This Test Is Timed

For most, birthdays are about the happy-in-the-now and the giddy-of-ahead.
No rearview mirror to be found.
Except for when those birthdays belong to our kids.
Then my neck's a'cranin' to yesteryear.

I guess looking back makes the "right now" all the richer.
Lights the ahead in even brighter hues.
Because these little ones are it for me.
I'm a wife. A teacher. A friend. A leader. A sister. A daughter. And a follower of Christ in all six.
But a mother: now that's the role that has changed my world.
Perhaps it is the role that changes the world.

However you slice it, I look backward. To cherish the present. To appraise the future.
But a three foot package in the today makes me reconsider.

The tip of that hourglass to this day four years ago brings me to Judsen Ames. I love his story. I love him. Sounds obvious, no? It's still true, though. I really love him. More deeply every minute.  I mean, I grew him. GREW him!

And ahead I looked when first I held him, pondering what would make him laugh; who would make him cry; what dreams he'd dream and falls he'd fall. I guess I thought about how I'd keep growing him. Changing him.

But when I look behind, I see that it's him who's changing me.
From little...

 to bigger ...

 and biggest still...

He may be little, but he packs a powerful love punch.
On which I'm a little drunk.
Which I suppose makes him the better barometer of time.

Whether ahead or behind, now or then, birthdays are where they all collide,
   bound together by love for one little guy,
      standing the test of time.

How to Guard a Heart

Above all else, guard your heart for it is the wellspring of life. Proverbs 4:23

The thing is, when you're a little girl, you don't know much about the heart. Which isn't to say you don't have feelings: little girls are surely aware enough of those to express them in all sorts of manners...streaming tears, stamping feet, pouting lips, and toothy grins all come to mind. But they don't know much about from whence those emotions come.
They just live.
And wonder.
And later, maybe, worry.

The thing is, when you're a little girl, you don't know much about guarding the heart. Seems to follow if you don't know much about the heart, I'd say. And what's all this talk of "the wellspring of life"? Can an unguarded heart lead to death? What, then, becomes of the befuddled lass who knows little of the heart and even less about guarding it?
She just lives.
And wonders.
And, perhaps, worries.

Well, not if you've got one of these...

       
  to teach you about this...

 

so you never end up like that.

If these are the times that try men's souls (thank you, Mr. Paine), they must be the days of absolute peril for women's hearts. Each generation seems less sure of the ins and outs of love and value and self-worth - probably because the rules of the game seem to change with each turn of daughter-become-mother.

And maybe that's where we get it most wrong. Perhaps mothers can't teach the lesson their own hearts are wearing on torn, mended, and torn again sleeves. Perhaps it be the fathers - who maybe have done some tearing of their own - who see most fully.
Teach most effectively.
Guard most rigorously.

Recently, Grace got dressed up for a date with her father, a Daddy-Daughter Dance to be exact.

 
Amidst great excitement, she painted her nails. And curled her hair. And buckled her first pair of fancy-heeled shoes.

Her earrings were dangly, her lips just a bit glossed.
She felt grand, I think - a child-turned princess escorted to a ball.

But her "date" wasn't a perfect prince: neither was he a warted toad.

You know, the stuff of the real-life heart is rarely so simple as streaks of black or ribbons of white. We are all flawed, broken, mending, and growing...men included.

So, if you're taking lessons about the heart, why not from a teacher who loves you the most? One who's flawed, true, but nonetheless captivated by your authentic beauty.
That particular curve of your jaw.
Or the way you hold your pen.
Or your giggle when he makes you laugh; your frown when he 
     makes you mad.
How he watches you so intently when you tell him your story.
And reminds you to continue when all within you longs to stop.

The thing is, this little girl is learning about her heart from the one  showing her how to guard it...one giggle, frown, glance, and reminder...one dance...at a time.
Incidentally, he's also the same one showing her Him: the Father
    who gave her a heart in the first place.

So she can live.
And wonder.
Without worry.
And hopefully a bit less harm.

