Childlike Faith

Oops. I haven't posted since September. Consistency has never been my strong suit. I get achy pretty often with words scratching and pressing to get out. I guess today the ache burst open.

You see, lately my youngest has been wiggling to shed his toddler skin. I have a hundred stories of his most recent discoveries and antics and thoughts come aloud.

Just this morning he was frustrated because he couldn't see his own head. And when I went to cut up the strawberries for breakfast, there were three with bites out of them. Oh, this one!

But my delight in my little one, and in his Creator, crescendoed this weekend reminding me that it is not because of me, but in spite of me, that Corban's view of the unseen is developing along with his little body. 

He played in the bounce house, sang the song, ate gobbled the cake, watched as the presents were opened, and went home a very contented young man with his orange helium balloon. But the desert spring winds are kicking up early this year, and a big gust yanked the string from Corban's little grasp, and we all watched as the prized balloon danced into the atmosphere. 

Immediately tears fell from his expressive brown eyes. "My balloon, my balloon!" I tried to help him see the poetry in a balloon frolicking free in the breeze, but I was of no comfort. Older brother was maybe a little more consoling.

"Corban," said wise big brother, "Just imagine your balloon is a gift to God. You can give it to God as a present to tell him thank you." Corban's tears abated, but the whole ride home I could hear an occasional sob from the back seat.

Corban prayed before dinner that evening. "Dear God, Thank you for Mommy and Daddy and Micah and the ketchup. Please send my orange balloon back to me. Amen."

Then it was my turn for tears. This was his first true request from the Almighty, his first honest expression of his own two-year-old faith. I think his previous prayers had been copies or promptings. But here he was revealing his own heart-felt longings to the Maker of Heaven and Earth. Oh, Lord, may this be the first in a long line of precious and candid conversations with you. 

His faith is big though. He hasn't grown jaded by vague perceptions of unanswered prayers or untruthful ideas that God doesn't really care.  Colossians 4:2 instructs us, "Continue steadfastly in prayer, being watchful in it with thanksgiving."

And Corban was watchful. Driving to the grocery store two days later, he spied an orange balloon floating high over the grand opening of a dry cleaner. "My balloon!," he squealed, "God sent it back to me!" And he smiled, blissfully admiring his orange balloon as I pushed the grocery cart inside as slowly as possible.

"Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it." -Jesus in Luke 18:17

The Exciting and Wonderful Business of Being Alive

He had trouble falling asleep last night and bounded out of bed this morning.  Micah was made for academia.  "Do you think I'll learn how to read on my first day?" he asked me last week.  Knowing how excited and ready he is to go to kindergarten certainly makes things easier for me, but this one giant step from babyhood to childhood still plays tug of war in heart.  If growing up is good and natural, why does it burn and ache?

excuse the bed head

I tried to make this morning special, with "K" is for kindergarten pancakes and a fun photo session, but I mourned for yesterday, the last day before school began.  It's those last days that can slip from our minds.  I don't remember the last time I changed his diaper or the last day he crawled or the last day we had our "copy" together.  (He used to drink his milk on my lap every morning, but he called his drink coffee or "copy." For years any morning drink he had was coffee.)  Did I treasure the last while anticipating the first?

Micah and I have been together practically every day for his five years of life.  I have rocked him and kissed his boo boos and shushed away the nightmares.  This milestone seems to have come so quickly.  I miss hearing his chatter and his imaginary play.  I miss just knowing he's with me.  Who else can love him like I can?  

I sent him off with a Bible verse this morning.  I chose it to make him feel better, but it probably did me more good than him.  Joshua 1:9 says, "Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go."  There is someone who loves him more than I can. 

When I'm tempted to hold him too tight rather than allow him incremental independence, a quotation from Madeline L'Engle's novel Meet the Austins reminds me about breathing in and out.  "We can't stop the road of time. We have to keep on going. And growing up is all part of it, the exciting and wonderful business of being alive."

I shed my tears.  I mourned the end of babyhood.  But perhaps part of it is a prideful mourning.  I'm mourning that he doesn't need me as much as he used to.  And there are so many things to be thankful for in this new chapter. 

   Precious time alone with sweet Corban

   Brothers who missed each other today.  They're sleeping in the same bed right now.

   A comfortable teacher, Mrs. Rhodes

   Arts & crafts presents at the end of the school day

   New friends

   A little boy who loves to learn new things

   A Heavenly Father who makes up for my earthly flaws

   The promise of the future

Desert Rain

I stomped. I shouted. Grouchy reigned the day. A layer of dust covered my soul when I saw the clouds start to roll in over the wide-open mesa.

Because I grew up and lived most of my life in Florida, rain storms used to be a comforting afternoon ritual for me. But here in the desert they are a treat, a surprise. A rumble of thunder and everyone rushes to the window scanning the sky for a drink. 

I can smell the wetness wuthering in from far way, so I close the windows in anticipation. Rain in the desert has an unmistakable scent. The drops come in big splashes, and our yellowed grass seems to stick out its tongue.  My withered heart feels the freshness too as I watch the world being washed anew.  Desert dusty air is clean again, and I ask for a do-over. 

Do-overs began when our rings were still shiny and our eyes were still starry. A misspoken word or rolled eyes or unthoughtful actions could be recanted with a simple request for a do-over.  The lovers reconcile.  Sometimes apologies come in the form of "can we start over?" from our little boys who are enrolled in the University of Relationships in our own home.  Their momma is more than happy to respond with grace since she knows she often needs it too.

And that's what I did during the rain storm that literally cleared the air.  I got down on my knees and looked into a wide-eyed pair of blue eyes and mischievous pair of big brown eyes and told them I was wrong and asked for a do-over.  Hugs and cuddles and giving my children the opportunity to live the Gospel of forgiveness happens in the every day right next to the sliding glass door, where the rain drops glisten on greener grass. 


Does your family have any rituals that help your relationships flourish?