Manna?

I took a video of the snow falling today.  As I stood on the back porch with fat, fluffy flakes landing atop my head, I was transported back to Singapore, where I also stood on the back porch filming the wonders of nature.  Only there, it was monsoon season, and I was recording the pouring rain.  

The similarities and differences are jarring.  Unstoppable nature, doing it's thing, with me as the silent observer, documenting.  In Singapore the rain pummelled the plants and roared as steadily as the ocean.  Here in Switzerland, the absence of sound is just as noticeable, with nary a track in the snow, save Aaron's boot prints (because it's recycling day at the déchetterie, and no force of nature shall stand between the Swiss and their recycling).

It's easy to see how snow has inspired so many poets and songwriters.  It's absolutely awe-inspiring and breathtaking.  I feel the pressure and pinprick of tears at the corners of my eyes.  How does it create such wonder in my soul?  When the ground is blanketed in white, and flakes clump into feathery clusters, and trees in the background become gray and ghostly, I suddenly feel so small...in a good way.  It quite literally stops me in my tracks.  The steady fall gives the impression it will continue indefinitely, but this is my 47th time around the sun, and I realize, with a bittersweet pang, that this beauty is temporary and worth recording.  I allow myself to be still and watch and enjoy.  

I have this pressing urge to capture it in words, but I'm afraid they are insufficient.  Still, I will try...It's like watching rain fall in slow motion.  While the Singaporean monsoon surges felt overwhelming and fast-paced and energizing, the Swiss snowfall feels calm and slow and deliberate.  You can see the individual clumps and follow the path of each piece from the sky all the way to the ground.  It makes me wonder if this is what the Bible's famous "manna from heaven" looked like as it fell.  If I feel this much gratitude for the beauty of the snow, I wonder how much more the ancient, starving Israelites felt as they watched flakes of food fall from the sky and cover the ground.

Then again...It's all about situation and perspective.  How do the Ukrainians feel as they wake to sub-zero temperatures and watch the snow falling?  I sit by the warmth of a cozy fire as I type, laptop powered by reliable electricity, a nearby fridge humming and full of food.  But what if I were in Ukraine today?  What if a missile just took out the all power and the heat for me, my family, and a million neighbors?  I don't think I'd be celebrating the snow.

The same white, fluffy manna for my soul is quite likely a bitter curse for those struggling to survive. 

I know I tend to blog when I'm struggling with balance and perspective.  In psychology the mental discomfort I'm feeling from simultaneously holding two contradictory attitudes is called cognitive dissonance.  I know it's natural to want to relieve it.  But today, I am going to try to hold them both - the joy and the sorrow.  I am not going to pretend I have the words to tie a tidy bow around my heart and create some resolution.  

I can smile and cry.  I hope that wherever you are, you are finding warmth and peace today.  

Savoring the Solitude

I hear nothing but the sounds of a distant, rushing river and melody of birds.  Occasionally, our old, yellow lab harrumphs her way from the floor to the couch, tail thumping when I stroke her belly.  Her sighs turn into snores until they become so loud she wakes herself, flops back onto the floor, and starts the whole process over again.

The house is oddly empty for a Thursday, as is the town, for that matter.  Shops are vacant and locked.  The roads are quiet, save for a continuous stream of bikers - young, old, suited up in spandex, or simply meandering in sandals.  

It's a bank holiday in Switzerland.  Quiet is mandated.  Literally.  The rebel in me dared to use the pressure washer on the awning that covers the pergola for a few minutes this morning.  Luckily our landlord, whose home is stone's throw from our own, is out of town, and the nearest neighbor is at least a field away.

I'm sitting in the living room with the glass doors dangerously wide open.  The last time I did this, a swallow swooped all the way into the kitchen before turning sharply and flitting back out again.  

I wasn't surprised.  We live in a barn.  It's not like an American wood-sided barn.  It's an ancient Swiss barn with stone walls several feet thick, keeping us warm in winter and cool in summer.  It's nestled in a valley holding just enough flat land for a field to the south and one to the east.  It is tucked so deeply into the hillside that the third floor (housing our landlord's studio) is a walkout.  The surrounding hills are so steep that goats are brought in several times a year to trim the grass.

The kids had to be taught how to safely unhook the electric fence just to get to school.  The learning curve was steep and shocking, but at least they've earned the bragging rights to say to their own children: "When I was your age, I had to walk uphill to school..."

The goats are gone for the season, but there's no shortage of wildlife.  Falcons swoop to catch rabbits and mice in the fields, foxes trot along the riverbanks, cows graze on the distant hills, bees hum and buzz in and out of their colourful houses on the hill, songbirds fill the gardens.  

There is a rushing river just beyond the field and a flour mill (that was once powered solely by the river) across the way.  The icy water comes from the glaciers in the mountains above, and there is a pebble beach where we like to go and have a dip on hot summer days.

From the upstairs windows we catch glimpses of Lake Geneva and the Swiss Alps just beyond.  It is truly an oasis.  And today, at least for a few hours, it is all mine.  

Aaron and Maddie drove to Italy for some father-daughter bonding time over the long weekend.  The benefits of having a big family often come at the expense of individual attention, so we've decided to try to take some short, solo trips with each child this year.  

Parker just finished his exams, so he and his friends will have a night on the town.  Geneva has several teen-only nights per year, serving beer and wine to those 16+.  They will take public transport and crash here later tonight (or, more accurately, early tomorrow morning).  I will write another post about alcohol and Switzerland one day.  It's a whole thing.

Jack and Caleb are off at a friend's house playing dungeons and dragons with a sweet group of young boys.  When they are finished, they will walk through the woods, up the hill, past the soccer fields and cemetery, through the village, and back home again.  It's a 30 minute walk, and it's just a part of Swiss life.  They love it.  

(This photo is part of the boys' walk home.)

So here I am, soaking in the quiet, natural soundtrack. I'm basking in the solitude and grateful that it actually feels like a gift.  I know sometimes being alone and can feel, well, lonely.  But this?  Today, this feels like peace.  Maybe it's because I know that everyone's coming home.  Maybe when they are grown and gone it will feel different.  But I hope not.  I hope I can hang on to the lessons I've learned about gratitude. 

