Nature, Like White Paper

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We aren’t really playground material.  Unless, that is, if no one else is using it.  Then it can become an obstacle course for an intense game of tag or a jungle gym for my children who find no joy nor challenge in the “correct usage” of the equipment.  They go up the slides, climb on top of the swing bars, and try to spin themselves into white-knuckled, near-projectiles on the merry-go-round.

My four year old climbed a five foot fake boulder at a playground while I watched from about ten feet away.  Another mother was soon spotting him from below, asking anxiously, “OH HONEY!  Where is your mommy?”

“I’m here,” I said, giving a little wave, “He’s fine.”

Her eyes told me that he was indeed not fine, but she moved on.  I appreciate her care, I do.  If he’d been wandering toward a busy road or had been being bullied by some big kids, she’d be one I’d want to have around; a protector, an ally, a do-er.  Unfortunately, we don’t always see eye-to-eye about what constitutes acceptable risk.  I find the current culture of helicopter parenting to be exhausting.  Have you been to a playground on a busy day recently?  Kids are followed around, constantly!  They are directed on how to use the playground “correctly”.  There is a chorus of mothers saying “OKAY, no, no, honey, we only go down the slides.  NO, no, sweetie, take turns.  Oh, say you’re sorry for bumping into that boy.  OKAY, kids, not so fast on the merry-go-round; now stop it so this girl can get on, okay, go slowly, NO STANDING, okay stop it and let him off, okay….”  It’s like this delicate dance of politeness and correctness and fairness and safety, and really, I didn’t come here to direct a ballet; I came so that my children could dash about, climb, spin, and work off that boisterous and overflowing energy which is there for a reason.  And if you don’t follow the Momicopter Culture?  You’re shamed.  Shamed for letting your kid carry a small stick.  Shamed for letting them climb.  Shamed for letting them jump off the swings.  Shamed for letting them throw snowballs.  Shamed for not making them slow the tire swing down to a speed other parents comfortable with (even if it’s just your own kids on it!).  Shamed for letting your kid stomp in the rain puddles and get understandably cold.

I vividly remember the playgrounds of my youth.  They were made of wood and metal; they had precipitous drop offs, unforgiving angles, and slides that could fry eggs in the summer.  Tall towers to climb, high swings from which kids could launch into glory, and wondrously speedy, large merry-go-rounds.  And the moms?  Stationed on a park bench, book in hand, happy to have a rest while the kids exhausted themselves.  Kids got splinters, bruises, and the wind knocked out of them, sure.  They also got to navigate risk.

I took my kids to our local playground today, which was blessedly empty.  I noticed that the huge wooden ship, where many of my kids’ early memories were staged of harpooning imaginary whales, leading a band of pirates, or braving typhoons, was gone, replaced by an open stretch of newly seeded grass.  First had went the open stairwell to the ship’s interior, boarded shut “for safety”.  Then the mast.  Then the slide. Then the whole boat itself.  I noticed quite a few more missing attractions; without a doubt they were deemed “unsafe”.  There remained nothing exciting; no apparatus which caused any tingle of fear.  There was no risk.

My kids solved it.  They climbed in the no-climb zones (atop partitions, over low walls, etc).  They dragged big gnarly downed branches in and made weapons and tools out of them.  They plunged headfirst down the small slides.  Their developing brains made accommodations for the lack of risk.  I scribbled out these thoughts on a scrap of paper in my purse and tilted my face to the sun.  “Nature is like blank white paper; anything can be wrought upon it; it can absorb any story you draw on it.  Playgrounds are like coloring books; the stage, the lines, are set, fixed.  There is a degree of success expected because of the proferred design:  here is how to enjoy this; follow the rules and it will turn out nicely.  Playgrounds with helicopter moms in full command are like paint-by-number pieces, where even the minutest details are not left to chance in the pursuit of excellent, safe, play.  I can think of no greater threat to imagination and safety than this current state of affairs.”  I wrote it out in hurried cursive.  My baby clambered past, slipping on patches of snow.  He hollered at the icy cold on his bare hands, shook off the snow, and carried on.

