What I Lack

I lack sleep, little girls staying up three hours past their bedtimes trying on leotards and baby oil, waking up twice in the middle of the night crying for lost binkies.

I lack space, never having a moment sans children, even my own bed not serving as a refuge against little bodies climbing in and taking over.

I lack patience, sometimes not finding the calm within me to deal with disrespect or disobedience, my last nerve chewed on and spit out by 7:00 p.m.

I lack ideas, not knowing the next fool-proof technique to get little kids to pick up their toys, having exhausted all the creative options I could find.

But, sometimes, I take a minute to look around at the round faces breathing heavy, listen to the raspy snores escaping tiny mouths, feel the thick bedding wrapping a cocoon of warmth around healthy bodies, and I realize

I lack nothing.

Participating today in Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. What do you lack? And come back tomorrow to share your own Journey!

I Take It Back

Cleaning Supplies — photo courtesy of photobucket.com

Over the past six months or so, I have analyzed myself in search of those areas in which I need to improve. I’ve done my best to find contentment in circumstances that I’d otherwise like to change, and I’ve tried to highlight the joy in the simple pleasures of life. I heap a lot of guilt on my shoulders when I find I’m not enjoying my kids, so in the midst of craziness and chaos, I’ve learned to take a deep breath and say, “I am blessed.”

Yet even with these goals as my mindset, I’ve noticed that I’m not content. I’ve tried to figure out why, and when I hear myself complaining, I find I’m repeating some of the same sentences over and over:

I need a break. I need some alone time. I just want to sit down for a minute.

But the reality of the situation is that I’m not going anywhere, and alone time is very hard to come by. However, this weekend I had an epiphany. I started asking myself why I couldn’t seem to get that minute alone or the small break that I needed. Why was I going to bed so tired every day, waking up more tired, and not feeling fulfilled?

And I realized it was because of that stupid cleaning routine.

Nine months ago, I wrote that I had found a cleaning routine that had changed my life, and for nine months, I followed this plan religiously. Every single day, I made sure to clean the rooms assigned to that particular day of the week, and if I didn’t finish or missed the goal for some reason, I made sure to finish on one of the other days.

Don’t get me wrong–the plan is good. If one follows the plan, one will have cleaned the whole house in a week. I liked the structure of the plan, and I liked feeling like I was giving my family a clean home, and it was the cleanest it had ever been.

But sometimes a clean house isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

In order to achieve this clean house, during the one hour that the kids had their ‘Quiet Rest Time’ in front of the T.V., I scrambled to accomplish the task at hand for the day. If I didn’t finish, then I’d either extend T.V. time and feel guilty, or I’d try to finish at night after the kids were in bed and Matt and I had had our late dinner at 8:30 or 9:00. And if I decided I was too tired, I had extra chores the next day. Forget about extra tasks like sorting through random papers and organizing closets–there wasn’t any wiggle room in the schedule.

And what did I have to show for this effort? A messy house two minutes after I cleaned it and a frustrated spirit that I hadn’t finished a book for pleasure in about six months.

The problem is that I had become a slave to a plan, a plan created by a woman that I had never met, a plan that she had made for herself. And while the plan is good, it wasn’t working for me.

Who said that I needed to clean my whole house in a week? Why did I feel the need to take on this goal at the expense of my sanity?

When I reread over my post, I saw my good intentions. I wrote about the flexibility of the plan, how it was just a guideline, but I didn’t stick to those intentions. I, instead, let a cleaning routine control me and rob me of something I had never realized was so precious–a moment to do nothing.

And I’m sure I’m not the only one. Perhaps a cleaning routine has never dictated how you spend your hours, but maybe you are a slave to something else.

Perhaps you are controlled by the need to work out. No matter how you feel, whether or not you really should take care of some other items on your list, you feel guilt if you don’t hit the gym. It’s no longer a matter of obtaining good health and showing discipline–you have become a slave.

Or maybe you can’t say ‘no’ at church. Your family really needs you right now as you have a wife and house full of kids, one a newborn, but the church needs you. How can you tell your church ‘no’?

Many times, good things aren’t good for us.

