The Unexpected Life

“Are you two back together with no yelling?” Z, my 6-year old, super-skinny nephew asked as he popped a piece of waffle in his mouth.  He was oh-so-casual in his Spiderman skivvies and nothing else, but I think his little heart really needed to know.  Yelling is a big part of his life, but our, Zak’s and mine,  relationship agreement (Yes, Z and I have a relationship agreement worked out.  Mainly this: you kid, me adult. You behave, no trouble.  You misbehave, trouble.  But big caveat: I don’t yell at him ever, and he doesn’t yell at me.  Sometimes I have to remind him.  I’ll say, “Zak remember our agreement? I don’t yell at you and…” then I wait the 3-5 minutes until he mutters, “I don’t yell at you.”  Sometimes I tease him just a little, tell him I can’t hear him until the both of us are laughing.) Continue reading →

This past weekend at my brother’s house I was half-way down the stairs when Z’s little 6 year-old voice down echoed down the stairwell, stopping me in my tracks.  “Auz,” he inquired of his 10 year-old wizened brother, “what’s a hipster?”

Now, maybe for the sake of propriety I should say that I moved along and certainly didn’t eaves drop on my beloved little dudes, but, alas I did not.  And don’t tell me you wouldn’t have paused for that answer, too.  You know you sooo would’ve.  And Auz’s calm, collected, confident, not to mention definitive answer: “It’s Winnie the Pooh.”

My eyes must practically jumped out of their sockets, and I’d like to say that the morally grey area of listening in on a 6 and 10 years’ old conversation forced me down the rest of the stairs, but I can’t lie.  It was the terror of discovery; I was about to burst out-loud laughing. I dare not laugh, nor give myself away in any other tell-tale manner. After all, I needed these kids to trust me, right?  (Like listening in stairwells was trustworthy?  I am not above recognizing my own hypocrisy.)  So, I proceeded calmly down the stairs, and, I think God was punishing me because there wasn’t another soul with whom around to share this ‘Isn’t this adorable moment?’

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Deliberate faith…it’s a phrase that’s been running through my head for the past couple days.  What’s it mean, though?  Why has this phrase taken such a hold of me, such a grip that I can’t shake?  I lie awake at night, and the question spins through my mind: why “deliberate” faith?

I think of the definitions of faith I’ve heard throughout my life.  By far my favorite is “Courage that has said its prayers.”  I picture the little stick figure of Courage bowed before the throne of the Almighty, pouring out his heart to the One Who Heals, the One Who forgives.  And I know I am called to that same courage, every second of everyday.  After all, I must become less and He must become more.  So, in truth, I am (or at least should be) that stick figure bowing, begging, crying, supplicating.

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Z, my nephew, was asked in school to write about what he wanted to be when he grew up.  I held the paper –  grey, rough elementary school, big red and blue lined paper that feels gritty against your hands, and read Z’s answer.  As always,  that kid brought a smile to my face – memories of kindergarten and first grade – innocence and wonder.  Z’s answer made my heart sing.  I’m going to quote it, misspellings and all, and I hope you get the butterfly kiss feeling, too.

“I wont to be a  pelecmon so I can be like my Dad.  I wont to pot peple in jail and ried a motrsicle.” Translation (just in case you need it):”I want to be a policeman.  So, I can be like my dad.  I want to put people in jail and ride a motorcycle.”  Now, that my friends, is an amazing commentary on my brother from his 6 year-old.  Doesn’t it just make your smile beam bright?

When we’re 5 or 6 years old, that initial question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” is so easy to answer: fireman, princess, superhero.  Then as 18 approaches when we are deemed old enough to be on our own the answer blurs: the world is too big and too interesting, and the question feels overwhelming.  Then we’re asked again (mostly in a very loud voice by a very frustrated, money- drained parent during that awkward fifth year in college),  and we still don’t know.  When we choose a path and think we’ve finally dispensed with that dreaded question,  it’s lobbed at us again worded differently in every job interview by every company (i.e. Where do you see yourself in 5 years?).  EVERYONE wants to know what we want to be.

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My 6 year-old nephew, Z, has this long, skinny body with long, skinny legs.  I think it’s safe to assume that the first thing you notice about him physically, other than his tiger-gold eyes, is how much of him is all leg and arm.  And the child can’t sit still to save his life – constant motion: hands, legs, fingers, probably even toes.

Z is 100% boy.  His XY chromosome probably leans toward chopping of the leg of even that one X.  His room is army green with camouflage bed spreads.  Even his laundry hamper is camo.  (From my days in the Air Force, I’ve worn enough camo to wonder why anyone who isn’t mandated to do so thinks it’s cool.  But that’s totally a different topic.) Back to Z, he’s smart and funny and (sometimes) cuddly, but what I love most about him is that he’s a crack-up.  Sometimes Z means to be funny, but mostly not; he just is.