Appropriate risk is crucial to developing brains.  Overly coddled and protected children don’t have the tools to interact with their environment in the absence of their parent.  I’ll never forget the time when I hosted a stream-stomping birthday party for my son in third grade and invited several boys from his class.  One boy, whose mother was on the extreme end of helicoptering, asked if I was going to hold his hand on the walk to the park (it’s just through a development, no major roads nor traffic).  When we arrived at the stream, the boys clambered down through the brush and started exploring, splashing, and pretending.  He turned to me and asked “Where are the steps to get down to the water?”

“Um…there are no steps, just walk through the brush.”

“But what do I do?”

I was shocked.  Had this child ever been allowed to interact with nature without an adult telling him how?  “Just go explore, feel the water, run around, be a kid!”

After the creek stomp we headed back and I let the boys build a fire to cook our supper on.  The one boy looked on with a mystified expression on his face.  Fire was danger, danger is for adults.

I don’t pretend that every adult reading this is agreeing with my point of view, but I do ask you…if 100% of kids love to try to climb up slides, why are we always telling them not to?  When the worst case scenario is as benign as getting run into by a kid coming down, which automatically teaches the climber the risk involved and how to hedge against it, say, by observing by sight and sound whether another person is up at the top, why are we interfering?  Couldn’t it be that kids’ minds know what they need to do to grow?

It is my contention that good playgrounds enable rather than inhibit appropriate risk, and so do good parents.  I think the magic of kids’ play really takes place when they not only navigate bodily risk, but also learn the give and take of social interactions (sharing, apologizing, being considerate) without a parent prompting them.  When they screw up, of course a parent should pull them aside and reiterate expectations, but that should be a rarity.  They’re there to play, to learn, to risk, and to grow.  That will only happen if we get out of the way.

Until then, I prefer nature itself; there is no “correct usage” of a fallen tree spanning a small creek.  Maybe it’s a bridge, maybe it’s a pirate ship’s plank to walk, maybe it’s simply the risk-du-jour that needs experienced and conquered.

 

 

Write The Love

53651619_10157473629653352_4215585030375735296_oOh, the power of our words.  Bad habits can creep in like the dry leaves that blow in the front door, rattling across the floor, accumulating all sneaky-like.  We don’t notice, we’re busy doing this, doing that.  It’s only when one finds a pile of leaves, or an entrenched habit, that the problem is truly seen for what it is.

I’ve noticed our short fuses and resultant words that cut and sting.  The casual put-downs, the snide remarks, the jokes that hurt.  When did we let all these leaves in?

I was walking through our local thrift store, trying to find white clothes for our upcoming chrismations/baptisms.  There amidst a jumble of Christmas items was a little white metal mailbox, with a sticker on the side of cardinals and a cursive “Merry Christmas!”  Fifty cents later, it was mine.

I guess it’s not obvious why I had to have it, but I believe in the power of words, for wounding and healing.  Lent is nearly upon us; how can we remember to fast from hurtful speech?  Perhaps, just perhaps, by feasting on kind words.  Thus, the mailbox.

My children love rituals, traditions, and surprises.  They delight in the suspense, the sense that normal time has been suspended, that a special season is upon us that we are compelled to feel, down in our marrow.  Could I make kindness, encouragement, and love a tradition; could it help us use this gift all year?

I had to make it easy; who has the time and energy to track down a working pen, nice paper, and so on?  I had to make it intentional; it needed a space of its own, right in the heart of the home.  I had to make it fun; personalized and anticipatory.  My Made In China, cardinal-clad mailbox put the rest into motion.