Cleaning my house is definitely a good thing, and I still plan to clean every day–as I stated in my original post, I want to fight against idleness and take my job here at home seriously–but I also realize now that if I don’t occasionally take a moment for myself, I will continue to burn out. And if I continue to burn out, that joy that I am so desperately seeking will continue to seem elusive, out of reach.

And, frankly, I’d rather have my children suffer a dusty house than a cranky mama.

To what are you a slave? What is robbing you of your joy?

Ripping Out Pages

Last week in church, we finished up the “Puzzled by the Bible” series with a look at Revelation and the end times. Scripture references alluding to evil and suffering and hell are never among my favorite, so I chose to pass on writing a post for Michelle’s “Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday.” Instead, I wrote about the hell of shoe-shopping with my daughter.

However, as the week went on, I couldn’t escape one image that my pastor created. He recognized that some people don’t like discussing hell–they’d rather ignore those passages in Revelation–and by doing so, they are effectively ripping out the pages of the Bible they don’t like. The only problem, he pointed out, is that if we rip out those pages in Revelation, then we have to rip out the passages in the Gospel where Jesus alludes to hell. And if we rip out the passages with Jesus, then we have to rip out the prophets who foretold of Him, and so on and so on.

And as he started ripping pages, it became obvious that soon we’d be left with nothing.

While my pastor later revealed that he was actually ripping pages out of an old encyclopedia, the image stayed in my mind. Because the more I thought about it, the more I realized that we all figuratively rip out pages every day.

Perhaps we are very comfortable pointing out the sins of society, take a literal view of Creation and God’s commandments, and strive to live a righteous life, but we gloss over James 1:27:

“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”

All of a sudden, our literal interpretation of Scripture becomes figurative or allegorical. We read a general mandate of doing good deeds, so we’re content to continue pointing out the sins of others while 143 million children live without parents in this world. We drive by the nursing home on our way to work, not once stopping in to visit that widow without family.

Or maybe we devote our life to doing good deeds and working for social justice. We do care for the orphans and widows and spend our Saturdays in the soup kitchen. Yet, when it comes to the reason for why we are compelled to act with mercy and love, we stay silent. We read the story of Peter healing a paralytic, yet we ignore the most important words he speaks: “Silver or gold I do not have, but what I do have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk” (Acts 3:6, emphasis mine).

Perhaps we don’t want to call sin, sin. We look to the changing time and culture, so we rip out pages there. We don’t want to forgive our brother for offending us ten years ago, so we rip out the passage that says to forgive seventy-seven times (Matthew 18:22). We keep ripping and ripping, and pretty soon, we’re left with some passages from a good book.

But not the Word of God.

Because we wouldn’t dare destroy words that God himself instructed.

As I walked through last week thinking over this image, I became fearful. Where was I ripping out passages, and what do I believe? Do I truly believe the Bible is the Word of God, or have I made it a good book, treating it like a buffet where I grab a little of this and a little of that?

The implications for either are great. Because if the Bible is the Word of God, then there are serious commands that I must follow, but there are also wonderful blessings. However, if this book is a just a good book, then I can pick and choose what I want, but there is no more power in those words than the bestseller I grab off the shelf in the bookstore.

And on which type of book would I rather place the foundation of my faith, the reason for how I live?

So this morning I knew I needed to at least give the topic consideration. I could no longer ignore the question chasing me last week. And so I ask (nervously) this morning, God, where am I ignoring you? What pages have I ripped out of your book?

Where are you ripping out pages, and are you content to do so?

Warm, Sunny Days

Matt took the week off from work to coincide with the kids’ Spring Break from preschool. He never said so, but I think he took the time off for me as much as for him. And it’s been wonderful.

Watching the kids look in pure wonder at a part of God’s creation that they never see, and seeing the whole family smiling together–I couldn’t ask for anything more.

And, yet, I want to ask for a little more; I want to know how to keep this joy even when Matt goes back to work.

I know part of the answer. When we work together and play together and choose to experience our days together, even if we’re not doing the same thing…

…life runs a little smoother, time-outs and the need for discipline a little more rare.

