Yummy!

One day, after a nice summer swim, Frog realized that he was very hungry.  He hurried to his house and made a plate full of his favorite:  grilled cheese sandwiches.  With his mouth watering, he took his plate and a glass of pink lemonade outside for a lovely afternoon picnic on a rock by the river.

Just as he was getting ready to take his first bite, Moose sauntered by.  Catching a whiff of the delicious smelling grilled cheese sandwiches, he turned around, looked at Frog with his plate piled high, and said, "Mmmmmm.  Can I have a bite?"

Frog looked from Moose to his sandwiches and back again.  Finally, he tore off the most itsy bitsy teensie weensie teeniniest piece of sandwich that he could manage and placed it on the rock.  

"Here you go!" said Frog.

Moose looked at the crumb, looked back at Frog, and said, "It's okay.  You can keep it."  He then wandered on his way.

Frog shrugged and brought his sandwich up to his mouth, but just then Goat cantered up.

"What a de-e-e-licious smell!" exclaimed Goat.  "Can I have some?"

Frog shrugged and said, "Sure, help yourself."  He pointed to the crumb that Moose left on the rock.

Goat quickly licked up the crumb.  When he saw that Frog wasn't going to offer any more, he trudged away with his head hung low.

This time, Frog quickly crammed a piece of the sandwich in his mouth, but before he could chew it up very well, Alligator crawled up.

"Yuuuummmmmy!" said Alligator.  "My favorite!  Can I have a bite?"

Frog's mouth was too full to speak, so he just pulled off another tiny crumb . . . this one even smaller than the last, and held it out for Alligator.

Alligator looked at the crumb in Frog's hand, licked his lips and . . . 

CHOMP.

Rumor has it that there is still a mostly-full plate of grilled cheese sandwiches sitting on a rock by the river. You can help yourself. 

THE END.

Boogie Bear

A story for all the little Boogie Bears out there.  Especially mine. :) 

Once upon a time there lived a little bear named Boogie.  Boogie wasn't his real name, of course, but all of his friends called him that because he LOVED to pick his nose.

At night when Boogie was at home, his mama would say, "Eugene, get your paw out of your nose.  If you don't watch out, it will get stuck there.  Then you will be in a fine fix."

Boogie just laughed and laughed, but his dad said sternly, "Eugene, you better listen to your mother.  She is always right."

Boogie would race around the room, hide behind a chair, and stick his paw into his nose --- just to make sure he could get it out again.  Easey-peasy . . . his little paw always slid right out.

One day, Boogie Bear was playing in the woods by himself.  All of a sudden, he smelled the most wonderful smell.  It was coming from up in a tree.  Boogie climbed up, and what did he find?  A tree full of the most beautiful golden honey.

Well, the one thing Boogie liked more than picking his nose was honey. Boogie just loved honey.  He quickly stuck his paw into the tree and began to shovel the ooey gooey yummy ummy honey into his mouth.

Boogie ate and he ate and he ate some more.  He ate until all the honey was gone, and then he climbed back down the tree, sat at the bottom, and patted his great, big, full, happy belly.

Just then, he noticed that his nose began to itch.  Without thinking twice, he slid his little paw up to scratch. But when he tried to pull it back out again, it was stuck!  All that ooey gooey yummy ummy honey was all over his sticky paws, and - try as he might - he could not get his claw out of his nose.

Poor Boogie!  He had to walk all the way back through the forest with his finger stuck in his nose . . . past all the bunnies and the deer, the birds and the other little bears.  Everyone laughed and laughed at Boogie Bear limping along with his paw in his nose.

When he got home, his mother took one look at him and shook her head.  Without saying a word, she helped him take a bath and pry his claw out of his nose.  That night, she put a box of tissue next to his bed when she kissed him good night.  

"I love you, Eugene," she whispered.

"Love you too, mommy," he mumbled back.

And do you know what happened?  Well, I'll let you guess . . . but before long everyone was back to calling Boogie "Eugene," and he never got his paw stuck in his nose again.

THE END

Sweet Joy and Loving Kindness

A birthday message to my boys:  Collin, age 3; Connor, age 1

My dear, sweet, silly, and above all precious boys,

Happy Birthday to you both!  I planned to set aside a day every year to write to you individually before your birthday, but it hasn’t worked out exactly as I planned.  I won’t make excuses.  I also won’t dwell on the undone, because I have learned that God has a way of orchestrating EVERYTHING, even the flops and delays and not-good-enoughs, for his glory.