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My parents married 44 years ago tomorrow.  There was no beautiful, extravagant wedding, no dresses and cakes and centerpieces to worry about.  Nope, just two crazy kids in love who drove across the Virginia state line into North Carolina and made do with a Justice of Peace.  (In point of fact they were married later by a priest with a janitor and a school secretary as their only witnesses, but, hey, sometimes, I think God takes what we can muster and blesses it amazingly.)

You see, my parents weren’t “allowed” to get married.  My father was the son of an impoverished Methodist minister while my mother came from one of Norfolk, Virginia’s oldest (read that as privileged) families, and my mother was raised Catholic to boot.  The only thing my maternal and paternal grandparents could agree upon was that their kids wouldn’t get married, wouldn’t have a life together, wouldn’t have children.   But you know what happens when you tell someone barely out of their teens what they can’t do? Yeah, that forbidden thing, it looks a lot more tempting.

I forgot to tell you, my father had dropped out of college to join the Navy so he could go to Vietnam.  Actually, he was politely asked to leave Virginia Tech when he went bowling instead of taking his exams.  Good girls from good Norfolk families, in those days, didn’t marry sailors.

My father was engaged to three women at the same time when he was 21, one of whom was my mother.  You’d never know it to see him now, but he was quite the player.  In the end he chose my mother because she was the one to break up with him when she found out about the other girls.  He’s just that stubborn, and since then she has been his entire world.

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The clock ticks at 4:00am, and I find myself sitting on the living room couch, wondering what exactly has me up before it’s even occurred to the sun to make an appearance.  No nightmares, no dreams of any kind that I can remember, just the tender prodding out of sleep a little after 3:00.  I am bone tired, but begging didn’t lure the Sandman back to me.  So, here I sit, laptop open, and I wait.

Most of the time, when I find myself awake at this unseemly hour, it’s God calling to me.  Does that sound strange?  I guess it doesn’t matter if anyone else considers it odd, but as I stare blankly at the darkened TV in front of me, I wait.

He’ll come; he always does, but patience is so difficult to achieve these days.  I want my conversation, my connection, and I want it now!  But the Almighty does not keep to my schedule.  And so, I wait. Continue reading →

I acquired a piano last week – a digital ebony baby grand.  Now, when I say “baby” think newborn because this tiny  bit of preciousness fits perfectly in the corner of my townhouse living room.   It’s beautiful, and every time I see it, my heart smiles.

I don’t play piano with an abundance of talent; I just love music.  Like every other little girl I knew growing up, I took years of piano lessons; I took 10 to be exact.  But that’s been lifetimes ago, and since I’m not telling you my age, all you really need to know is that I haven’t played for a long, long time. (To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, a woman who tells you her real age will tell you anything.; so, don’t trust her.)  Oh, but I’ve desired that piano, that outlet of my spirit so badly for so long.

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Yesterday I saw a magnet quoting Winston Churchill: “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” Of course, his “hell,”  well, I’m assuming he meant it  metaphorically as he was still alive and able to speak.  I’ve thought a lot about that word, “hell,” and how frequently I use it, just as WC did, to describe difficult situations in my life.  I think, perhaps, I need to stop using that word, because what do I truly know about  Hell other than that it involves separation from God, and He has yet to let loose of me.

I’ve always considered the awful or difficult things in my life to be “hell”- things I never thought would happen or never thought I’d say or do.  My list of “impossibles” grows by the day.  Actually, I’ve started measuring them by decade, the same way I have decided to age (i.e. at 30, I celebrated the first anniversary of my 29th birthday, but as I crossed  that 35 threshold, I decided that was just, uhm. . . stupid.  So, now, I will be “35” until I’m 40.  Just go with it, so much easier than trying to figure out my brain.)

The bottom line is that (so far) I have survived – survived things I thought would kill me – both literally and metaphorically.   But that survival , well, it’s  not on my own strength, but on the strength of One who is much greater.  How can I be sure?  Because when I lie prostrate on the floor, tears streaming down my face, there’s no way these weak human knees have the wherewithal to get me back on my feet.  You’d think I’d have learned enough by now to stand on my own, but in fact the opposite is true.  I’ve been battered and beaten enough by life to know that standing on my own isn’t even an option.  I’m lifted and held by my Creator – day by day and moment by moment.

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When I was a little girl, a picture hung on our Sunday School room of a very anglicized Jesus surrounded by blonde haired children.  Jesus is depicted as gently holding one adoring little face cupped in his tender hands  – God as Man enraptured by his own creation.  I could relate to the children in that picture because they looked so much like me; I loved that picture.  At various times throughout my life, I’ve owned copies of that picture, but there was always someone who needed it more than I.  I don’t even know if that particular picture is still in print, but if it is, I’ll find it again.

I’d like to think that those children knew Him for who He was, the Lord God Emmanuel, Lord and Giver of Life, the Word Made Flesh.  I’d like to think they knew it deep down to the dusty soles of their feet, deep into their beautiful souls and hearts, because, while children are born into this tainted world, sin nature intact, they have yet (mostly) to have had the opportunity to explore/exploit that nature.  Children are as close to pure innocence as we get to experience until we are fortunate enough to be called Home.

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