And so we spent our day outside, each engaged in a different task beneath the warm sunshine, amidst a butterfly or two who would dance its way across our backyard proclaiming to us that spring is here. Picking the black soil out of our fingernails or green Play-doh out of its little cylinder–we were free to make messes and revel in their goodness.

And as I walk this journey in a quest for joy, a peace and contentment with my children every day, I can’t help but ask God one more question:

Is there any way you could make it warm and sunny every day?

What journey are you taking? Leave a comment below, or link up with your own post!
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If You Really Knew Me

Box of Chocolates Cake — photo via photobucket

I was scurrying about the kitchen, straightening up the mounds of paper that never seemed to leave, displaying the orange card that they had made for him. Red and purple paper hearts adorned the front, preschool-writing of big letters forming names across the inside. And I grabbed children one by one brushing hair and checking faces for Daddy’s arrival.

It was Valentine’s Day, and he would take our daughters for a special date, I, our son. We had decided long ago that Valentine’s Day was not a holiday worthy of our money, yet it served as the perfect excuse for some special one-on-one time with our children. Even still, I held my breath every year, wondering if he had thought of me, too.

I really didn’t want him to spend his money–Valentine’s Day was too commercial and silly–but since the days of flowers for no reason and little notes left on my windshield in the morning were long gone, I secretly hoped for a handmade card describing all the reasons he loved me. Maybe even a single flower to place in a vase atop our kitchen table.

But definitely NOT what he showed up with the year before.

We had been married almost eight years at the time–how long did he need before he truly knew me?

The kids responded like Pavlov’s dogs to the familiar sound of the garage door creaking to open and waited for their Daddy to come through the kitchen door. And as he came through the door, we all immediately noticed the red carnations he had for each of us. Within 15 seconds, each child had broken his or her own stem, and Matt quickly got to work trying to tape back together the broken flowers.

But my eyes didn’t leave the small package he had set on the counter.

Once flowers were mended and pictures were taken, I moved my way to read the package on the counter. My eyes immediately caught the word ‘Chocolate.’

To most, that one word would cause happy endorphins to spread throughout the body. But I’m not most.

There are many weird things about me, and I will accept that not liking chocolate is one of them. I cannot ever remember ordering a piece of chocolate cake nor a time when I didn’t choose the vanilla ice cream. The thought of eating a whole Hershey’s bar makes me feel sick, and if I wanted to find solace in food, I’d choose pizza.

There are a few notable exceptions, and if one really knew me, one might know them. I do like brownies; however, if you slap some fudge on top of them, they are now worthless to me. I like peanut M&Ms, but that’s because the peanut is the focus. I like chocolate syrup atop an ice cream sundae, and I don’t mind the chocolate ice cream, as long as vanilla is the predominant flavor.

I really don’t expect anyone to know those specific details…

…but I did expect that my husband of almost eight years would have enough sense to not show up with a box of chocolates. Even if it is Valentine’s Day. Even if every other woman in America would eat them.

As I looked at the box on the counter, I wondered if one year later my husband still didn’t know me. My eyes continued to scan the whole title, reading the words ‘Chocolate Covered Pretzels.’ While they were an improvement from the box of chocolates from last year, I still didn’t get it.

“I thought you’d like the sweet with the salty.”

I just stared at him for a minute.

“You know, it’s not a prerequisite for the holiday that a person has to eat chocolate,” I said shaking my head at him.

He laughed as we began to put coats on little kids excited for date night. And as we moved to our separate cars, I picked out the perfect gift for Matt next year–a big bowl of eggplant with some french fries stuck in the middle.

Writing in response to the prompt, “If you really knew me, you’d know that…” for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. What is something that we’d know about you if we really knew you?

And I’d love for you to come back tomorrow and link up your own post for ‘Journeys.” You can use any topic, as long as it pertains to a spiritual journey that you are currently taking.

Ten Things I Won’t/Will Miss About Having Little Children

Some Things I Won’t Miss About Having Little Children:

10. Waking up with a sore back because one or more little children snuck in our bed, sleeping horizontally with their little toes pushing into my spine.

9. The anxiety I feel if I go to the bathroom alone for a minute, not knowing what will await me when I come out.

8. Having to participate in every. single. game. outside, never getting the chance to sit on the porch glider and just relax.