53545858_10157473629373352_6883640889567084544_oFolded cards and writing implements at the ready.  The cheerful mailbox, sporting a paper sign (sorry, cardinals!), stands ready to receive missives.53357806_10157473629448352_4832568313785614336_oUsing glass gems, a drop of transparent glue (you can use clear silicone too), tiny scrap pieces of paper, and little round magnets, I made these little alert gems to signal when the recipients have mail waiting for them.  This protects the privacy of those who are receiving notes as the other children aren’t allowed to look inside the box unless their name is on.  53679360_10157473629488352_5180555068142780416_oHe’s got mail!53089500_10157473629688352_5572183762583683072_oRight beside the writing station is an alms box.  I spoke with the children at length that any giving into it needed to be done in absolute secrecy, so that only God sees.  At the end of Lent we’ll count it together and donate it to a charity we agree upon, or a person we know needs timely help.  53472775_10157473629943352_3927092712758575104_oTo the left of this I assembled a Lenten bouquet; dried weeds and plants from a recent walk, that in their death, still are beautiful.  The brittleness reminds me that Lent can be difficult and can make us feel a bit dried up, especially as important work is done on our souls.  As Holy Week progresses, so will the bouquet, ending up resplendent.  53793183_10157473629773352_5414610397565026304_oOur candle calendar sits ready to mark the days of the Bright Sadness.53270766_10157473630008352_4616132898716647424_oAnd finally, our Lenten devotional, “Tending the Garden of Our Hearts”, which will help us once again to gather each evening and be blessed, challenged, and encouraged in our journeys to Pascha.

Tending the Garden of Our Hearts FINAL COVER53509571_10157473629888352_9020214349972635648_oAnd, prayer, sweet, glorious, challenging, prayer.

May your Lenten journey be blessed!

Lent a Hand

The approach of Lent is everywhere, hints in the flora outside; Lenten roses ready to unfold their majestic petals, the pussy willow whips full of emerging puffs, peeking out under brown husks.  The faithful are eating meat with a certain urgency, and the pre-Lenten Sundays tick by, marking the approach to the “bright sadness”.

It reminds me of my rowing days.  In the weeks preceding a regatta I’d be an absolute bundle of nerves, all that tension settling in my stomach in a hard, twisty knot.  As a catechumen, I feel the same way as Lent approaches.  Will I make it?  Can I fast well, pray more, give more, attend more services, and grow spiritually…and not lose my ever-loving mind?  My thoughts are full of logistics and bean recipes and, honestly, a bit of panic.  It’s not just my journey, but my whole family’s; how can I help my kids connect to the beautiful, difficult season of Lent?  How can I make sure we don’t miss it?Tending the Garden of Our Hearts FINAL COVER

Last year we huddled around our aging laptop and listened to “Tending the Garden of Our Hearts”, a Lenten podcast on Ancient Faith Radio by Elissa Bjeletich and Kristina Wenger.  It was such an unmitigated blessing to have a spiritual meditation at the end of each day that wove in the strands we’d otherwise miss in our fatigue and busyness.  Stories of the saints mingled with the history behind the services we were attending, helping to anchor what we were seeing in a deeper understanding.  We were all challenged by the holy lives we read about.  This was a catalyst for great conversations with our toddlers, all the way up to our teenagers.

I’m thrilled that the podcast has been adapted into a book, and as I read through it again this month, I’m blessed anew by the thoughtful meditations that will again lead my family through Lent, one living room gathering at a time.  Being a visual person, I decided to make a calendar of sorts to further anchor the stories we read and the lessons we learned in our hearts.  I’ve included it here for your use as well, if it would be helpful for you!

The book is available on ancientfaith.com.  I pray you enjoy it as much as we do!

Tending the Garden of Our Hearts- Lenten Heart Calendar

Materials:

  • 12×12 piece of scrapbook paper for heart
  • scissors
  • thin ribbon, baker’s twine, or yarn
  • small safety pin
  • printable ornaments:  Page 1, and Page 2
  • color pencils
  • hole punch
  • marker

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Fold the piece of scrapbook paper in half, draw half of a heart and cut out.  While still folded, punch 25 holes along the edge.  Unfold and press flat.

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Each day, after the meditation, color in the ornament of the day.  The littlest children may enjoy the word ornaments where they can color quite freely, while the older ones may prefer the more intricate illustrations.  Cut out the ornament.

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Cut a length of your string or thin ribbon that is roughly two times as long as the perimeter of your heart.  Tie one end to the first hole, and the other to a small safety pin for a “needle”.
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Go up from underneath, looping each ornament into place each day, allowing the string to hang for the next addition.FullSizeRender-97

May your Lent be blessed!

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Small

I’m small, and my voice doesn’t carry very far. I don’t have answers; it’s like staring at a giant tangle of strings and being asked which one to tug on to begin to unknot the mess. It really doesn’t help that we tend to dive in and grab the “right” string and yank on it, tightening the tangles and frustrating our neighbors. We argue and the knots get tighter as we pull. Impasse.