Because for me, the difference between solitude and loneliness is always gratitude.  When I take the time to name, appreciate, and focus on all the little tangible gifts of the present moment, my life is sweeter.  And, I realize, I've never really been alone.

“And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20 NLT)

Is there anything more beautiful?

 Is there anything more beautiful, more precious than the privilege of watching your loved ones sleep?

It is just that, you know - a privilege.  

Tonight I'm seated between Aaron and Caleb.  Both are sick and dozed off early, just after dinner.  As I watch them sleeping, heads resting on soft pillows, brows unfurrowed with the cares of the day forgotten in dreamland, there's a sting in my eyes.  It is a pleasant, bittersweet feeling.  It is a feeling I recognize, whispering, This is sacred; pay attention.

I am thankful for this broad, soft couch.  I am thankful for cozy, warm blankets tucked up under chins.  I am thankful for the popping and murmuring of the fire, the heat that it gives off.  I am thankful for the sweet dog curled at my feet. 

I think of the news.  Pictures of hungry children and desperate parents, of war-torn countries and mass graves, of refugee camps and floods.  What a privilege to watch my loved ones sleep in peace.  May I never forget to be grateful.

I've written about it many times...the magic and wonder of watching people sleep.  Perhaps I've missed my calling as a night-nurse.  Does God do this, too?  Hover over us while we sleep, feeling the same heart swell of love and wonder?  You are mine.   You are mine.  You are mine.  I imagine so.

I am thankful they are mine.  I am thankful for this moment of peace in a world that feels full of chaos.  Goodnight, good night.

This is Christmas?

 I sit in my same morning spot.  It looks different this morning.  I'm usually staring at a black square of window, trying to squeeze in some quiet time, before sleepy-eyed children shuffle in to ask about breakfast as the the school day begins.  But today, the sun is streaming in.  It's nearly nine, and they are all still tucked into bed.

You really can't beat this view...roses by the window, heavy, full blooms nodding in the breeze.  Tall pine trees, arms outstretched framing the view of our sleepy little village, a collection of brown-tiled roofs and green, weathered copper pipes.  It's picture book perfect.  The vineyards that roll down the hills toward the lake have been trimmed back for the season.   Dipping and curving in neat rows, they carry an air of order and refinement that permeates the Swiss countryside.  Where the vineyards end, still-green swaths of farmland are cleanly split down the middle by the thin highway that runs parallel to the lake.  From up here, the lake looks more like a river, a blue-gray ribbon stretching as far as the eye can see in either direction.  Across the lake, the lights of France still twinkle in the shadow of the mountains.  Layer upon layer of purple peaks criss cross each other in imperfect triangles.  Above the jagged ridges, sits Mont Blanc in stark, white contrast, as if God began to build a snowman and stopped halfway through.  

As my vision zooms back in, my attention is drawn to the pink rose bloom dancing just outside the window.  How is that even possible?  It's December 25 in Switzerland.  Shouldn't there be snow?  Holiday music is playing on my phone, but it certainly doesn't feel like Christmas.  I remember this feeling.  I felt it in Singapore, where we celebrated a few hot, sticky Christmases, tossing marshmallows at each other in the kitchen (our Singaporean snowball fight) and swimming in the pool in the afternoon.

It makes me think...What is Christmas?  Is it the decorations?  I hope not.  Some are still in storage in the States.  Some of the sweetest ones, handmade on paper or wood, have been destroyed by the mould that grows in our storage area here.  One of the saddest holiday moments I ever experienced happened this year when I went to wipe off a preschool picture ornament, and Parker's entire face was wiped away in one swipe of my thumb.  Even Jack, who generally doesn't concern himself with decor, commented on the sad lack of Christmas decorations this year.  So, I hope it's not just the decorations.

Is its the gifts?  If so, Christmas is cancelled.  There is no 2-day Amazon in Switzerland.  I began ordering gifts for the kids at the end of November.  Some have still not arrived.  Since shipping here from the States is prohibitively expensive, family members send money electronically, and I do my best to buy gifts, but it doesn't always work out.  Or the kids want something electronic (game credits, gift cards, etc.), so that doesn't leave much to open under the tree.  

Is it Santa?  Nope.  Since Caleb learned the truth about Santa, and the tooth fairy, and the leprechauns, and the Easter Bunny last year [a sad year, indeed], the Christmas magic was missing this year.  We couldn't even locate the Elf on the Shelf in our mess of mouldy decorations.  I filled the stockings last night before the kids even went to bed.  Jack, in desperate need for tradition and magic, baked cookies for Santa.  And Caleb ate them.  Just sad.

I read the news last night before bed - never a good idea.  Thanks to the war and destruction, Christmas is cancelled in Bethlehem.  Really?  Really, world?  

So, if the decorations and the gifts and the magic are gone...if the very place Christ entered the world is destroyed...why bother?

Because, thankfully, Christmas is bigger than all of that.  I think the early Christians were pretty brilliant the way they hijacked the pagan solstice celebrations.  They didn't let the fact that Jesus wasn't born December 25 stop them.  They let the natural gift of light wash over their weary souls, a predictable, annual promise of warmth and hope to remind us of the love of the One who made us.  Though my faith has shifted and morphed in many ways over my lifetime, I still believe.  I believe that there is purpose in this annual reminder of God's love.  

Even when everything looks bleak - war, poverty, hunger, disappointment, pain, fear, uncertainty - the light enters.  Every year, there is the darkest night; then the light comes.  It's more certain, more reliable than a Swiss clock.  

So today, I celebrate the light.  I will allow my eyes and heart to open to the gifts set right before me.  I will hold them close, breathe them in.  I will savour the smell of their hair, the sound of their heartbeats, the press of their soft cheeks.  Even the dog hair on my sweater.  I am covered in love and light today.  It is a Merry Christmas, indeed.

Wishing you all a light- and love-filled holiday!

My Weird European Life

 We have a station wagon.  Let's start there.  It seats 7 people (our family plus one more skinny-tushed individual).  The two little boys, now ages 9 and 11, climb through a flipped down seat in the center of the middle row to reach the back row.  One might wonder:  Why would such a large family choose such a relatively small car?  Why give up the comforts of a minivan?  One day I will write a sonnet for my old mini-van...luxurious spacing, cupholders galore, enormous trunk, removable middle seat so I never had to hear about the injustices of sitting in the back row.  But back to now...We chose this car because the parking spaces here are teeny tiny, the public garage height requirements are super-low, and this car was available when we needed one.