7. The limited freedom to have a spontaneous Friday night date-night or attend a late-night outing, the availability of a babysitter or getting the kids in bed by a reasonable time always a prerequisite.

6. Temper-tantrums.

But I Will Miss:

5. Waking up with a sore back because one or more little children snuck in our bed, wanting the security of Daddy and Mommy and another chance to snuggle.

4. The opportunity to guide my children’s impulses, teaching them right from wrong, while the consequences are small. One day they will be grown-up, no longer needing input from Mommy and Daddy, in a world where they won’t always get a second chance.

3. Being asked to participate in my children’s games outside, having been replaced by the neighborhood kids, or one day by boyfriends and girlfriends.

2. The security of having little kids tucked away in bed, replaced, instead, with Friday nights full of worry waiting up for teenagers to make curfew.

1. Hmm…I can’t do it…I won’t miss temper-tantrums.

Linking up with Amanda today for her Top Ten Tuesday at ohamada.com. What would you add to the list?

I Know What Hell Looks Like

It seemed like a brilliant idea, really–the kind of idea that our children would later file away in their memories as evidence that they had good parents. Caleb was spending the night with Grammy and his cousin for some quality boy time, so Matt and I were left with the girls. And I wanted the weekend to feel special, a full night and day devoted to all things our girls liked.

My brilliant plan included dinner the night before at the restaurant of their choice, and then the next day would include shopping. While her mother would rather do anything but, Hannah Grace has had an affinity toward shopping since she was old enough to recognize dainty dresses floating on hangers and necklaces sparkling on display. And Chloe, not quite two, is our happy, laid-back baby, content to remain in her parents’ company. Since my kids needed shoes for the warm weather that had already arrived and their Easter outfits, shoe-shopping seemed like the perfect activity to make my girls feel special.

It’s funny how the memory works. I’ve heard some say that if women truly remembered the pain of labor, they wouldn’t have any more children. In my case, having a selective memory has ensured that my children get new clothes.

As soon as Matt pushed the stroller to the front of the store, I gripped Hannah Grace’s hand tighter and remembered. Quite frankly, I don’t know how I had ever forgotten. This day would not be all butterflies and roses.

We made our way to the chair and got the girls’ feet measured without any trouble. And then I spoke the words.

“Okay, Hannah Grace. We’re going to look for some sandals today for your Easter dress and…”

It was like a starting gun had gone off. Before I even finished the sentence she was running to all the shoes on display.

“You stay with Chloe. I’ll focus on Hannah Grace,” I hurriedly ordered Matt as I was pulled by the current of Hannah Grace’s sensory overload.

“Ooohhh. I love these! Look at these shoes!” She began grabbing.

“No, Hannah Grace. Wait a minute.”

I tried to explain, but the pretty colors were somehow affecting her hearing. She started trying on tennis shoes. She was stomping her feet, hoping that every pair was the kind whose soles lit up with red lights every time she took a step. It didn’t matter the size–12-8-10–as long as they were pretty, as in sparkles and fluorescent colors, they ended up on her feet.

“Hannah Grace,” I tried again, “these are beautiful, but we’re not getting tennis shoes today. We need sandals for the warm weather and to match your Easter dress.”

Boxing up the other shoes as quickly as I could, I grabbed her hand and led her to the next display full of sandals. I found the pair that I hated the most, one with a big flower stuck near the top and showed them to Hannah Grace.

“How about these?”

“No. I don’t like them.”

“Really? You don’t think they’re pretty…”

She started to move back toward the tennis shoes.

“What about this pair, Hannah Grace?”

“No, I like this one,” she said grabbing a pair of strappy hot pink and orange sandals.

They were hideous, but I didn’t care. I knew how this day would go. The shoes wouldn’t match her purple Easter dress, but they would serve their purpose for the summer. I could check out some consignment shops if I needed to, but for now, we had to leave the store happy.

“Okay, Hannah, let’s look for your size.”

As soon as I started pulling boxes, she turned around.

“Oooohh! I love these!!!”

And she began pulling boxes of pink slippers off the shelf behind us, all adorned with Disney princesses.

“No, Hannah Grace, we’re not getting these.”