I can only do small things. I look deeply into my kids’ eyes and search for brokenness; I ask questions; is there a kid who doesn’t get included? Is there someone who struggles to connect with others? How are you; no…how are you really? Kid, where is this anger springing from? Talk to me. I want to hear you.

Love. Hugs. Kisses. Tears and prayers. Long, slow, revelatory conversations.

The big ones…the politicians and the lobbyists and the organizations having a war of words; their work is large and beyond my understanding. No one can untangle knots while shouting and jerking the strings. I can’t tell them anything; I’m small, and my voice doesn’t carry very far.

But I will pray, and it isn’t a small thing; not a trite thing. Not a half-hearted thing, not an opiate, not a crutch, not an “out”. It is the Made saying to the Maker, we are undone; help! Our children are bleeding out under their desks and pain is written on our turned-away faces. Our hands are sliced by pulling strings and we can’t see through our tears and our voices are hoarse from shouting.

“The children are dying!”, my shout rings out and the string-pullers look at their bloodied palms and at the tightened wad of chaos quivering in the middle of them. “But the right to bear…” “But video games….” “But mental health”…”But background checks…”, whispered, chanting, building into shouting, and I back away.

“Love well today; be kind to those who need a friend”, I say as my kids head off to school. My prayers trail after them. I am small, and my voice carries to God’s ears.

 

*I wrote this in February, after a school shooting.  Which one was it?  That is a painful question to ask.  Lord, have mercy.shortstory9

Scars Of My Stumblings

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“This is the great work of man: always to take the blame for his own sins before God and to expect temptation to his last breath.”

+ St. Anthony the Great

I dared to shower, I dared to answer some work emails.  Meanwhile my five year-old and my three year-old dared to destroy.  A school library book and a fake plant.  I asked, exasperated by the thoughtlessness of it,”WHY?”.

They said, one tearfully and the other with a barely-suppressed grin, “I don’t know.”

I can relate.

Why did I snap at my husband over a minor offense?  I don’t know.

Why didn’t I pray instead of flinging myself at the to-do list, heedless of filling my cup before washing cups?  I don’t know.

Why didn’t I listen attentively to my preteen at bedtime when it seemed he was down, because I was ready to be done for the day?  I don’t know.

But I do know.

I know that I like to choose me over:  you, them, that (obligation, responsibility, good).  Sometimes it’s easier to choose the right way; sometimes it’s extremely difficult; sometimes I fail.  Daily I have reason to pray “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”  Daily I have the absolute obligation to forgive others their sins as well; if I do not I cannot expect mercy myself.  I am not a healthy person responsible for chastising the sick for their poor state; I am a sick person in need of a Physician, and I must help the other sick ones in my care to choose to follow the Physician’s instructions as well.  Am I letting the Doctor address my illness?  Am I following His treatment plan?  Am I getting better and better?  My children will see.  My spouse will see.  It is not enough for my words and beliefs to be correct; so also must my behavior, speech, and love reflect Christ, must honor Him, must spring from the healing He is doing in my heart and soul.

There is a beautiful hymn that I often have on repeat when I need a reset.  It is good medicine for me, especially this part:

You Who did fashion me of old out of nothingness, and with Your Image divine did honor me; but because of transgressions of Your commandments did return me again to the earth from whence I was taken; lead me back to be refashioned into that ancient beauty of Your Likeness.

Blessed are You, O Lord; teach me Your statutes.
I am the image of Your unutterable glory, though I bear the scars of my stumblings. Have compassion upon me, the work of Your hands, O Sovereign Lord,
And cleanse me through Your loving kindness; and the homeland of my heart’s desire bestow on me
By making me a citizen of Paradise.

I certainly bear the scars of my stumblings.  God’s healing and forgiveness does not take away all the brokenness from our sins.  Some relationships never truly heal, some temptations will dog us to our deathbeds.  But we do know that God’s love is great, warm, merciful, and powerful.  He is meticulous and persevering in mending us, healing us.