For a little girl, the heart is risky business, a perilous journey of rise and fall, win and lose.

But this business of learning and guarding: well, maybe that's not so bad.

Especially if the lessons come by dancing with her Daddy.

How To Build a Boat

Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.  ~Leo Buscaglia

To me, parenting and mothering, in particular, is a never-ending, always-winding string of touches, smiles, kind words, listening ears, honest compliments, and small acts of caring...that don't often feel, in and of themselves at the time of their execution, like life turnarounds.

Sunday last was a good day to remind me how wrong I am.

This is Elijah.

This is Elijah's daddy.

This is Elijah's daddy baptizing him.

This was a day when the little came 'round to the big: a big decision from a big boy lived out in the hands of a big guy, both honoring a big, big God.

It was a day that turned our firstborn son's life in direction anew. It was a marker of "before" and "after". It was his day, a reminder that though children come from us, they are separate from us. They must go their own way while we stand on the docks, watching them set sail...

 and remember how our touches, our smiles, our listening ears, honest compliments, and small acts of caring have, in fact, built their boats and carved their oars and steered their rudders.

Yeah.

Did I mention it was a good day?

                                                                                   

33% Bliss

The months between October and January are a marathon, not a sprint. 

For lots of us. Let's get real: for MOST of us.
In a world where "different" is the new "same", the quest of getting-through-holidays-with-festive-zing-intact is the uniting thread that might - gasp! - actually get us through the holidays with festive zing intact. Radical, I know.

In our house, the race gun fires come October 31st - for you, this may be because, Hark!, it's Halloween. For us, too. But it's also our anniversary: add an Elijah's birthday chaser mixed with a shake of Thanksgiving, a stir of Gracie's birthday, a splash of Christmas, and top with a two-olived pick of New Year's and Craig's birthday, and you've got one heck of a marathon martini.

Wait. Was that entire analogy centered on liquor?
Well, that was entirely on purpose.
        I mean, subconscious.
                I mean, accidental.

Like you, we're also paying the bills, cleaning the house, hitting the gym, cheering the kids, scheduling the meetings, gassing the car, shopping the stores, and...well...living the glamorous life.

So who has time for blogging? Well, sadly, I haven't prioritized it...though other rock-stars have maintained the pace (props, people. Props). And who pays the price?
We-ellllllllll....me.
       I mean, us.
           All right, I mean you.

Because you've got the sandwich post that throws the first third of the leg at you all at once...I like to think of it as 33% Bliss.

Apologies in advance.

Grace and her friend, Ally, had a piano recital just before Halloween. It was themed. How can you tell?

 This year, the Covak's became the Scooby Gang...complete with Scooby, Velma (seriously, Grace hardly looks like Grace, right?) and Shaggy.

LOVE! Thanks, Zitzmann's for taking it in our absence!

 

 

 

  Not afraid to be eclectic: our traditional Halloween with the Z's found us lost in the land of Mystery Gang/Zombie Sweet Witch/Ahoy, Matey!/American Werewolf in Colorado...makes a  heart happy, this shot.

 

Look at his little body! Cute.

And, as always, we marked the Pumpkin-palooza with painting (yeah, we don't carve...WAY too much work for Momma and Daddy). Each kiddo gets his own and her own wee gourd, and then we all paint a panel on the family pumpkin.

Here are the "fruits" of their labor.

2 more 33% Bliss's to go!

In The Last 365

Today is our son, Elijah's, 8th birthday. 

8 (!).

It's hard to believe - and even harder to imagine I'll be making that same statement for the next, oh...say....every year until I die.

In 2009, I wrote a post entitled "The Story of Elijah" that tells you everything you need to know about the quality of this gem we get to call son. And, truth be told, I could write a similar entry for every year we get to have him. But, this year more than ever, I've seen our little man grow. Change. Become more of his best while shedding his worst. 