My blood pressure was rising. I began fanning myself. I turned to the back wall of the store where the thermostat was set. It was set for 74 degrees. That meant it was at least 112 with all the hot air my daughter was releasing.

She began running from aisle to aisle, looking at all the pretty shoes that we weren’t getting. Next she found beautiful white, patent leather shoes, and she tapped into my guilt reserve. They were sweet little shoes just like I had when I was a little girl. But that wasn’t the plan. I had budgeted for three kids and was trying to be economical. Matt only got paid once a month–this plan made sense.

Our church is contemporary. The little girls don’t wear big, poofy dresses every Sunday, so I figured she would get more use out of a pretty pair of sandals than white shoes that she would only wear once. But now as I looked at these shoes, guilt began to gnaw at me.

But I couldn’t do math that quickly, couldn’t recalculate figures in my head to ensure fairness among all three children and still get what we needed. The problem with children five and under is that they can’t reuse shoes from season to season–their feet are always growing.

And thus started the tantrum. There was crying. There was stomping of feet. Hannah Grace threw a pretty good fit, too.

And Matt intervened.

“Here, I’ll walk with Hannah Grace,” he said while leading her by the hand back to sandal aisle.

I grabbed Chloe and found the section of shoes in her size and grabbed the first pair of sandals that I liked.

“Do you like these?” I asked her.

“Yesh,” she replied.

“Good.” I grabbed the box, and we went back to the chair to try them on.

Two seconds later, Hannah Grace joined us with a pair of tennis shoes.

“Hannah, I’m going to go crazy,” I said through gritted teeth.

Matt came back with a pair of metallic pink and purple shoes, and panic set in. I tried to communicate with him telepathically to turn around, but he didn’t get the message. I had seen those shoes, too. Yes, she would love them. No, they didn’t have her size. But it was too late.

“What about these, Hannah Grace?”

“I love them!!!”

And I hung my head in despair.

More crying.

The sales clerk came over. She had two pair of shoes from the back that were in her size but not on display.

“What about these?” she suggested.

“No,” Hannah Grace said.

“Hannah Grace, why don’t you like these?” I know my daughter. She was turning up her nose at most of the bright colored sandals, sandals with flowers, the silver sandals, too, all sandals that normally she would love.

“We can’t stay here longer. You don’t have to get sandals today, but then we’re leaving with nothing. We’ll go to another store later.”

She put on the silver sandals, decided she liked them, and I started to box them up to go the register. Matt had picked out a pair for Caleb. We were finished.

And then she took off for the sandal section again.

“Hannah Grace! We have to go now! You like the silver sandals,” I ordered her.

“No! They don’t match,” she began to cry. “My dress is purple. I need purple sandals.”

Please, Lord, tell me this hasn’t been the problem all along.

“No, Hannah Grace, they don’t have to be purple. They can be white, brown, silver, black–all those colors match.” I was using very loose matching rules. I just wanted her to pick a pair of shoes and leave happy. Today was supposed to be a special day, not a sign of the suffering and despair that is to happen in the end times.

“They have to be purple.”

“No, sweetie; they really don’t. Look, white goes with anything.”

Hannah Grace walked over to one of the most modest pair of white, closed-toe sandals with pink flowers, a pair that I purposely overlooked assuming she wouldn’t like them. She tried them on and was satisfied.

“Okay, we can get these?”

And I started boxing them up before she had time to change her mind.

I was certain she would hate them later, but she didn’t. She wore them out of the store, in the mini-van, and the whole rest of the day.

And when I asked her later if she were happy with her new sandals, she shook her head ‘yes’ and gave a big smile, lighting up her whole face.

And while I’m glad she’s happy, I’m already praying that her feet don’t grow for two years.

UBP11: It’s Party Time!

I have to admit that when I thought about hosting my own little party on my blog for Ultimate Blog Party 2011, I got a little nervous. After all, I haven’t had the best of luck with parties. There was the time when I had my ‘Sweet Sixteen’ birthday in my family’s backyard and invited all of my friends. My two-year-long crush actually showed up…with the girl he apparently had just started dating. And then there was the time I tried to throw a surprise 30th birthday party for my husband and made the mistake of leaving the birthday boy with my father; he clearly didn’t understand the timing involved in surprise parties. We waited for about an hour for the chance to yell ‘surprise!’ I’m just glad the guests stuck around.