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The book and the plant will never be as beautiful and perfect as they once were; they look a bit shabby and patched-up, but they are no longer bound for the trash; that’s something, right?  Mended things are a bit more humble, aren’t they?  Wouldn’t we all benefit from a strong dose of humility?

I have this hanging in my kitchen; a constant reminder to remember my own brokenness and sin as I raise these dear children, as I interact with my husband, as I try to be a good friend, daughter-in-law, neighbor, and parishioner.  May God enable us to heal, forgive, mend, be mended, persevere, and live holy lives “by humble love”.IMG_6223

 

 

For Which Generation? On Telos and Techne

 “Hurry is not of the devil; hurry is the devil.”  -Carl Jung

Six kids?!?  You must be SO BUSY!

It’s said with wonder, with a smile, and nodding knowingness.  Everyone’s busy, so I must be doubly, or triply, so with such a sizable family.  Despite every inclination to just leave it at that, I cannot seem to help my contradictory self.  “I’m really not.  We live an intentionally slower-paced life with few outside commitments.”  This does not compute generally with whomever I’m making small talk.  But, it’s okay, they have to run anyways; busy day ahead!

I learned a new word the other day as I read You Are What You Love by James Smith:  telos.  A Greek noun, it means an end, purpose, or goal; an ultimate aim.  He writes convincingly that our telos affects everything, even if it’s not what we think it is.  What do we really aim at? What do we really love?  We may think that we’d love to have a beautiful and healthy body, but our true telos may have more to do with the tasty pleasure of eating donuts and the comfort of sedentary habits.

I wondered; what do I love?  What am I aiming my life towards?  And what is my techne (another Greek word, meaning our rational method in accomplishing our aim) for getting there?  And why is the techne that is assumed to be universal a breathless and harried busyness?  What telos requires such haste and incessant activity?

A baby is born and the parents begin to dutifully schedule portrait sessions, play dates, and provide heaps of stimulating “educational” toys.  There’s childcare to arrange, and baby is bundled up and ready for the day before the sun rises.  Life is a series of being dropped off and picked up, shuttled about from car seat to stroller to car seat to bed.  As toddlerhood approaches the parents feel this unsettling pressure; will their child be ready for preschool?  Which preschool is best?  Maybe a parent will pick up another job to pay tuition at a promising one.  This is only the beginning, but the telos is in full swing, the techne chugging along doggedly.  The comforting thing is that everyone else looks just as frantic, just as hurried, just as worried.  Until one attempts to commiserate with an odd duck like me, that is.

As the child enters elementary school he will be shuttled from school to after school care, to music lessons, to sports practices, to youth events at church, to karate, to dance, etc.  I know many families who only eat dinner together about once a week due to various activities that keep them orbiting the home, landing at different intervals for a hurried snack and a change of uniform.  Saturdays and Sundays are not exempt from this quick, packed lifestyle.  The two most common words associated with this time of life when I speak with my peers are “busy” and “stress”.  What is the end, the telos, of all this hustle?

A well-rounded adolescent, with success in one or many specializations, be they academic, musical, or sports-related, and a promising list of accomplishments to be listed on college applications?  Perhaps.  I think the telos reaches further as soon as they get accepted to a college; that they’ll pick an impressive major (or double major preferably); that they’ll graduate with honors, that they’ll land a lucrative and fulfilling job, that they’ll meet an equally impressive mate, and that they then can start a family.  Having that baby, then the parents can bring their telos to bear on that child; schedule the portraits, buy the Baby Einstein books, get the ball rolling towards laudable success.

This telos demands an incredible amount of busyness.  Such investment in the success of our offspring has never before been seen in history.  Family life has become bewilderingly child-centric, parents giving up their own interests and pursuits as they struggle just to meet the demands of their childrens’ schedules.  Is the cost worth it?  If you’re not willing to pay the price, can your children still have a chance at a successful life?  And what of your own life?  Can it be enjoyed or is it too laid upon the altar of busyness?  Are we always to be simply enduring the present in order to achieve the future?

