then ends up in someone getting hurt and then results in tears from one or both parties and then someone ends up with a pouty face and has a bad attitude and then there’s more crying and maybe some whining and PLEASE, NO MORE HUGS FOR THE BROTHERS. Thank you.

In other words, while I was crazy excited and grateful that my mom gave me this stuff,  I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of finding room for said stuff.

But when all was said and done–mostly thanks to that husband of mine who has all the good ideas and puts up with me when I am the one pouting and whining and asking if we can just leave it all in the garage, prettysuperplease–it looks purty awesome. And makes me happy.

It’s cozy and warm and the two tall bookshelves flanking the couch give the whole thing a library quality that makes me just want to curl up against the fluffy couch pillows and read Madeline L’Engle or Virginia Woolf all day long while sipping tea from an heirloom teacup. Perfection.

SO ANYway, I was trying to describe the new digs to my mom and my mother-in-law and thought video taping it would just be easier. And then–epiphany! Why not take all this wonderful mediocrity and display it on the blog? Because surely you’re all as nosy as me and would like to see the inside of someone else’s house.

And also, you get to see the truth in the fact that I make more sense in writing than I do speaking. Mostly because my brain moves faster than my mouth can keep up. Just sayin.

Also, bonus points and possibly even a real life prize to the first person to correctly identify my pet word-slash-phrase. Or maybe count the number of times I say it. It’s quite annoying. Keep in mind this video was completely last minute, so I didn’t exactly get myself all beautified–or beautified at all–before filming. It’s the end of a long, makeup-less, ponytailed hair day. Whatcha see is whatcha get.

One more thing. Please video your house. And send me the link. Thank you. That is all.

Yesterday we filled boxes. We sorted clothes, old pictures, and a ridiculous number of books. Often, when it came to books, we sorted the same title–different copies–multiple times. Nothing like forgetting that you already have three copies of that book in your hand and instead remembering that you’ve been wanting to read it for a couple years.

We were packing my mom’s house… the house that holds all of our memories. We moved to this house a little after I turned five. My baby brother wasn’t even walking.

I remember the day we looked at it. Walking down the hall behind my parents, I noticed the walls in the room that would likely become mine. They were blue. A light blue, but seemed to get darker closer to the ceiling. The current owners had a little boy, younger than me, and for some baffling reason, had positioned two twin beds in that bedroom. I was a cynical child and thought it ridiculous that one preschooler would need two beds. I also wondered if a little girl would be able to fall asleep in a room painted blue.

But when I woke up in that room yesterday morning, I tried not to remember the blue walls or the Beauty and the Beast bed or the Fisher Price kitchen or the American Girl dolls. I tried to will my thoughts away from the perimeter of the room, where throughout my teens I tacked almost one hundred drying roses and mums and tulips to the popcorn ceiling.

I tried.

My brother had to pack that room yesterday. Being the bigger of the two spaces, he’d moved himself in after I got married.  He’s been at college recently, home sporadically–only long enough to toss clothes across chairs, movies on the desk, scatter sheet music the nightstand. This was his last day at home before our mom moves.

It’s a necessary move. A good move. While the timing wasn’t exactly expected, the idea has been solidifying for months. It is time… for more reasons than I can list or you can fathom. We’re looking forward to the clear horizon this move brings for our mom. I’m not trying to self-convince when I say it’s a Very Good Thing.

But our mom is moving… from our childhood home… to a place across the country… .

It’s hard to not be upset with the person who forced all of us into this place of raw emotion. Especially when that person is too steeped in his own sin to pay attention to what he’s done to those left behind.

But raw emotions don’t get the job done. They don’t make it through a day of packing, when there aren’t very many more days in which TO pack. So I pushed those raw fragments down. Down deep. As far as they would go.

At least… I tried.

I didn’t cry when we opened the photo albums.

I laughed when we pulled out old toys.

My breath caught and my eyes spilled when my brother and I opened a small box of our favorite old VHS tapes. It seemed trivial… these were just movies… but he and I knew why they threatened to unlock the door holding down those emotions. He put his arms around me and I drew in my breath slowly.

“Tears are allowed today,” my mom whispered. But I knew she was keeping the same door closed. She looked away, biting her upper lip and taking in a few quick inhales without letting them back out.

I didn’t want to cry. I’ve had enough experience with it this past year to know that sometimes tears are healing, but sometimes they just add to the pain. Another hassle in the midst of what has to be done anyway. I didn’t want to feel it.

My eyes remained dry when I entered Zach’s room–my old room–and helped him pack. We’re as opposite as ever when it comes to organization, and we laughed. He’s grown, a man, and still doesn’t get far in that room without some direction from his bossiness-prone sister. Some things…

I pushed harder against that locked door as evening grew closer, realizing the emotions were beginning to push back. I hoped my firm will was the stronger opponent.

I smiled when we pulled the lid off a small box filled with my grandma’s handwork projects, knitting needles, needlepoint patterns. I grabbed tightly the thought of how livid she’d be with her son if she were still alive, wrestling the valid, true notion to the ground. We pulled out a ball of twilight blue yarn and the half-finished crochet piece attached. My mom handed it to me and suggested I finish it, work it into another project. A bit of Grandma… Grandma and all her projects. I set it near my purse and grinned at how alike she and I are.

John wrapped me in a hug when, later, I stopped and leaned across the ironing board, head on my arms. I remembered the feeling of an ugly cry and pushed against the locked door a little harder.