It just so happens that today is two days before Easter (yes Collin – it is your birthday cake that is in the oven today), and my message for you both this year is an Easter message.

My children, I will let you in on a secret.  Life is like a series of Easters.   You will have seasons of triumph, seasons of betrayal, seasons where the very hands of God wash your feet, seasons of cross-bearing, and seasons where God and his promises seem fraudulent, false, dead, crucified.  There will be moments when it seems that the darkness has won.

My darling boys, we are all human, and your emotions will tempt you to believe that the season you are in is the only season.  But it is not.  Because always, always there is the resurrection.

When you are tempted not to believe this, look around.  Nature, the seasons, our life spans, the birthing process . . . everything is designed to reflect this truth.  Resurrection is printed on your soul’s DNA.  

So when you make decisions, my children, make them with this truth in mind:  the resurrection is real.  Joy will come in the morning.  New mercies await around each corner.  Love can be beaten and nailed to the cross, but in the end, it will triumph.  

What does this mean? YOU ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ACHIEVING YOUR OWN HAPPINESS.  Don’t be fooled – you will never sustain any lasting contentment based on your efforts.  You are simply responsible for beholding the resurrection with eyes and hearts wide open, witnesses to grace, recipients of love.   If you do this, joy will find you.  Loving kindness will find you.  Purpose and peace will find you.   

And your heart will be glad.

What bigger prayer could I have for your lives?  What bigger hope?  

When the darkness descends, keep your eyes open.  

Hope is on the way.

I love you, my children, always and forever.

Mama

Connor's Song

It has been 365 days
 -  Plus a few -
Since you were unwrapped
From my tight, stretched tummy.

A gift -
Surprisingly fair and red and blond
So unlike your
Dark-skinned brother.

The Sandal's wedding song
played over the surgeon's
Pandora station
As you were plucked from inside me
And taken to be weighed and
baby-tortured in your first few
oxygen-breathing moments.

What went through my mind?
Thoughts of joy and exhaustion and
Tingly-pain,
Mingled with randomness:
That is a good song.
I'm glad he was born to that.

The next few days were full of
Morphine and marveling
My heart over-saturated
Tired
Processing
A veteran mother,
but a rookie again
to you and your cries,
wants, needs.

In the tradition of all new mothers,
the thought-question-challenge
slipped in and out, out and in
as I fingered your hands,
cradled your head,
traced your nose:
Am I up to this task?

365 days later
 - Plus a few -
The question still hangs
And, will, always, I think.
A good question:
One that reminds me of
My mission,
My limits,
My dependency on the divine.

I could write
For a year and some days
About this tension:
the impossible task
of raising a person
to be better than me -
isn't that every parent's dream?

But - just now
I hear you waking
Your tiny yawn,
Your sleepy stirring.

You jolt up - startled,
scared
But then you see me
Typing here on the floor.

Your face relaxes
As you settle back in
To dream a little more.
It's not that complicated,
You seem to say.

You are just glad
That the bed is soft,
Your belly is full,
And Mama is here.

Little Bird Takes a Nap (A Bedtime Story for Collin)

Little Bird was a beautiful bird with long, purple feathers.  He had an orange beak, orange feet, and little red stripes going up and down his legs.

One day Little Bird was flying over a field of flowers.  The flowers were beautiful and were all sorts of different colors:  red, orange, blue, pink, purple, white, and green.  Little Bird swooped up and down, over and around the flowers until he was all tired out.  He really needed a nap.

He spotted a tall tree with a nice, fat branch and he headed towards it, thinking that it would be a good place to settle in for a bit.  But - just as he swooped in towards the branch, he saw that the tree was in front of a little brown house with an open upstairs window.  Cheery yellow curtains were rustling in the breeze. 

Little Bird was a curious little bird and he couldn't resist the temptation to see what was inside that house.  He flew right past the tree branch and through the open window.

Inside, the yellow curtains rested against pleasant blue walls.  He hopped forward a bit more, and he saw a brown dresser, lots of books, and a little orange bed.  The bed had a happy blue bedspread with little monkeys dancing on it.  At the top of the bed, there was a brown and white giraffe pillow next to a black and white panda bear.

Little Bird was still very tired, and the bed looked so inviting.  He looked around the room and could see that no one was home, so he decided it was safe to take a nap.  He hopped over to the bed, used his beak to lift up the covers, and scooted under them for a cozy afternoon snooze. 