Next oddity: My kids have mandatory ski camp each year.  Yes, they have to go away to ski camp and learn to ski because that is what you do in Switzerland.  I don't know if the local schools have such a requirement, but the international schools do.  Come to think of it, the local schools likely don't have that requirement because the locals learn to ski when they are 2.  Not even  kidding.  Smallest skis you've ever seen.  But back to this morning...We extracted ourselves from our clown car station wagon, pulling out all of the backpacks and extra luggage skiing requires.  I may have been [definitely was] muttering some swear words under my breath as I attempted to dislodge Jack's skis and poles from between the seats.  Good bye kids, have a great day!

I headed for my annual exam.  Which I haven't had in 2 years.  Because finding an English-speaking female doctor who is accepting new patients in Switzerland is akin to finding a unicorn.  But I finally found one.  And I got in!  In my broken French, I bumbled my way through the receptionist's greeting, was lead down a maze of hallways into an exam room, and was fairly sure the nurse told me to get undressed.  It's too bad the support staff didn't speak any English.  Luckily, I was right, as she didn't bat an eye when I started to disrobe.  Speaking of robes, there were none.  She just handed me a towel.  Awkward.

After my exam, I realised I was very close to the garage that had changed our car's oil.  This ain't no Jiffy Lube.  You have to take make an actual appointment (in French),  take it to a real garage, and leave it there.  For an oil change.  Recently, our car has been making a terrible noise when I pressed the brakes.  Clearly it needed some work.  I tried to reach the bi-lingual leasing agent for weeks to help me set up an appointment.  He's ignoring my emails.  So this morning, I decide to take a chance and head to the garage.  

After playing charades with the receptionist, I was directed to an English-speaking technician [cue the Hallelujah Chorus!].  Let me stop here.  I realise I am sounding very negative about the French language.  I am trying y'all.  I take lessons every week.  I listen to the news in French.  I have a French conversation group on Monday mornings.  It's just plain hard.   Back to the car...The dude takes a look at my wheel well and tells me I need to leave it with them to fix today.  It was in such bad shape, they didn't want me driving away.  That's good news and bad news. Great that they can fix it today.  Bad news that I have no ride home.  It's one degree Celsius, and I don't have a hat or gloves.  I hadn't been expecting this detour.

I walk to a tiny train station, buy a ticket on the Swiss transport app, and wait in the freezing cold.  The tiny train takes me to the big train station in Nyon, where I call Aaron to explain what's happening and cross my fingers that he can give me a ride.  Nope.  Full day of meetings for him, but I could pick up some coffee while I'm in town, he tells me.

I walk to our favourite cafe for the beans and some very late breakfast.  Sitting alone in the bustling cafe I catch snippets of conversations in French and English (it's a popular spot for expats).  I'm alone but don't feel lonely.  It feels so strange to be riding trains and walking through cities and surrounded by foreign language and feel okay.  That's when I realised, this is my new normal.  As strange as it is, this is my home for now.

I finish eating and head back to the train station where I ride into a town called Rolle and catch a bus to my village.  The last walk is up the big hill, winding past the old chateau and the vineyards.  The wind is whipping my hair around my head.  Reaching our drive, I check the mailbox and come inside.  

I don't even fully understand why I felt compelled to write this today.  Maybe because I think deep down we all have a desire to feel understood.  My life here is so different from the one back home that I guess I worry I may never be understood.  That when I want to share about what's going on here, it is not for the sake of complaining.  I'm okay.  It's just really weird sometimes.  And it's even weirder when it starts to feel normal.   That's all.

Something in the Way

 There is something in the way a child sleeps...

James Taylor's song "Something in the Way She Moves" is playing in the back of my mind as I stare at Caleb.  I would rewrite the song..."there's something in the way he sleeps..."

There is a magic there.  There is a feeling that catches in my throat and stings the backs of my eyes.  There is an involuntary tenderness that wells up, washing over any arguments or negativity of the day before.  

I remember when the kids were younger, I would watch them sleep and just cry.  I would cry over how much I loved them.  I would cry over their future and fears that the world may not cherish them or be kind to them.  I would cry over parenting missteps, regretting harsh words.  

I don't think I am alone.  I suspect these intense feelings hit every caregiver.  Maybe the underlying thoughts or concerns are different, but the feelings are the same.  I would argue they are there for a reason - that young children nap often for just this reason: so their parents may fall in love with them over and over again.

These moments happen less often as they grow.  This is mostly because I don't witness their sleep very often.  I still tuck the younger boys into bed, but I am often asleep before Parker and Maddie.  Mornings are busy, and I simply pop my head in the doors to announce, "It's wake-up time!"  Parker even uses his own alarm clock now.  And I find life is just "too busy" now to stop and take the time to observe and to document my darling, sleeping babies.  It makes me a little sad.

When I do catch them sleeping, it is usually on vacation.  I stand over them, creepily taking a million photos, trying to capture that innocence, that sweetness, until they inevitably wake and groan, "Mom!  No!" slipping under the covers again, elusive as unicorns.

But today Caleb is sick.  He has a cough (which sounded like croup the other night when he woke me, gasping for breath and barking like a seal).  He has a headache and sore throat.  He is staying home (much to the dismay of his older siblings who would also like "a day off").  Aaron is in India, so when it was time to drive everyone else to school, I whispered to Caleb that I would return soon and left him buried in covers on the couch.

He is sleeping on the couch because there is mould in the basement (where he normally sleeps).  He and Jack were arguing, and slamming the sliding door down there a few weeks ago, when it fell off its tracks - inside the wall.  I have been asking the landlord to fix it (along with the leak in the ceiling) for weeks.  They finally sent a repairman yesterday who removed a wall panel and found...you guessed it...mould.  While the repairman insisted it wasn't dangerous, I didn't think it a good idea for Caleb to breathe it in, given he already has quite a cough.  (The silver lining is that the boys won't be blamed for breaking the door, since it was likely the water damage that caused the door to fall off the tracks.)