In so many ways, Elijah is my hardest child - the one I struggle to understand the most, usually because he's the child I'm like the least. Yet, he's also the child who's taught me the most about my own best...and worst...and inspired me to tip my own scales in the same way he's tipping his. He makes me laugh just by laughing himself. And it is he, more than any other worldly influence the last 365, who has awakened me to the joys of living each moment - in that moment - as a singularly delicious "just as it is". 

I've looked before at my first-born son and seen possibility; glorious potential; a promise of greatness to come. Then, somewhere along the way, I cleared my lens to see the presence of glorious potential, the arrival of promises once to come...and he is beautiful.

And that's just in the last 365.

See for yourself.

Happy Birthday, sweet boy.

Thanks For That Moment

In recent weeks - well, more like months, now that I think on it - I've been purposefully redirecting how I apply the label "important" in my life. I know, I know: sounds like hooey. Yet, with complete candor, I can tell you that it is far better to let the little die before it overtakes the life of the big. I am freer. Happier. And, quite frankly, more likable (I hope). And heaven knows I need all the help I can get in that area!

Before this endeavor to heart-change, I would have heard a little jeer from Grace last night. I might have even chuckled. But, distracted by the little overtaking the big, I wouldn't have been able to dwell on it. Savor it. And laugh uproariously in the middle of a parking lot while standing amidst the happy gaggle of gigglers laughing along with me.

Being in the moment, I couldn't take a picture of the moment.  Still, my heart snapped the frame and stored it fast within the happy vault...to be retrieved on days when the work seems big, the result quite small, and faith smaller still.

So, what did she say? Yeah, I'd be asking that, too. If you're thinking it was profound or otherwise markedly deep in any capacity, you're mistaken. She was simply admiring her new boots (complete with horseshoes embellished on the soles, which makes them Grace's version of shoe nirvana) and noticed they were a bit wider in the leg grip than she might prefer. But, with a shrug and lopsided grin, she summed, "Oh well. Choosers can't be skimpy pickers."

Yeah, that was it.
Not all that funny?
Try living in the small, striving to appreciate each moment for the beauty it simply is.
Yep.
It's funnier then.

"You mean, 'beggars can't be choosy.'"
"Huh? Well, I guess so. If that's the way it's supposed to go." Pause for a beat. "But I think my way is better."

Yes, Grace. I think your way is better, too.

Thanks for that moment.

A Legacy I'm All For

You don't raise a hero, you raise a son.

And if you treat him like a son,

he'll turn out to be a hero,

Even if it's just in the eyes of his child.

Tuesday evening was parent-teacher conference night for team C&C. Both went well, but it was a moment we spent with Elijah's teacher, Kate, that marked the highlight for me. E's class completed a worksheet which answered the question of "Who is your hero?" Kate pulled our son's worksheet from her file folder telling us she teared up when she read it. 

And then I did, too.

There is no one in this world - and I mean...In. This. World. - that I admire and esteem more than my husband. He is, to my grown-up heart, the very best of what a man can be.

It would seem our son's little-boy heart agrees.

 

                                                     

You don't raise a hero, you raise a son.

And if you treat him like a son,

he'll turn out to be a hero,

Even if it's just in the eyes of his child.

That's a legacy I'm all for.

What He Actually Said Was...

Whatever our peculiar phrasing, we daily rebuke statements with: "What you should have said was..." Think about it. Isn't that what we mean, for instance, when our children are thirsty and, holding their cups heavenward like plastic mimics of Dickensian lore, puff, "I need a drink." But, unlike Oliver Twist, their wide eyes brook no mention of "please". So what do we reply? "Say please!"

Yep, that's a "What you should have said was..." moment. And, lest we forget our more overt tendencies, I point out that I, upon occasion and in particular response to disrespect or forceful tongue, quip, "Excuse me? Are you speaking to me?!" Which is a double whammy of "What you should have said was..." and "How you should have said that was..."

