I Love You More...

I love you more than a kitchen floor without crumbs.

I love you more than clean clothes folded and put away.

I love you more than straight pillows on the couch.

I love you more than a dry floor around the bathtub.

I love you more than dinner on the table at six.

I love you more than an uninterrupted phone conversation (or any conversation for that matter).

I love you more than getting somewhere on time.

I love you more than I can often describe and maybe more often than my actions show.

I pray that when you look back at our days together, you'll look back with grace. I pray that as you remember your childhood and me trying to keep our household running somewhat smoothly, you'll remember the love...not just the sweeping, cleaning, doing laundry, making appointments, rushing to avoid being late, kinds of things. I pray that you'll remember the way you make me laugh and smile and years from now when you think of the way my voice sounded, it won't be accompanied by a sigh of exasperation.

When I'm Tired

When I'm tired, I just don't do anything very well. I lose my patience...quickly. I speak more harshly. I become frustrated and exasperated by almost any little nuisance and I overreact, usually ending up in tears by the time all is said and done.

I know that being tired is a natural part of life. Our bodies need rest to function properly. I also know that I should respond immediately when my body is saying, "GO TO BED!" but I usually don't. I think of "just a few more things to do" while there aren't interruptions and then I've deprived myself of an hour or more of much needed sleep.

Right now, I'd like to be napping, but I can hear little footsteps upstairs that tell me that the small people in my house are not, so I shouldn't either (if I don't want to awaken to some sort of mess).

And so I sit, tapping keys on a computer to offer a little solace, helping me to feel semi-productive while I wait for another opportunity to get some rest.

The difficult moments

We're at a "jumpy" place with friends. It's a down time in the day for such a place and my three kids and their friend are enjoying jumping in one bounce house with no other children. Then suddenly the doors burst open and a group of 10-12 older elementary aged students come running in and about half the group heads to the spot where my kids are jumping.

I sit back, with the other mom, waiting to see what will happen next. Nicholas, my oldest, who has just a few weeks experience as a six-year-old, sees the small mob of bigger, more boisterous, kids coming their way and immediately starts calling to the girls to, "Come on...I'll help you out!" His petite, 5-year-old, ethnically Korean, friend is the first to make it out. As the bigger kids start climbing in and jumping around he manages to get his 4-year-old sister to safety. The only one remaining, as he sits near the opening in the net, is his 2-year-old sister. She's clinging to the netting on the side and trying to remain standing as the older kids bounce. She's slowly making her way to her big brother and following his encouragement until he gets her to safety.

As they walk over to me, I tell Nicholas how proud I am of the way he helped Mackenzie and Annie get out of the bouncy safely. I assume the older kids weren't intentionally trying to make it difficult for them, but simply were so excited about jumping and having fun that they were unaware of how their actions would impact much smaller children.

Then Nicholas says, "Mommy, they were teasing us."
"Teasing you? How?"
"Well, that big boy in the green shirt said, 'Hey, Chinese people,' but with an unkind voice."
I wanted to knock the kid down.
"Did you say, 'We're not Chinese. We're all Korean.'?"
"No."
"I'll watch closely and if he tries to tease you or the girls anymore, I'll help you."
"Okay."

For the rest of the time at the jumpy place, our little pack was watching to see what the bigger kids, specifically the boy in the green shirt, would do next and if they came "our" way, our kids would find another place to play.

I waited and wondered if I had done the right thing. I resolved that I will continue to teach my children that every person is valuable and differences are necessary and wonderful parts of who we are even though we live among people that in their words and actions will disagree. At times it will be painful, heart-wrenching, I'm sure, but we will not accept the words of others as truth, nor will we wear their labels as our own.

On an anniversary

Nine years ago, today, I said, "I do" and "I will" to a tender present and an unknown future.

Here we are today, riding the current of the predictable and the unexpected, up and down, in the ocean that is "us".

I'm here, with words bubbling over, sometimes filling air that should be left empty, and you're there, beside me.

A relationship that started out with simple words scribbled on scraps of paper tacked to a bulletin board or tucked under a windshield wiper in a familiar parking lot, now so many words spoken and unspoken between us.