This brings me back to my techne:  slow, unhurried, thoroughly enjoyed life, each day, each hour, for its own sake, aiming towards holiness in the long run by faithfulness and growth in the everyday.  Though I cannot guarantee the future success of my children (however one may define that), I can give us the space and time to enjoy life right now; splashing in today’s rain puddles, examining this year’s butterflies and roses, going on long walks and feeling this day’s fresh air filling our lungs.  Savoring bites of food, starting the day slowly with cuddles, spending a good half hour staring at my newborn’s tiny pink face, and taking my older children out for one-on-one dates where we linger over ethnic foods and connect deeply; these are my techne for not missing the moments that can’t be put off until later, for not missing the now.

This is not to say that there isn’t a place for spurts of busyness; right before an opening night of a play, or a championship game, or helping with charitable events.  Feeling a bit breathless and harried is appropriate for such; it’s a special time given special energy; it can be exhilarating, but to live every single day that way?  I’d argue that such effort shoots right past its own aim, its own telos; it hurries right past the life it meant to live so well.

So I ask, for whom is this offering of hustling, bustling, hurry?  For which generation?  It seems we are rushed about all our lives so that we can raise children whom we rush about so that they can raise children whom they can rush about.  Is this life?  When are we allowed to actually enjoy it?  On a yearly vacation, packed with activity itself?  When we retire and our bodies which we’ve neglected through inattention to them are ailing and out of shape?

I do not claim to be a better parent than anyone; God knows and I know the limitations and deficiencies I bring to the table, and trust me when I say that I esteem the great love and care that undergird the frantic scheduling folks submit themselves to.  I seek only to sound a bit of an alarm, that we might miss life if we sprint through it.  We can’t go back and have these days again.

I’ll end with a poem that is of help to me in forming my telos, and thus also, my techne:

Song for a Fifth Child

Mother, O’ Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth.
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.
 
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.
 
Oh, I’ve grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,
Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo.
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due,
Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek – peekaboo.
 
The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew,
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo.
But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren’t his eyes the most wonderful hue?
Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo.
 
The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow,
But children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.
~ Ruth Hulbert Hamilton
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The Welcome

IMG_1632Lunch was scrubbed off of the dining room table, and the long, shouty process of putting the toddlers down for their naps was in full swing.  I popped the banana-chocolate chip muffins into the oven and vacuumed the floors and rugs, tucking toys and spoons and socks and whatnots into my apron pocket while I worked.  Our rooms slowly relaxed into peaceable order and beauty (I cannot abide a tight and fussy beauty, but a gentle one I adore).  I did not present a perfection, but removed distracting static.  At its best, this preparation is a gift of love, at its worst a wild vanity parade.  Today was on the better side, so I had a calm heart.

I was to see two dear souls at three.  At two thirty the babies had all succumbed to sleep and I brewed some rich coffee and heaped the still-warm muffins in a wooden bowl, and arranged delicate sand tarts on a pewter dish.  Tea and coffee accruements were brought to the low, cozy coffee table in anticipation of warm conversations and refreshments, feet tucked under us on the plush sofas, hands wrapped around steaming mugs.  The hour ticked past three and I thought to check my messages; see if anything went awry.

I’d missed one from my friend; sadly they couldn’t come as transportation had fallen through.  I looked at the celebratory and cozy spread and mourned the loss of all the delightful catching-up and companionship it had anticipated facilitating.  What a grief to not see these dear friends!

Gladly, it has been my habit to “accept all things as from God’s hands”, so I promptly decided to keep the feast and give it as a gift to my children; to welcome them home from school as warmly as I’d hoped to welcome my friends.  Shamefully, their welcome is usually a quick hug and then a chore list and a harangue about the places they’ve decided to dump their backpacks and shoes and lunch boxes.  I rarely quiet myself enough at that hour of the day to truly be present to them, dinner preparation being in full swing.

They sat down around the coffee table in frank amazement at the deliciousness laid out for them.  Tea or coffee?  Their days’ events came out easily, without me fishing; one son smiled wide and declared that I was “the best mom”.  He truly felt welcomed, warmed, treasured.  I felt sad that this sort of thing was such a rarity; though, I give myself grace; my fly-about madly-cooking days are also works of love, just differently felt, differently received.  This was special.

I was reminded how essential it is to care for our loved ones not only in industriously tending to their physical needs, but sensitively to their emotional ones too.  To welcome not only guests, but the ones who live under this very roof.