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It’s finally happened.  Well, it’s been happening for nine years, but it feels sudden to me. Her legs as long as a giraffe’s neck, a restlessness in her body, a smile that will break hearts way before she’s ready to give hers. Where’s the girl I held with awe and trembling for the very first time? Where’s the little person who flapped around in my shoes and called elevators, “alligators”? She brought us into parenthood and almost a decade later I can say it’s been more joyous, challenging, and hilarious than I imagined it would be.

When I look at what awaits her, I want to protect her.  I want to remind her that she said she would always live with us, and demand she keep that promise. I see her world widening, opening its arms to her and asking “What will you bring?”  I know that no amount of mama love will prevent her from moving awkwardly, excitedly, and blindly toward this ride from girl to woman.  The only life preserver I can think of is made of words. Names.

“When I was memorizing the names of the stars, part of the purpose was to help them each be more particularly the particular star each one was supposed to be.  That’s basically a Namer’s job.”

Madeleine L’Engle, A Wind in the Door

So today her Daddy and I named her.  We called out the qualities, the gifts, that we see present and shining in her heart.  We wrote them, and we glued those words to beautiful stones that make you want to rub and press them. We gave her 9 stones, for nine years, with plans to add other jewels over the years.  Before she was born we asked God what name He had already chosen for her. And now we ask again, “Help us see the shape of her heart.”

In Raising Girls, the authors suggest that we, and others, name our children every day.  An expression, a foolish comment by a friend, our own actions, and so quickly they take on new names.  Overweight, different, nerdy, dumb.  I know I’ve given her plenty of names I wish I could take back, just through my own broken glasses.  When her friends, her peers, a misguided relative, and even her own mom and dad lose sight, hopefully she can press her fingers into these stones and see with God’s eyes into her heart. Hopefully.

Happy 9th Birthday, Mookie.

(Click photo to enlarge)

My friend says she doesn’t like pictures of herself.  She’s also mentioned recently a certain lack of affection for her legs.

I also happen to know that there are parts of herself that she’s hidden away for a long time, and has been slowly, bit by color, letting them loose.  Some of those bits have come out in the radiant tinge of her hair, the style of her skirt, and the sleekness of her boots. Others have filtered out in gifts to her children-of confidence, individuality, words of affirmation.  As her friend, I get the inspiring bits-the words, the laughter, the satisfaction in her shoulders when the pieces click into place.

When I look at her I see swirls of color before and behind, and out of the color run words.  Dripping wet amber and purple-icious hues.  She’d like to paint herself in words.  A word picture.

But she’d be setting aside the other bits.  The eyes that look on her daughters, the arms (and legs) that wrap around her husband, the skin that welcomes the chilly air.  Then there are the hands that guide, that create the fall menu, that paint her ceiling purple.  Even these only speak to the use-fullness of those parts, not the pleasing nature of them to those around her.

Her body longs to join in this loosening.  She’s coming to see the beauty that’s on her inside, but thinks she needs to come to terms with the outside part that’s not equally so.  The truth is she doesn’t have to settle or accept, because her outside bits match the inside words.

Until we get the photogragh that captures it, she’s just going to have to take my word for it.

(blogged with permission from my friend)

I think she likes it.

Photo by Mookie, age 9 in 10 days

If you first found me while following my homeschool posts, I’ve got great news for you.  I’ve added a separate brand new blog all about our homeschool life. Abundant Life will remain a place to reflect, celebrate, gripe, and encourage about all aspects of life.  But if you want to get into the specifics of homeschooling with a family of 6, head over here.

Just like the written word or a photograph, my blog only reveals a partial truth.

For example, I can show you this photograph of my stolen date out with Jellybean saturday morning and you might think “what a sweet relationship they have”, but today you would see the same daughter and I both with tears in our eyes as we worked through a tough start to our morning.

I could show you this photo of  a craft we did today and you might think “they’re so artsy and fun, I want to do school at their house” but it would also mask that I woke up this morning wishing hard that I could stay curled up in the covers and call in my sick day(for the next month).  And that this project, though it will make a fun sign, was a desperate attempt to continue on with school-like activities today without trying to balance teaching all of the children separately(while keeping Sparkles happy).