Once upon a time there were love letters and songs, long phone conversations and e-mails that told me that you loved me. Now there are the late night responses to a crying child, the offer to pick up dinner or meet at a restaurant, the help at bath time and bedtime, and the willingness to make breakfast for the "littles" so I can sleep in for just a bit longer.

Thank you for not just loving me with words or speech but with actions and in truth.

For now we see only a reflection...

I stood knee-deep in the water with waves crashing rhythmically behind me, my belly swollen with a child that I'll meet within weeks.

My other three stood, still for a moment after outrunning sea foam "lava". They were in a semicircle, looking down at some object in the sand, and as the wave that had chased them moved back out to sea I saw the lovely glimmer of a reflection that met their toes in the sand.

It was brief. So brief that I almost missed the sight completely. Then it was gone.

They came running back toward me, the water that was near my knees retreating closer to my ankles, and instead of a fuzzy reflection on wet sand, I had three elated children--laughing, talking, squealing, smelling of sunscreen and tasting like saltwater kisses. Cool wet hands grabbing for mine and telling me to "get ready! Another one is coming!"

And I thought of the words of the Apostle Paul:
"For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known." 1 Corinthians 13:12

There, on the edge of a continent with toes in the Atlantic, feeling awkward in my maternity swimsuit, I had a holy moment. There is goodness in this life and these experiences, but they don't compare to what has been promised for the future.

In Memory

It's hard to explain exactly what I've been feeling the last few days. I found out that a classmate of mine, from middle & high school, died unexpectedly.

As I began writing, in her memory, I tried to think of specific memories I have of her. They are few and scattered. In middle school, when we met, she was the support necessary to get to the top of cheerleading pyramid and laughter as we tried to learn new dance routines. In high school she was a timid, but friendly smile in the hallway between classes. In recent years the memories consisted of facebook status updates and changes of profile pictures.

But I get it. While my interactions with this woman were limited and just a small piece of the picture of who she was and who she became, to some she was everything.

For the little girl that will sit across from an empty seat at mealtimes, she was everything.

For the man that now sleeps in his marriage bed alone, she was everything.

For the sister that no longer has someone that understands every part of her past, present, and hopes for the future, she was everything.

For the parents that were there for her first breaths, and tomorrow will be there to place a lifeless body in the ground, she was everything.

Everyone is everything to someone.

Mended fences & swinging gates

Many of my childhood memories of my dad and his dad have to do with farming and fields, cows and crops.

The memories come at different times and in different ways...

Driving paved neighborhood streets in suburbia with the windows down is somehow deeply connected to the feeling of bumping across a field in the back of a pick-up truck with wind blowing loose braided pigtails.

The first sight of fireflies in summer will always remind me of sitting beneath pecan trees shucking corn until after the sun set.

The quart bags of blueberries and pecans in my freezer and a couple of dozen small jelly jars of homemade blackberry jam seem paltry in comparison to the freezers full of okra, beans, corn and beef, or the pantry filled with canned goods from my grandparents' gardens that I remember so clearly.

My dad spent hours, days, and probably years of his life in a field, on a tractor, mending fences, counting and caring for livestock and I'm certain the habits he developed in his younger years continue to guide his behavior today.

Just as he helped break loose soil to plant seeds, then watched to keep weeds at bay, he tended three children to adulthood. I'm certain that he recognized, that once a seed is planted there is only so much you can do, then you just have to wait for it to grow on its own and bear fruit of its own kind. Maybe this is why, at times, he seemed to step back, but he was always nearby, waiting and watching as his seeds grew.

Just as my dad and his dad would repair broken fences while the cows were in another part of the pasture, I'm certain that he created boundaries, without us even realizing it, to keep us safe.

Just as he held the key to unlock the gate, then let us "ride" it as it would swing open, I know that his hard work and dedication opened many doors of opportunity that have since brought me as much joy as the swinging gates of my childhood.

Daddy is not a perfect man. I am far from a perfect child. Yet still I'm glad he is mine and I am his.