So Aaron is gone, Caleb is sick, the basement is torn apart, I have left today's Welcome Club outing I planned for new parents at the school in the capable hands of my friend, Niamh, and I am free this morning.  I am free to take pictures of my sleeping angel on the couch.  I am free to take the time to breathe and remember all the moments of sitting and staring at sleeping babies and feel all the feels.  I am free to write and observe the beautiful rainbow that arcs over our village today, reminding me of God's promises.

I am not alone.  I will not be given more than I can handle.  I am the keeper of very precious gifts, and I will enjoy them today.  

A break

You'll notice a break.  A lapse in the birthday posts.  I told myself...when the school year starts and the house is quiet...that's when I'll "catch up."  Well, school started months ago, and here we are.

I'm not so sure I will catch up now.  Caleb turned 8, then 9, and we are well into his 9th year.  Jack turned 10, then 11.  Parker is 15, and Maddie will soon be 14.  And the sun rises and sets, the clothes turn in the washer, the finger nails grow and are trimmed.  

There was a break in the recording but not in the life.  Though I suppose you could say there was a break in that, too, depending on your definition of "break."  There was COVID.  There was my breakdown/awakening.  There was an international move.  There were a lot of disruptions to our daily lives.  

But isn't that exactly how life works?  I don't know.  I just know it's how our lives seem to work.  Nothing is stagnant.  We move a lot.  We find new spots for all the things...the beach towels and backpacks, the Q-tips and screwdriver, the stuff of life.  We don't have a junk drawer.  Because our "junk" is ever changing, constantly being recycled or given away.  I like to know where things go - a place for everything and everything in its place.

So when I have a mental junk drawer, a to-do list that has gone too long undone, I have trouble finding rest.  And my self-imposed pressure to make annual birthday posts has created enough unrest in me that I find myself trying to find a solution.  So this is it.  This is my catch-up.  I will not attempt to go back and recreate the years I've missed, but instead, I'll offer a snapshot of now.

Caleb.  Where to begin?  When I wake you in the morning with a kiss on your cheek, you immediately throw an arm around my neck, holding me close, pinning me to your soft cheek.  And I breathe you in -all of lovely little you.  Your tousled dirty-blond hair and twinkling blue eyes.  You dance with abandon, tell terrible "dad" jokes, love your video games and best friend, Henrique.  You are always up for going out, trying new foods, doing new things.  You have a strong sense of justice and become upset quickly when things seem unfair, which they often do, as you are the youngest.  You love to play pingpong with dad and card games with mom.  You are super-smart and incredibly loving.  You miss your TX friends but were very open-minded about the move.  It was tough, but I'd say you're settling in quite well.  You are my joy.

Jacky-Jack.  You are still the most creative person I've ever met.  You play "imaginary" and host your own private dance parties in your room, running and jumping, and battling creatures only you can see.  Transitioning into middle school has not been easy, but you are putting forth all the effort we could ever hope for.  You are so smart and witty and have made some very special friends.  I know it was hard for you when Zach moved away.  You had a special bond, like the one you had with your friend, Graham, in Kentucky and Maddie in Texas.  Sometimes I worry that people won't understand or appreciate your uniqueness, but you have proven time and time again that my fears are unfounded.  You always find your tribe.  You had a lovely 11th birthday party at the house and invited girls and boys, all of whom love you.  You continually try to convince me to let you "go bald."  One day you got your wish when dad was trimming your hair and the guard slipped off.  Your soft, short hair is so fun to rub that it has even caused some problems (since everyone wants to rub it).  I'm glad I still hold that special place in your life where I can rub it as much as I want.  You curl up into my lap, I rub your head and read the Dragon Assassin series to you.  Holding you is still one of my favourite pastimes.  You are my heart.

Maddie-Claire.  Baby girl.  You are so not a baby anymore.  As tall as I am with flowing wavy hair and a gorgeous, brace-free smile, you seem to be so much older than 13.  You didn't just come out of your shell, you shot out of it like a rocket.  You made a conscious decision to make more friends during this move.  Your best friend, Julia, moved to a new school this year.  It was painful but you rallied yet again and have become a friend to many more people this year, including upperclassmen.  You are in Mama Mia and have even helped to teach the choreography to the the newer students.  You excel in school and have discovered your own funny, sassy side.  No longer a people-pleaser, you are thoughtful about others' feelings while still honoring your own needs.  This is a huge strength and will serve you well in life.  You are your own person.  I love that you are exploring your spirituality and asking big questions, studying the Bible but not taking it at face value.  You have so many thoughts and opinions and feelings, and it's a blessing to have a front row seat as I watch your life unfold.  You are my treasure.

Parker.  Fourteen is not an easy age to make an international move.  Though exciting at first, we were quickly slapped with the realities of culture shock, language barriers, and a whole new way of life.  Leaving TX as the top of your game, voted VIP in the school's athletic program, surrounded by friends and adoring teachers, you sailed into Switzerland on a cloud.  Then came the storm.  You were (are) so so brave.  You are so good, down to your core.  You found it baffling that people could be mean or cold or rude, and it ripped my heart out to see you struggle through it.  You pinned your hopes on summer and a month "home" in Texas with friends, all the while dutifully, diligently building relationships here.  You tried and excelled at rugby, learning the French-speaking coach's commands.  You created friend groups based on mutual interests, resisting the drinking and drug culture that is so pervasive here.  You met a sweet girl.  Summer meant fun times with old friends and an awesome church camp, but by the end of it you were actually ready to return to your life here.  You see the beauty in the mountains, you have become a leader in your school, you are thoughtful, respectful, and kind.  Ever-changing, out of my control, wonderful to watch and to love - You are my dream.

Words will never capture you kids.  They are simply inadequate.  I hope one day reading these posts will bring back fond memories for you...that you will know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are fully loved, and not just by dad and me but by the One who created you.  Not a single tear goes unnoticed.  No small act of kindness is overlooked.  You are seen and known and completely cherished.  

Love, 

Mom

And Just Like That...

They were gone.  The front door closed with a hesitant, soft click.  I stood on one leg, my broken ankle cradled in the cushion of my scooter.  Too stunned to even shake my head.  I was staring up at the closed front door, the last words I'd spoken, ringing in my ears: "I love you."  