He slept for a long, long time. 

Do you know where Little Bird is now?

He just woke up! (Tickle, tickle, tickle, tickle)

Evidence

My eight month old is not a great sleeper.

On a good night, he wakes up once or twice.  Those nights aren't so bad because he can be a little charming in the middle of the night.  When he realizes that we are there to help him, his smile radiates through the dark. "I missed you, Mama and Daddy!"  he seems to say.

On a not-so-good-night, that sweet baby greeting loses its appeal around wake ups three and four.  And by wake ups five and six, there is nothing charming and dear about him.  Or me.  I am generally just angry.

Every parent knows that tired angry is not good.  Exhausted angry is worse.  It's actually a little scary.

Fortunately, my husband and I have developed an unspoken language that enables us to deal with our irrational, sleep-deprived emotions.  We each have a distinct "rescue-me-from-this-baby" grunt.  When we hear it, it is a non-negotiable call to action.

95% of the time, this system works out well for us.  Unfortunately, last night was one of those nights where we both hit the grunting stage at the same time.  At around 5:30 am, I flipped on the lights and took my infant downstairs to the play zone to preserve his well-being.  As he happily gnawed on a wooden giraffe, I popped open a Vanilla Coke Zero and jumped up and down in the kitchen until I was awake enough to function. 

How, I wondered, was I going to survive this day?  This month?  This year? 

If this sounds dramatic to you, I urge you to take the midnight to 5 a.m. shift at my house for a few nights. 

A couple of groggy hours later, the kids and I were on the way to daycare and work.  I was still on a woe-as-me thought trajectory when we turned off of the main street onto a little cut-through road.

There, in front of us, was a rainbow.  We paused at a railroad crossing, and my two-year-old and I both admired it.  "Whoa!" he exclaimed over and over again.  "A rainbow!"

Chill bumps rose up on my arm as I thought about the meaning of a rainbow: about its message of hope and mercy; about its representation of love; about its visible reminder that God is with us even during the storms.

Some days I can acquire perspective if I am intentional about it, but this was not one of those days.  I believe God heard my grunting and understood what I needed.

Proof.

Thank you, Father, for evidence that you love me and meet me in my trials - both big and small.

  

Sweet sleeping Connor.

Answered Prayer

About a year ago, I was walking my dog and pondering my plight as a non-property owning parent.  It had been a long Saturday, one in which my suddenly speedy one year old ran circles around and around and around the stairs.  We lived in a small rented condo with no yard, and my soon to be second born pressed too heavy on my bladder to make a park outing feasible for any length of time.

As my one year old giggled and galloped around the living room, I had cruelly condemned myself for failing to adequately provide for him.  My husband and I had given ourselves until the third trimester of my second pregnancy to find a suitable home for our little boys, and it was becoming clear that we were not going to meet our goal.  The condo was going to remain home sweet home.

My child, exhausted from his afternoon, was sleeping soundly when I ventured out for a walk.  As my dog and I meandered down the hill, I began to pray --- unsure why this God who professed to love me and my family would lead us into this situation with no back yard.  It wasn't a very good prayer because I interrupted it every few minutes to (1) rehash the life decisions that necessitated the condo; and (2) beat myself up for my lack of gratitude.

Suffocating from these toxic thoughts, I looked up at the night sky.  It was a beautiful, clear night --- one of those where every star in the heavens seemed to be visible.  I admired the starscape:  its vastness, its splendor, its timelessness.  In the stillness, I heard my soul breathe: 

Who owns the stars? 

And who owns the heavens?

Through these umprompted questions, it was suddenly evident how temporary my concept of property was.  Was the earth really mine to own anyway?  My life was so small . . . long after I was gone, whose property would my homestead be?

In that quiet moment, I realized that God was answering the prayer of my heart as opposed to the petitions of my lips.  Although I prayed for a home that I owned with a big backyard and lots of friendly neighbors, what my heart uttered was a plea for edification as a mother.  Please God, I subconsciously murmured, help me give my boys what they need. 

And in his perfect way, he did just that by reminding me of the insignificance of this thing I believed my children required.  My job as a mother, he seemed to say, was to cultivate in my children values of eternal worth. This home ownership hangup was a distractor.

Trust in me, I could hear him whisper to me, around me, over me.

It wasn't the answer I wanted, but it was the message I needed.  Thanks and glory to a God who ministers to my thirsty soul.