This introspection whorled especially in the mind's eye on a particular Wednesday weeks past. Wednesdays (for now) being our most manic evening, I gave specific instructions to the lads and lass to complete homework and prepare themselves for soccer practice (E), running (G), and baggage claim (which is what Judd becomes in the midst of his older siblings' activities on such fine days...poor boy). I even bulleted Elijah's steps for him lest he become distracted (which never happens, no) and find himself horribly late and frazzled (a wild fancy, for sure).

Yet, when I ascended the stairs at 4:30 to round up the wee ones for our 4:45 departure, Elijah scurried from his room wearing superhero undies and shrugging into a soccer jersey (the wrong one).
 

"Where is your practice jersey, son? And your socks? And your cleats? Well, and your pants, for that matter?"

But no worries for, at that precise moment, Grace emerges from her bedroom calmly running a brush through her locks as if she'd no care in the world. 

"Are you in your running clothes? Do you have your water bottle? What do you mean you can't get your hair smooth?" (Are you familiar with the Girl World issue of smooth ponytails?)

And, in the coup de grace of Hump Day Blowup, Judd emerges...no shoes, no socks but plenty of sticky substance about the face.

What did they say? Don't know. It was spoken in a flurry of jibberish amid frenzied finger-pointing to which I could only field-goal my arms in surrender and announce, "Van! NOW!" 

With Judd's face scoured and Grace's hair sufficiently smoothed, I thought I'd made it. 4:40 - Not too bad, I congratulate myself.

Yeah. Obligatory back-pat came way too soon, for it was only then that I snagged the back of Elijah's jersey (the right one this time), pointed to his feet and cried, "You're not wearing any shoes!"

"Um, what shoes should I wear?"
Um, are you kidding me?
"Well, how about your brand new cleats?"
"Oh, are those for soccer?"
Breathe.
"Yes. Where are they?"
"I dunno," he says. Calmly. Shrugging his shoulders.
Breathe.
"Well, let's find them and get them on your feet."

Which we did. While we boarded the Silver Bullet, my effort to breathe was fast reaching reaching fever pitch. In. Out. Look at clock.  

Okay: 4:47. We can still make it. And I can do this. It's a teaching opportunity. Let's discuss teamwork. Responsibilities. Reading a clock.

And so it was as we merged our way north to the field, and so it continued for a few less-than-blessed miles of lectures on such topics as these. To which the children nodded and "hmmm-mmm"-ed and "uh-huh"-ed, all airs of recalcitrance emptied stretches back. I calmly voiced to Elijah, most pointedly, that we were all adjusting our schedules expressly to allow for his soccer schedule, and would it not be prudent to extend himself a touch more to make said adjustments all the easier?

To which he replied.
Slowly.
Softly.
And with much chagrin.

Now, what he should have said was, "Sure, Mommy. You're totally right. I can do that. I see that time's tight on these days and - You bet! - I can pitch in more by, like, say, having shoes on - or even knowing what shoes those are. No problem!"


But, in an ever-present reminder that parenting is nothing short of God's daily bulletin that we are not in control - not of time or bullet lists or smooth hair or sticky faces or superhero undies or soccer cleats or even the raucous, belly-hollowing bliss of the perfect heart-swelling ride...

what he actually said was, "Um, I'm not wearing any pants."

The First Day

We've bagged the supplies; packed the lunch; met the teachers; and X'd off the laaaaast day on the calendar.

The big day is finally here!

Off I walked our beautiful 5th grader...

and our handsome 2nd grader...

who remind of all that's fresh and good and filled with hope and life.

It's a new school year, and oh the places they'll go!

Hard to believe that just one short year ago, they looked like this:

Which only proves the old adage that time flies fast before they fly away for good.

 

It was the same one-block walk to the same one-story building: the routine is one we know well.

We saw familiar faces and met a few new ones, too.

We waved to some neighbors and dodged one or two sprinklers.

Really, it's no different than it's always been...except that it was.

The kiddos are different. Bigger. Older.

One step closer to growing up and going on - a bittersweet future still a bit away.

But each year's First Day reminds me to treasure all the more the one we're in right now.

The Here. The Now. 

And all the good that is...

The First Day.