But as I thought about more party mishaps, I realized they describe who I am and my blog perfectly! The whole reason I started sharing my blog with others is that I know for every ‘mishap’ I have in life, there is another person out there who can relate. When I write, I am honest. Life isn’t easy, and I have found that I fall far-short of achieving the perfect wife and mother status every day. But I want to remember the journeys that I take as I try to get better.

I’m fond of storytelling, and I love to create images of the lessons I’m learning. If you stick around, you’ll find moments when my children make me proud because of their acts of kindness and compassion…and moments when I’m completely embarrassed because they’ve punched each other while praying. You’ll read of times when I think my husband is the greatest, and times when I don’t know how to endure all that’s involved in marriage. I’m not afraid to share some of the ugly moments because I believe God uses those ugly moments to make one beautiful picture.

And, hopefully, through my joys and struggles, you’ll find yourself laughing, relating, and realizing that we’re really not all that different.

If you like what you’ve read so far, I hope you’ll stick around and check out my place. You’re always welcome and can stay as long as you like–I just might go to bed around ten or so. My kids have made me old, given me gray hair, and worn me out!

And you can always subscribe to my blog or follow me on NetworkBlogs–I’ve just added that feature.

Thanks for stopping by, and please leave a comment so I can come visit you, too!

Fear of Failure

We knelt on the floor, close to the ground with the dim light and high ceiling covering us. We grasped hands as we spoke the concerns of our hearts, and we believed that He would hear.

That night as we sat as a group of women, our husbands in another room, we shared openly and honestly. And even though all of our requests were different, the underlying feeling of fear in each story was palpable.

Feeling tired and frustrated as a mother. Holding worry for a sibling with cancer. Watching parents’ health decline. Carrying a rotten work-week long after the office was closed. While all the requests were different, it struck me that we all were afraid.

We were afraid that our children who wouldn’t obey were a sign that we weren’t good mothers. We were afraid that we couldn’t be the rock for our sister in her time of need. We were afraid of the helplessness involved with sickness and disease. We were afraid that we weren’t the good example that we had hoped to provide. We were afraid of failing when it mattered.

And as I listened to these requests for prayer, knowing the condition of my own heart, I felt so convicted. Why do I let this fear of failure consume me? Why do I judge myself so much more harshly than I would ever judge anyone else? And why is it so hard to give to God that which I cannot do?

I thought about this idea all week, and, of course, I was tested today. My children were defiant, and I didn’t feel well. If ever I needed them to obey, it was today, but they didn’t. And I found myself internalizing their bad choices, making them about me. I must not know how to discipline. If my children don’t respect their own mother, how I can ever expect that they will respect any authority figure? What am I doing wrong that they don’t care?

I had forgotten that they are imperfect creatures, and they are young. And while they fed off of each other, as children so close in age tend to do, I fed off of the lie that I was failing and, therefore, ruining my children.

And that is when God whispered in my ear.

You haven’t leaned on me.

I don’t believe that God is some genie in a bottle whom I rub when I need a quick solution; instead, He is there to walk with me when I have a long haul. And I needed to let Him walk with me, admitting to Him that I needed help, accepting that I’m not perfect, but believing that I wasn’t ruining my children, either.

Path at Kirby Moore Farm — photo via photobucket.com

I am sure that I have many failings as a mother, and I’m sure the Super Nanny would love to teach me a thing or two. But I’m also sure that I go before the Lord most every night and every morning on behalf of my children and in my own quest for wisdom. And I know He hears me, and I know He honors my prayers.

And He hears you, too. He knows the fears you carry, and He wants to carry them instead.

None of us will reach perfection. All of us will fail. And that’s okay.

He didn’t expect any different, so why should we?

¹⁴ For those who are led by the Spirit of God are the children of God. ¹⁵ The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship.^[f] And by him we cry, “Abba,^[g] Father.” ¹⁶ The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children (Romans 8:14-16, New International Version, 2010).