And when I show you this priceless picture of Sparkles, you might turn to your friend and say “what a beautiful family they have! Aren’t they blessed?” And your friend would nod in agreement as would I if I were sitting with you, because what could be more true?  But interlocked with that truth is how incredibly torn I’ve felt every day by my growing, changing family.  I spend what I consider way too much time wishing that Sparkles was still the sleepy baby on my chest rather than the one exploring our carpet with her mouth.  She wants to be anywhere but in my lap, and I think “really, are we already to that point?”. I don’t mean that light-hearted, because I have this desire to fight time, even though I know I would lose. I can’t look at one of my kids and feel simply glad they’re right where they are in life.  Each day passes with the conviction that I need to accept the seasons of my life(and my children’s).

Here’s the final picture for the day.  This tree, which last week was radiant with it’s warm, orange cloak, is now entering the bleaker season of the year.  If this was the only picture I ever saw of this tree, I would be missing a greater truth. It’s hopeful green buds, the laughter of children playing around it in the summer heat, and then snow-covered in solitude, all of these together make up the full life of this tree.  This picture doesn’t make the other seasons any less true.

And with my life, as I struggle to see the greater truth, look with me at all sides. This side when laughing teeters on the edge of crying, hearts bloom and then darken, time selfishly moves on, and expectations grow weighty.  I’m claiming that this is not the only truth and in the end, will make the other side all the more illuminated.

Until after October 31st!

My fingers are itching.  Restless.  Or maybe it’s my brain.

For the past two weeks I’ve been watching a television show on netflix.  Netflix, if you aren’t familiar, allows you to watch certain movies and shows on your computer with the click of a button.  Now if you know me even a little bit, you might know that I love to watch movies.  And I also love not to watch them, every night that is.  As far as tv goes, we haven’t had a tv show we’ve watched consistently in about 3 years and we only turn on the television to use the dvd player.  I feel like I’m wasting my time, my brain, my potential for reading a good book, if I sit and stare at a screen for too long.

With that bit of information, you’ll understand why it’s so completely odd that I’m watching episode after episode every night, sometimes until 2 in the morning.  Now let’s add in the further weird factor-the show is about football. Maybe you didn’t know about the movie/tv thing, but you probably did know that we are not a football family.  We’re the family that invite people over for a party and then find it’s Superbowl Sunday and we didn’t even know it was football season.  We’re the family that nod our heads mildly as my dad goes on and on about college vs. NFL, and who traded who, and the power of the Bulldogs.  We’re also the family that probably needs to acquire a football to toss with our 4 year old son so he atleast has the choice to be something other than an artist.

So when I’m not watching this show(that my husband watches with me) or trying to ignore the guilt of the accumulated screen hours, I do ask myself why. Why?

Back to the itching fingers.  Besides asking myself questions in the off hours, I also dream of projects.  While driving to p.e. or fixing mac and cheese, I compose blogs, dip my fingers in glue, fancy myself an artist.  But when the kids are tucked away, and an empty hour lies invitingly before me, I settle myself into the same spot on the couch and hit “next episode”.

I have actually come up with some answers.  Aside from being a well-made show, the characters are passionate.  About football, each other, what’s right and wrong, mostly about football.  And though I can’t relate to the football part, I’m drawn to the passion.  The first person to introduce me to passion was my 10th grade drama teacher.  With her mismatched socks and keds, her frumpy hair and long skirts, and her director’s attitude, she was passionate about theater and gave that gift to me at 14.  I studied theater, wrote stories, created things with my hands, because of the overwhelming desire to do so.  It’s in my blood now that I need to be passionate about whatever I’m doing. But with passion comes vulnerability, and with vulnerability, the possibility of failure.

Right now life is pretty busy.  From the time my eyes open until after 9pm, I’m serving the needs of the family.  In my stolen hours, I can choose between the safe, albeit artificial, passion of some football players, or the passion of something authentic in me that wants to work it’s way out.  With the chance to fall hard, also comes the chance to rise high.