My eyes panned across the living room to the mirror behind the couch.  I was staring at myself, at the white streaks in my hair that weren't there a decade ago.  I imagine in one more decade, when that door closes for good, when my youngest is 18 and will walk away into his new life, there may only be some streaks of brown left.  But who knows.

I rolled over to the stairs and grabbed my crutches, slowly making my way up to my room, determined to tap and type until I could restore some order in my brain.  As if the clicks and pauses, if played long enough, would drum out a familiar melody, a song and a story that my mother's heart craved.  How do I make sense of this rapidly changing life?

I almost wish whoever might be reading this could see all the drafts, all the rabbit holes.  The comparisons between the U.S. and Singapore and Switzerland.  The complaints about COVID.  The marvel of watching the kids grow.  And that's it.  That's the elusive melody that began this journey, so that will be my focus.

But first, allow me a brief trip down memory lane...Seven years ago we arrived on a dark, balmy night.  The floors were marble, the palm trees swayed.  Staff fluttered around the children, whose tired heads lolled as they piled onto plush couches.  Bag after bag was unloaded, papers were signed.  As we wiped our faces with cool, lemongrass scented towels, we had no idea of the adventure that awaited.  Life in Singapore with 4 children ages 7, 5, 3, and 1 was just beginning.

That is how I remember life there, in strange and vivid snapshots.  Moments in time where senses were heightened and emotions were high.  Experiences that were so foreign and bizarre, they simply burned into my brain.  And if Singapore has anything in common with Switzerland, that's it.  That strange, choppy picture show quality of memories forged by jarring experiences.

So for today's strange experience...I put my kids on public transport.  It wasn't the first time.  The circumstances were just really strange today.  In the States, I would have piled them into the mini-van and taken them where they needed to go.  They might even walk to school or ride their bikes.  They might catch a ride with a friend.  They would not have gone far.  If they had gone far, they certainly would have been accompanied by an adult.

In Europe, much as in Singapore, public transportation is amazing.  It is clean, affordable, efficient, and safe.  We took it several times while we were waiting to get the lease approved for our station wagon.  Though the 10 minute walk to the bus stop is picturesque, it can be hard to appreciate the beauty when it is dark and cold, as it is on school mornings.  Once at the stop, it takes another 10 minutes to reach a train station.  It's not bad, just different from what we were used to in the States.  So, usually, I drive the kids everywhere, including school.

A few weeks ago, I broke my ankle while skiing.  My right ankle.  No walking and certainly no driving.  Aaron jumped in, and thanks to the work-from-home COVID mandates, he was able to drive the kids to and from school.  He had several trips scheduled, but then our youngest contracted COVID.  Then I did.  Then Parker.  Then Maddie.  It was like the plague, but in some ways it was a blessing, because it meant Aaron stayed home.  

Fast forward to today.  Everyone has recovered from COVID.  Aaron flew to Madrid.  It happens to be the "ski day" for Parker's class.  They are loading onto a bus and heading for the mountains.  He would need to be at school 30 minutes earlier than usual.  What was normally a 15 minute car ride became a 35 minute walk-bus-train-bus trip.  Alone.

This also meant Maddie would have to take her younger brothers on the same walk-bus-train-bus journey, departing 30 minutes after Parker.  Now, I know what I said about the Swiss public transport being safe and efficient yada, yada, yada.  All of a sudden, it wasn't feeling like the best option anymore.  Was it really fair to ask our kids to do this?  How would they cope?  The same way European kids who did this all the time do, I supposed.

So this morning was one of those bizarre, notice the details, kind of mornings.  A few minutes after my alarm went off, I heard Parker silence his own alarm and begin moving around his room.  Let's just stop right there.  For over a decade, I was the one waking everyone.  Suddenly, I found myself meeting this taller-than-me young man in the kitchen.  I made some eggs and toast, as he purchased his tickets on his phone.  Okay, can we stop again?  He was navigating his own way, without my help.  So weird.  He pulled on his mid layer coat, gathered his gloves and shoved some granola bars into his pockets.  I had to silence that voice in my brain that told me to write his name on the wrappers.  Good moms remember to label everything.  What if he lost them?  What if they got mixed in with his friends' snacks?  Hush, momma.  He's 14, not 4.  He zipped into his out layer coat and told me goodbye.  I asked for a kiss, and he obliged.  Then he made his way out the door.

After icing my leg, I called up to Maddie.  Without complaint, she made her way downstairs and proceeded all the way to the basement where she woke her brothers.  I heard her reminding them to pack their snacks as they ascended.  Caleb stopped by the couch where I was sitting with my leg propped up on a pillow.  He snuggled with me for a moment then followed Maddie and Jack into the kitchen where they began to make breakfast.  We made a game of racing to put on socks and shoes.  Caleb beat the timer I set by a mere 2 seconds with a victorious grin.  I reminded Jack today was swim day (aka super-random, ever- changing, make-parents-insane, don't-forget-to-bring-the-necessary-labelled-towel-suit-cap-to-school-or-you-will-have-to-drive-it there-later day).  Needless to say, I found swim days a tad stressful on a good day.  I would not drop that ball today.  

Jack assured me his bag was by the door.  

Can you just put it inside your regular backpack, please?  

No, mom.  It's fine.  

But Jack, I can't bring it up there today.  What I didn't say was, "Jack, please let me control this one little thing during this completely uncontrollable day.  Please let me feel like I'm helping somehow.  Please let me feel like I'm doing something to parent you." 

I've got it mom.

Meanwhile, Maddie and Caleb were donning their coats and moving toward the door.  

Jack, just put it in your bag.

Bye mom.   The front door closed with a hesitant, soft click.

I love you.

I stood there.  Not mad.  Just a little helpless.  Not in the normal sense of the word.  No, I had simply helped-less.  They didn't need me to remind and pester and badger.  Because they had it.  They had it covered.  

And it was weird and good and perplexing.  It was the paradox of parenthood - the mixture of joy and sadness and surprise when you have made yourself obsolete.  Now, I'm not saying they don't need me anymore at all, but it was a little shocking to realize just how self-sufficient these little humans had become.  

I opened my phone and checked the Life360 app I'd set up years ago.  Immediately, the sweet little faces of their outdated pictures appeared, moving slowly across the map, away from me, even more jarring given their youthful appearance.  Noticing his battery was low, I quickly texted Parker and surprised myself by asking him to turn off location services on his app.  If his battery died, he wouldn't be able to buy a train ticket home.  

