When a daddy needs his daughter

My dad's first remark, when they told him "it's a girl" was a disappointed..."ohhhhh...".  The wife of one of my parents' friends quickly chided him with "Don't you dare go in that hospital room and say that, Chuck!"  He has relished telling that story many times over the years and has always finished it with, "That was the last time I thought that.  I never regretted having a girl again!"

I am an only child.  Dad always told people, "Why have another?  We couldn't improve on perfection!"  Of course, he would've loved more but that wasn't to be.  So instead,  I grew up and had six kids, which delighted him to no end!  He called it a good return on his investment.  He bought fire trucks for my boys and play high heels for my girls and spent whole days building sand boxes for them and painting their rooms.  At the time, in my busy mommy days, it seemed like such a big help to me.  Now that I find myself at the age he was then, and those kids are rapidly becoming busy adults themselves, I get what he must've been feeling.

Tonight, my daddy needed me.  And for now, he is safe at my home resting.  I listen to him ask me the same questions over and over, trying to make sense of a puzzle that is missing more pieces every day.  And on the eve of this Father's Day I am grateful to reassure him, just as he's done for me.

As you lay your head on your pillow, say a prayer for my dad, for me.  I don't know what tomorrow holds.....but I know Who holds it.



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JlsCKFOn7oc

Waving to Russia

I sit here in my 150 year old house in a small town on, quite literally, Main Street.  The air outside is cool and humid.  I know because I just opened the door to check.  A car drives by in the deserted darkness and I wonder where it's going and I wonder if they wonder why I'm looking out my door; two people, wondering.    It's 3:33 a.m. on a Tuesday and I am unable to sleep.  Not a restless or worried unable...just a wakefulness that invites settling in and making friends with it.  And so I do what I should not....I brew a cup of House Blend coffee and lace it with almond coconut milk.  It somehow feels like I'm living dangerously, caffeine in the middle of the night, and I smile at myself. 

I begin to tinker with my blog.  If my thirteen year old techno whiz is not sitting next to me, I'm in danger of erasing the whole thing so... more dangerous living.  I find the statistics information and click on the word "audience" and there I see it. " Russia"?  I sit and stare at the word and blink.  I typed some words and blew them out of my hands and into the atmosphere and they landed on someones' screen in Russia.  I marvel at how someone unknown to me and so far away heard my voice and turned to listen. 

And then I started to wonder about their voice.  What is their life like?  Do they have a white woolly sweater?  Do they like dark chocolate more than milk chocolate?  Do they like chocolate at all?  What was the last thing that made them laugh?  Is it windy where they are today?  What is the view from their window at work?  What's their best friends' name?  What do they worry about?  

My chair creaks as I shift in my seat. I hear another car go by.  I get up to warm my coffee.  And I think.   When that person speaks, God hears.  When that person falls, God sees.  When that person rejoices, God smiles.  When that person fears, God cares. Somewhere over the ocean, there is a person in Russia who is alive and, I pray, well who is listening to me right now.  Hello, friend!  Hello!  It's so nice to talk to you. <3

Words With Friends

On Mother's Day, I was standing in front of the mirror, watching myself as I put in my earrings.  My 13 year old called out from the other room "Oh mom, I wrote on your wall this morning!  Don't forget to read it".  It struck me what a different world she and I grew up in.  My mother might have grabbed a towel and some cleaning spray, had I said that to her. And then I got to thinking about the mercurial world of words.

Ernest Hemingway once said "All my life I've looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time."  That intrigues me.  When I think of the account of the Tower of Babel, in which our language was "confused" for the very first time, I'd imagine those there that day felt very much like Mr. Hemingway.  Anyone who's ever gone to a country where a language other than your own is spoken , knows the frustration of trying to ask for something, the vulnerability you feel at not being able to communicate.   It occurs to me that even when the same language is spoken, we live in a world of Babel.

Words.  We mince them, play on them, eat them and hang on them.  We sometimes can't find the right ones or we loose them altogether.  Some of us have a way with them, others of us use them as weapons.  Words can echo or fall on deaf ears.  There are careless words, idle words, words fitly spoken.  Sometimes they're priceless, sometimes they're a dime a dozen. We can write them, yell them, read them, whisper them, sing them, rhyme them or keep them to ourselves.   We can start fires with them.  We can put fires out with them.  They can be gifts or they can be death sentences.  We can mislead with them or point others to the truth with them. Those of us who believe,  have a relationship with The Word.

When I think of the electricity surrounding words, the power that they hold, what our world would be without them, what it is with them, it gives me pause before I consider adding to the fray.  But only for a minute.....because I have something to say.

Exchange between a mother and son

On the occasion of his 24th birthday.....I sat down to write my son a note in his card:

"Caleb,

40.00 seems a pitiful pittance for what you are to me. It’s a violent business, motherhood. Physically, a human being lunges out of your body and tears at your flesh and there’s blood and gore and crying and joy without words to explain it.

Figuratively, as you hold them in your arms they, even then, begin to unfurl and pack away little milestones that give them wind and muscle to tear away at your heart and forge their own path. And there’s a different kind of blood and gore and crying and joy. And all of it requires a heart – or two – on the line, or none of it will be experienced. And I’d push my way to the head of the line to do it all again. I love you – Happy Birthday, To us both. Love, Mama.”