When Zach loaded up his little green car and drove away… away from the house, back to school… I thought my will was going to lose. I blinked. Hard. Again, and again. And again.

I was trying.

Denial. I knew it. But I wondered why on earth people speak so much evil of such a helpful tool. I’d almost made it through the day.

John finished packing the trailer hitched to our truck and closed the sliding door. Boxes, old toys to sell, the couch to go to our house, wall decorations, my mom’s grandma’s hutch. We have another trip or two back to the house before the move, but this was most of what we needed to take our direction.

Hugs around, “Call me when you make it home”, truck doors slamming shut, and we were off. We drove down that street I grew up on and I closed my eyes against the old familiar landmarks. The desert lots where we built forts, the mysterious house on the hill, the steep street we’d ride our bikes down without using brakes. I tried not to picture them.

I was trying.

And I’d made it. The hard part was over. Now it was all about wrapping things up, being excited for the next step in the moving process, the road trip, the new apartment. I’d made it. My mind filled with happy visions of the weeks ahead and the people involved and the fun we’d have.

We drove down, out of the desert hills and I started talking to John about nothing and everything. I pulled out that ball of my grandma’s twilight blue yarn and the hook while we talked about driving and bike riding and the kids, unrolling the half-finished crocheted piece to see how long it was. I hadn’t found a pattern in the box and wondered what I’d do with this, an unfinished bunch of stitches I may or may not be able to identify. I was talking to John and examining the twists of the strands, a bit overwhelmed at the idea of finishing the project, looking closely in the dim light.

I stopped mid-sentence.

Pulled the yarn project against my face.

It smelled like her.

It smelled like her.

Not like dust or fabric softener or the ten years spent packed in the garage. But like her. Like her house, her sheets, her towels, her couch pillows… a mixture of Oil of Olay, Chanel No. 5 and cooking spices.

The door had come unlocked.

I pushed that yarn as close to my nose as I could manage. I thought of my brother, of my cousins. I wanted to stuff this in a bag and let them all smell it. My aunts, my mom. They’d want to wrap themselves in the long piece of crocheted work… a hug, ten years overdue.

I thought of my dad. I wondered if he’d care.

Raindrops began splashing on the windshield as John drove through the night, his hand reaching across to rest on my knee, gently, comforting. The rain was light, then a little harder, then light again, forming tiny rivulets on the edges of the windows. Mimicking my tears.

I sat cross-legged in the front seat, not moving most of the two hour drive home except to unroll and roll again the knotted and looped yarn, searching for a new spot in which to bury my face. The twilight blue strands were wet with salty tears.

But it wasn’t an ugly cry. It wasn’t the breaking forth of the depths I’d worked so hard to keep back. It was quiet, calm… and then it was over.

Thirty minutes from home, I spread the piece across my knees. I ran my fingers along the pattern, realizing how simple it was. Three double crochets, chain three, three double crochets, seven double crochets… simple. Repetitive. All I would have to do to finish would be to pick up the hook and yarn and continue.

It looked so complicated. It held so many memories, so many emotions. I wasn’t sure what I’d do with it.

So I just picked up the yarn and the hook and worked the next stitch. And the next. And the next.

I thought about when we painted the blue walls in my bedroom. When we packed up the Beauty and the Beast bedspread and layed out the beautiful green and pink and yellow comforter in its place. I remembered pulling down the roses and mums from my ceiling and taking them to my new married home in a box. I thought of the day Zach put his furniture in my old room, replacing the pink and green with his orange and silver and black.  My mind glanced back at his graduation a few months ago.

I remembered our family, as was. I thought of our family, as is.

Life looks so complicated. A twisted and knotted mess. No pattern, no sense to make of it.

But the repetition… it saves me. The simplicity.

Three double crochet… change comes as surely as the seasons.

Chain three… we’ve made it every other time.

Three double crochet… our Jesus is real.

Seven double crochet… He’s carried us through every storm and change.

Three more double crochet… emotions are real… and okay.

Chain three… denial is a defence mechanism.

Last three double crochet… but healing comes with feeling.

Join with slip stitch… weakness becomes strength in my God.

Chain three… change will come again, and again, and again.

Turn, repeat… and my Jesus will be as faithful then… as He has been in the past… as He is right now.

And so I pick up the yarn, the hook. And just keep going.

Or, well, to be quite literal, we WILL BE packing today, but currently My Three  Guys and I are piled on the couch watching the adventures of Special Agent Oso. But in just a little bit, once everyone has rubbed the sleep out of their eyes and the coffee has had a chance to make us jittery, we’ll be packing boxes. Boxes full of clothes, of well-loved books, of Pyrex baking pans, old pictures and baby keepsakes.

There is a move happening, but we aren’t going anywhere. (At least not quite yet… but that’s a topic for another day…) My mom is moving. After almost a year of All The Mess, it’s time. So she’s heading out into the wild blue yonder of…

…wait for it…

Omaha, Nebraska.

I KNOW. Crazy. But there is a reason. And a story. (A purty awesome one, at that, if I might say so.) And she’ll tell it all when the time is right.

So today the boys, John, my brother (home from college for a day), my mama and, you know, moi, are all home for one last time, packing up boxes full of… schtuff… and whole heap o’ memories.

We might pack a few tears in those boxes, too, but we’re not talking about that part.

Also, we’re talking about favorite books on marriage and singleness over at YLCF today, so head on over there and chime in with your list.