I had to let him go if I wanted him to come home.  

And just like that, he was gone.

Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it. Proverbs 22:6

Parker at 14

Dear Parker,

It is the morning of your sister's 13th birthday.  Jack is the only kid awake, quietly working a puzzle at the kitchen table.  The streamers and balloons are hung, and the house waits in hushed anticipation.  It's the perfect time to write your birthday post, which has been stewing in my mind for the last 6 months.  

You and Maddie were born exactly 18 months apart, right down to the day.  So every year, her birthday falls on your half birthday and vice versa.  I have friends who celebrate their children's half birthdays with cute traditions like serving half a cake.  That would never work for us because we'd end up with too much cake (as if there is such a thing).  Also, I'd never want to take away from the specialness of someone's actual birthday.

So here we are.  An early morning blog session.  So many changes since last year...Where to begin?

Maybe with a global pandemic?  We were returning from Spring Break at the Silver Spur Guest Ranch when we first began to understand the seriousness of Covid 19.  We decided to stop at a store on the way home, as our friends in California warned us of shortages.  We entered the Walmart and were shocked to see empty shelves.  We arrived at home to learn school was cancelled indefinitely.  Welcome to your 13th year.

Living in TX had its perks.  The schools were determined to have students return safely (mandating masks, lines, barriers, etc.).  After a few short weeks at home, school was back in session.  You played football.  You wrestled.  You joined the weight lifting club and made it into the 400 club, lifting 4 times your body weight.  You tried track and field for the first time and surprised us all as you sailed effortlessly over the bar.  By the end of the year you had been chosen by the staff as the Rushing Middle School 7th Grade MVP receiving a trophy at the Athletic's Program Banquet.

But you are not just a jock.  You always balanced school, sports, and your social life beautifully.  You loved reading and painting figures.  You had fantastic grades.  You were a member of Hope Squad, (a student-nominated position where you helped fellow students get connected to each other and to professionals when needed).  You were adored by your teachers and nominated for the Lone Star Leadership Academy (which you attended just after turning 14).

You always made time for friends and family, too.  You often played airsoft with friends on the weekends.  You recruited so many friends (and even a parent) to play, we thought D14 [airsoft company] should give you a discount.  I loved watching all your friends spill into our hall on Saturdays, decked out in camo, and chatting up a storm.  You guys would stow your lunches in the cooler, pile into the van, and begin your day long bro-fest.  

For those friends who didn't enjoy airsoft, you would play playstation, shoot nerf guns, swim at the community pool or lagoon, hang out at the park, play basketball, you name it.  You were (and are) a social butterfly.

You also made time for family.  You played D & D online with Grandpa, Uncle Bob, and Cousin Bella.  You hunted with dad.  You swam with your siblings.  You watched shows with mom. 

I guess what I'm getting at here is that you are one of the most well-rounded 13 year old boys I've ever encountered.  I have the benefit of hindsight as I write this.  I know what the first 6 months of your 14th year hold.  Spoiler alert: it's a doozy.  I'm happy to report that you are still doing an amazing job at being an incredible human (despite the craziness of the last 6 months), but that post is for another day...

I love you so much, Parker.  I'm so proud of you and happy to be your mom.  Happy birthday (half a year late), dear boy.

Love, 

Mom

Madison at 12

 Dear Maddie,

You are 12.  You are my sunflower...You grew quietly and steadily, until one day I turned around, and there you were,  face beaming at the sun, towering and strong.  I love that you still allow me to cradle you in my lap, your long legs dangling over the side of the armchair.  I love that you still ask me to scratch your back every morning when I wake you.  I remember a time I could spread my fingers and span your entire back. No longer.  You are now a child in the body of a young woman.  

This year you have learned the difference between progress and perfection.  You are a star student and a fabulous volleyball player.  You make mistakes, but they don't define you.  You are crafty and creative, making all sorts of homemade goodies (candles, soaps, baked goods) for friends and teachers alike.  You are, according to Caleb, "the best sister ever," constantly encouraging your little brothers and praising their efforts.  You are quiet and thoughtful but also funny and clever.

This year we celebrated a lovely, albeit strange birthday with a few of your friends.  It was a special year for you.  We had just moved in the previous fall, so this year you had made some sweet friends and delighted in having them over.  We were blessed with a warm day for late October and held the party outside, distanced and wearing masks [thanks to Covid].  You and your friends raced around the neighborhood gathering the fun clues you'd left for the scavenger hunt.  Then we played outdoor games and had cupcakes and opened presents.  You were beaming.  And I was so very happy for you.

I know moves are hard for you.  You are discerning, taking your time to develop friendships, and when you do, they are special and lasting.  I'm glad you keep in touch with your best friend in KY,  and I know how much you miss her.  I'm sorry I haven't allowed you to fully express your feelings.  Things are changing.  There is room for big feelings in our home.  There is room for dissent.  All feelings are valued.  As Fred Rogers so wisely stated: "Whatever is mentionable is manageable."  

Thanks to my Covid breakdown, you have a different momma.  I'm hoping I can pass along to you some of the tools I fought to earn.  More importantly, I hope I can help you rewrite our family narrative so that it is more authentic.  It's okay to be a truth teller.  It's okay to tell me when I'm wrong, because I'm human, and I get it wrong...and that's how we grow.  Most of all, I hope that you can love you as much as I love you.  I hope you can learn the value of self-compassion because it will give you a capacity for grace that is otherwise impossible.  You are kind, you are intelligent, you are silly, you are funny, you are wise, you are strong, you are compassionate, you are generous, you are passionate, you are hard-working, you are creative, you are you, and you.are.precious.   I love you, Maddie-girl.  Happy 12th birthday.

Love,

Momma

Jack turned 9

Dear Jack, 

 This post has been especially difficult to write.   I always want to authentic when I write on our family blog, but for a few months now, I have not been in a place where I could share my heart.  It was a very dark time.  Your birthday happened to be just before this tidal wave knocked me down.  And because I didn't write your birthday post promptly, it simply had to wait until I could begin to make sense of things again.  The clouds are lifting, and I am starting to see the rainbows now. 