___________________________

Mama, I am so indescribably grateful to have gone through every milestone thus far with you at my back. The very fact that you and I both are still here and have what we have is a miracle in more than one sense. Our livelihood as well as our lives themselves have come under attack even from day one. I love you more than you will ever know. I always have… through the trials, and the pain, the anger, and yes even momentary hate, I still loved you.

I respect your ability to not only let me go forge my path, not only let, but push me to succeed and I know that takes effort and includes many nights of sorrow as well as joy. In short, we have many more paths to walk and joys to be had. And I look forward to having YOU Tamara Gray Belanger, as my mother to experience it with.

Much Love,

Caleb

and I wonder.....

Below is the image that has been plastered all over the planet......the image that makes my mother's heart want to tear through that crowd to get to the smirking face of that 19 year old bomber and rip him to shreds. I pray absolute and swift justice for the sake of the families.  For the sake of our country.

The pastor of the church we visited today displayed this image at the beginning of his sermon.....on forgiveness.  Too soon.  Too offensive.  Too divisive to even suggest forgiveness in this context. It wasn't your kid, pastor.  Your sister.  Your brother.  Your mother.

And then, just as I felt indignance well up in me, just as quickly as it gave rise......I "saw" in my head an image of hundreds of cars and buses making their way to Boston.  I saw thousands of people moving silently through the streets and gathering as one body, surrounding the hospital where this 19 year old boy is sitting, perhaps having felt himself to be the hero.  I "heard" murmuring of every voice in that body of people.  "God.  Almighty Maker of Heaven and Earth.  Have mercy on his soul.  Have mercy on us all."

And I wonder.......what would happen if He heard?

2 Chronicles 7:14..."If my people, who are called by My name, shall humble themselves and pray...then will I hear from heaven....and heal their land."

Hungry......no....starving

I've eaten my three little Tastykake chocolate snack cakes and had my coffee.  And I'm still hungry.  No.  Wait a minute.  I'm not that hungry; that kind of hungry.  My soul feels hungry.  And that makes me restless.  And then I start searching.  How easily, in our culture, we find ways to pacify and mask a hunger that goes beyond our biological appetite.

I find myself at a crossroads in life.  My daughter is moving away to Colorado.  Another daughter is spending the summer in California.  My youngest biological son is preparing to go off to college.  And I feel like I'm walking around having open heart surgery without anesthesia.  I want to cry at the drop of nothing.  I feel joyful at who they've become. I panic.  And I eat Tastykakes.

The career of motherhood is unique.  You sign up to work yourself out of a job.  And when you feel that time is approaching and you realize you're becoming more of an appointment on the calendar of a young, busy life rather than the center of the swirl......it leaves you sometimes whispering in the dark..."Father?  Are you there?  Hello?  What now?"

There is change on this here horizon....I sensed God telling me that back around Christmas.  And I purpose to ride the wave with my eyes fixed on my God.  I've still got life in me, dreams, visions......where to, Lord?  I've got a daddy that needs taken care of.    I want to live big and out loud and fearless.  But on days when I tremble just a little.....I've got a Tastykake in my purse.

Here goes

And so.....after years, literally years, of saying..."I'd like to write", and long before such an unheard of thing as "blogging".....and after many people in my life saying, "You should write".....here I am.

And so.....I write.  And if I write, they might read.  And that makes me have diarreah.  Because, to me, writing out loud is sort of like standing up naked on a tree stump and yelling..."Hey!  Over here!  If you don't mind, I'd like to  tell you all about myself and what I think and feel, dressed in technicolor nothing.  And when I'm done, I'd love it if you could criticize, misunderstand, smirk, or just yawn and walk away."   It's funny, isn't it?  How we all deal with life differently...some of us jump up and down to be heard.  Some of us walk along contentedly being seen or not seen.   Some of us hide.  I'm a hider.

Here's the thing though.  Hiders don't always look like hiders.  Sometimes they smile and talk and laugh and eat and take out the garbage, just like the rest of you.   And you might think, "Look at them.  Aren't they confident and secure.  We need them at our next bible study to liven things up."  And they come and drink coffee with cream and share an insight or two and  then they go and you think "Boy, I'm glad they came. How real they are!"  And yet....they hid.  Right there in front of you.

Years ago as a child when it was time for the kids' choir to get up and sing in church, I remember feeling petrified at the thought.  Ever resourceful, I devised a plan.  If I barely moved my lips, no one will notice me. Further still, on the off chance that they DID notice me, I would lip sync.  So, essentially, I attempted to be both invisible and unheard. So why get up there at all, you ask?  Because hiders want to be seen and heard.  And it scares them.  All at the same time. I wager, hiders hide because they are afraid.  Because they are ashamed.  Because they are unsure whether or not it's ok.  Just generally, is it ok?  And so you see my toe dipping ever so gingerly into those letters and forming words and laying them down on the map and seeing them float off and wondering....will this be ok?

The little choir girl has decided to stop lip syncing and just sing out.  Do re mi!