Do you let the fear of failure take over? How has God dealt with this fear you carry?

Or share your own journey that you are currently taking! What is God teaching you? Link your post below!

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Family, Food, Forgiveness

The black Lincoln limousine picked me up from the airport, and I looked out the window as the rain fell down on the dark street. It may or may not have been raining, but I have a horrible memory, and that’s how I have chosen to remember this event. Besides, rain is befitting of the occasion.

I had left an Air Force training to attend the funeral of my grandmother. The company for which my father works was kind enough to offer to send a limousine to pick me up at the airport, which was an hour or so away, so that my father could stay at the wake with the rest of his family. I felt strange having someone I didn’t know drive me, especially since the limo wasn’t like the limo I rode in for prom. I was in a regular Lincoln Town car, with only the front seat separating me from this man I didn’t know.

I looked out the window most of the drive on that gloomy night until we pulled in front of the funeral home. I was met by my father and taken inside the dark room where my grandmother lay. She didn’t look like herself–her face was bloated–and I felt uncomfortable seeing a face that didn’t look how I remembered it. And sadness and guilt filled me as I regretted not finding a way to travel to New Jersey to see Grandma while she was sick.

But in the midst of the grief that all were experiencing in the room, a trickle of joy had spread. When I moved to the back to join my mother, she was surrounded by most of her family. All of her sisters had come to comfort her in the loss of her mother-in-law, and two of these sisters had been absent from her life for around ten years, a split in the family severing the relationship.

I don’t know what caused the break in their relationship; I don’t know if they do, either, but my grandmother’s death brought them all together for reconciliation. My parents from Georgia, my sister and her husband from Kentucky, my relatives from New Jersey and Vermont, and me from training in Ohio, all together. And because of my grandmother’s death and this reconciliation, I was able to share with most of my family the news that I was carrying life within my own belly, a true blessing for me as I had not been able to share with any loved ones up until this point. I couldn’t even hold my own husband as I read the words ‘pregnant’ on the little stick in my Air Force lodging room.

After the wake, we made our way through the rain to grab some pizza. I had to chuckle at my father and my uncle–it doesn’t matter where we are or why we are there, they will find the best pizza joint in town. As we walked in the small restaurant, my uncle offered his loud New Jersey greeting, and I smiled to notice that he had already made friends with the owner and knew what food to recommend. It was good to know that even the death of their mother wouldn’t stop them from enjoying a good pizza.

I remember sitting around the long, rectangular table, my mom and her sisters together, my dad’s brother and his family interspersed throughout, my own sister and her husband there. And there was joy. Joy over pizza and pasta. Joy in the midst of grief and death. Joy in the midst of new life and nausea. Joy in the midst of fragile relationships.

And while my memory is foggy of the details like the exact meals we were eating or the clothes everyone was wearing, there is one detail I will never forget: my mother’s smile.

After dinner, we walked into the wet parking lot, our family talking, laughing, saying its ‘goodbyes,’ and my mother and one of her sisters stopped. They turned to each other and embraced. I remember watching this embrace, two grown women pulling each other tight, determined to not let go as they had done several years ago. My aunt’s eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking out. But my mother–I just remember her smile.

Her mouth was closed, but her smile stretched across her face, and I could see that this hug, this reconciliation literally made her whole body feel better. In this hug she regained hold of part of her family that she had thought she had lost. As they rubbed each others’ backs, they smoothed out the discord that had haunted this family, and as their tears fell, they washed clean and started anew.

Girls holding hands — photo via photobucket

We left dinner and got into our different cars, making our way to the hotel to prepare for the next day. I don’t remember the ride there or where we stayed, but I imagine my dad was processing through his own emotions. But my mom–I know she radiated joy at this chance for new life.

When did you have a family meal that you will never forget? Have you ever had a moment of reconciliation that changed your life?

Come back tomorrow for ‘Journeys’–I’m no longer supplying a topic, so you can write on any spiritual journey that you are taking. Click on the tab above for more information. And lastly, I decided to try out this ‘NetworkedBlogs’ thing, so if you’d like click the ‘follow’ button on the right side of my blog. You’ll get an update to your Facebook account when I publish a new post. Have a great day!