You, child, are wrapped in rainbows.  You always have been.  From the start.  You have been a unicorn.   Different.  As I've said before, it is impossible for me to choose a favorite child (not that I'd ever even want to); I simply want to use this time, this post, to highlight those many qualities in you that make you so unique and special and beloved. 

This year was the best birthday you've ever had.  You had your own group of friends in attendance.  Real friends who really get you.  There was Shawn, Ricky, Ian, and Maddie (not your sister).  It was a weird year, as we had to keep a distance and wear masks, but it was a joyful party nonetheless.  You all had pizza and cupcakes and swam in the lagoon.  You were grinning from ear to ear.  This has been a long time coming for you.  Due to our many moves and the way in which your brilliant brain works differently from so many others, large groups of friends have been hard to come by.  You've always found a best friend wherever we go, someone who intuitively understands the complex rules and systems of your imaginary worlds or who is at least happy to play alongside you even if not engaged in the same activity.  But to have a whole group of go-to buddies!  Wow!  What an amazing gift from God. 

 Jack, some people think "outside the box."  In your world, there are no boxes.  Your solutions and mental calculations are just beyond what most (myself included) can see.  In years past, school has been a struggle for you, so it was so exciting to hear that you will be enrolled in the Gifted and Talented program.   It is gratifying to see that some of the tests you have taken are finally capturing your potential. 

 But sweetheart, it's not the mental exercises that impress me.  What astounds me is your emotional intelligence.  I'll never forget the day you looked up at me with a perplexed expression, your big, beautiful eyes brimming with tears: "Mom, it feels like your trying to make me feel bad."  I don't remember the specifics of why I was berating you.  But I remember where I was standing in the kitchen.  I remember stopping in my tracks.  "You're right," I whispered.  I didn't know it at the time, but this was the beginning of the end of the first half of my life.  This was the beginning of my unravelling.  You saw through the patterns, spoke the unspeakable, and sliced right into my heart. 

So the boy who battles invisible zombies with a plastic sword, the one who weaves fantastic tales about wizards and dragons, the child who sheds his clothes like a snake until he's comfortably down to his underwear (all the time), the little person who belly laughs at digitally modified pictures of fat giraffes, the kid who receives special services in school...this one cut right to the heart of the matter.  With such vulnerablity and tenderness that it was impossible for me to continue being the person I was.  For that, I am truly thankful, Jack.  I was the winner this year.  I got the best present. 

But back to you!  It's your birthday post afterall!  You are 9!  Now only 7 months away from double digits!  You are becoming incredibly self-aware.  Some mornings are still difficult for you, especially on Mondays, when your routines have been thrown off by the weekend.  But you are learning to recognize and manage your emotions, and you've developed some excellent coping skills.   Those come in handy when dealing with your best friend/enemy/brother, Caleb.  Whew!  You two together are something else!   As mentioned above, you've got some great friends, and we're looking forward to spending more time with them after this pandemic. 

Speaking of Covid, you caught it.  You, Maddie, and Daddy.  We all had to quarantine for a few weeks.  Everyone stayed isolated in their own rooms, in the hopes the rest of us wouldn't get sick.  It was a challenging time, but you were a real champ.  You actually prefer online learning, as you are able to complete your tasks quickly and aren't required to do any pesky busy work while waiting for classmates to catch up.  

You love listening to and making music.  You mix beats and wear headphones, bobbing through the house.  You have a great singing voice, too.  You love reading graphic novels and playing Minecraft.  You love our dog, Abby, probably more than you love any other family member.  You thank God for her every night.  You love playing 4 square with your sibling and playing tickle games with dad during night time tuck-in.  You still crawl into my lap and let me kiss your sweet head.  You are simply precious, Jacky-Jack.  I love you, sweet boy.  I hope the second half of your 9th year will be even more blessed than the first. 

Love, 

Momma

Teenager

Dear Parker,

There is so much I want to say to you.  I have written and rewritten the first line of this post so many times.  I began writing this on Memorial Day.  Daddy was at breakfast with his cousin who happened to be in town.  All you kids were fast asleep, and I was alone with my feelings.  And believe you me, this blog post gave me all the feels.

13 years.  Where?  Where did they go?  How did they slip through my fingers like sand? 

When I look at you now, I can't help but see that munchkin in the bright yellow rain jacket that was a staple in your Seattle wardrobe when you were a toddler.  That time period of your life is etched in my brain.  Perhaps it's because that was the time when you had my undivided attention.  That was a good and bad thing.  I was not a graceful new mom.  I had many a meltdowns (see previous blog posts).  It was a time of extreme highs and lows.  Thankfully, now, the highs take centerstage in my fuzzy memories...Parker on the "train ride" (being pulled by a tractor around the parking lot), Parker in the bucket swing, Parker pushing the stroller because he hated actually riding inside, Parker and his special green blanket, Parker, Parker, Parker.

My heart simply aches when I think about how much I love you.  I love that you still ask me to tuck you in at night.  I love that you still want to watch movies and shows with me.  I love that you include me in your new hobbies (though I am a little nervous about trying airsoft guns).  I love that you stop what you're doing to admire your brothers' Lego creations when they bring them to you for approval.  I love that you play Minecraft with Maddie.  I love that you love being active, riding your bike, playing sports, hunting with dad.  I think we lucked out with you, son.  I know every parent must feel that way, but I couldn't be more proud of you.

You are nearly as tall as me now.  When we hug, you rest your chin on my shoulder.  Your voice is deep, except when you giggle (and that's my favorite).  Your smile makes your beautiful blue eyes turn into thin, happy crescent moons.  You are beautiful, my boy.  My man-child.

You had a course this year called pre-athletics.  It's a sort of gym class meant for athletes who wish to join the school team next year.  It's pretty intense, and the switch from going to school to eLearning (due to the pandemic) did not decreased the intensity of this particular class.  You always complete your scheduled workouts, and I've been amazed as I watched your little boy body transform this year.  You have muscles!  It's so weird!

You haven't just grown physically this year.  You continue to mature emotionally.  You were identified by your peers as a leader and nominated to be on the middle school Hope Squad next year.  You considered the pros and cons and decided that choosing to participate in this organization that helps promote inclusivity and student mental health was well worth the tradeoff of another elective.  You are looking forward to participating, and we know you'll be a valuable asset to the team.

You still keep in touch with friends from all over.  An unexpected benefit of the quarantine has been more online time with old friends.  You miss seeing your Texas friends in person, but you keep up your social life online.

You are still my sweet, tender hearted little boy.  You alway look out for the outsider, inviting the "new" kid to sit with you at lunch or play with your friend group at the pool.  I can't tell you how many times over the years parents have approached me wanting to express their gratitude that you reached out to their child, often the newcomer to the area.  Other parents call or text to say what a "good" kid you are.

That brings me to another area of maturity for you.  Spiritually, you've grown so much this year.  You are learning to walk the journey of recognizing sin, feeling convicted, repenting, and receiving forgiveness.  Moving from forgiveness into joy has always been my struggle, and I see it in you, too.  Living in guilt is not what God wants from you.  The sacrifice He made was so that you could live a life of freedom and joy.  It's ok to embrace that!  There is nothing you could do that could ever separate you from His love (or ours).  That is good news!  Don't let your joy be taken from you, dear boy.  Extend yourself the same grace you are so quick to give others.

Parker, I know you are a gift from God.  I may have been involved in the physical aspect of bringing you into this world, but you are so much more than my son.  You are precious and beloved.  We used to butt heads when you were little.  We may do it again in the future.  That never changed your standing in my heart.  Right now, at 13, you are an absolute delight.  People shake their heads and smile knowingly when I talk about how great you are or how well we get along.  I won't be some Pollyanna and assume our relationship will always be smooth sailing.  But for today, for this snapshot in time, I sure am enjoying the ride with you.

I love you so much, teenager!  I hope you have an amazing year!

Love,
Momma

 

7 times

7-10-2020

Seven times around the sun, and the circles get faster and faster.  Sweet baby boy, today is your day.  I woke you with chocolate chip pancakes, carrying a tray to your room and kissing your plump cheeks awake.  Barely opening an eye, you reached an arm out to me and wrapped it around my neck, holding me in place against your soft skin.

Caleb.  My baby.  My not so baby anymore, thumb sucking, mischievous little dancing ninja.  Sometimes I don't know why I even try to write birthday posts, so hopeless is the task of attempting to capture the essence of the angels in my life in single, yearly blog posts.  Mom guilt kicks in, and I think to myself, why didn't you write about that hilarious thing he said last week?  What was it again?

You are marvelous and maddening.  You are all grown up and still little tiny.  You are all twinkling eyes, eyebrows raised as you dance around the rules and then red-faced and tearful because Jack called you a meanie when you were "only being a little mean!"  You are two-wheeling bike rider and a run-for-your-life-spider-hater.  You are a math whiz, multiplying and dividing, telling us the rules about positive and negative numbers.  You are a baseball playing, Lego building, chess playing, tickle monster.  You are a hater of baths but a pirate once wrestled into the tub.  Animal loving, toothbrush avoidant, screen seeking, snuggle expert.  You are the stealer of my heart.

This morning, you happily watched extra cartoons while I cleaned out a closet.  I came across a huge bag of Halloween candy and snuck a mini candy bar into your palm with a conspiratorial wink.  You threw your arms around me and said, "Thanks for making today so special, mom!"

"It should be special," I replied.  "It was the day you were born, and the world became a better place."

You thought for a moment and said, "No, mom.  Every time a person is born, the world gets a little better."

That.  That right there.  Can I bottle that?  I want to bottle it and shake it up like a soda can.  I want to rip the top off and watch it burst and scatter like glittery confetti, reaching all across our torn nation.  I want everyone to have that beautiful world view.

This world won't change over night.  But little by little, inch by inch, as I watch you grow, I can rest in the knowledge I am watching our future become a little brighter.  Caleb, I love who you are and who you are becoming.  I am so glad God allowed me to be a part of your amazing life.  Please go on loving the world and people with abandon.  Please see the good in every person.  Please just keep being you, sweet Caleb.  Happy birthday, angel.

Love always,
Momma

Covered

As I walk through the house these days, I notice that every surface is covered.

In the living room, the entire coffee table is covered in Axis and Allies.  Grandpa got us this game a few years ago.  There are approximately 2.5 billion little plastic pieces including planes, soldiers, anti aircraft guns, tanks, etc.  We are apparently not going to change the course of history during this game, as the Allies (Parker's team) are still winning. 

In the dining room, the table is covered in a puzzle (left on our porch by a kind neighborhood friend) and in home school and craft supplies.  Maddie works on the puzzle a little each day.  Caleb uses the sight words and fine motor skills buckets to practice his home school assignments.  Jack creates comic books with paper and markers.  Parker practices his cursive writing to earn extra screen time. 

When we moved here, I remember cramming my stockpiles of paper, markers, crayons, glue, scissors, stickers, play dough, paint and all kinds of other junk into an upstairs closet.  I wondered if and when we'd ever really use the stuff.  These days, I'm so thankful I didn't "Marie Kondo" my stash!

The upstairs playroom table, desks, and floor are covered in Legos.  4 kids, 32 collective birthdays, and untold Lego sets have resulted in buckets and buckets of Legos.  Yes, I step on them daily, but the pain is worth it.  The kids spend HOURS building elaborate play scenarios together.

The media room is covered in blankets and pillows.  Since the start of our "shelter in place" order, we decided to institute new, fun family traditions.  "Fort Night Fridays" mean all the blankets and pillows in the house are dragged into the media room.  Complex tunnels are created and crammed with flashlights, toys, snacks, books, you name it.  The kids are allowed to eat dinner in there while watching a family movie.  Then everyone sleeps in there.  At least, that was the plan.  As it turns out, it's not so easy to watch a movie from inside a fort.  We built the fort then watched the movie downstairs.  The kids attempted to sleep in the fort, but then the blanket ceiling collapsed.  Some migrated, tearful, to our room.  Others wandered to their own rooms.  No one had the heart to tear it down the next day.  So, it remains, most likely gathering vermin, waiting for this Friday.

Our floors are covered in muddy prints and a fine layer of dog hair.  Though I sweep daily, our dog sheds profusely.  The kids and dog are in and out of the house all day, running through a yard that never quite dries out between rain storms.  I hear them shrieking as they all jump on the trampoline together.  A little mud is a small price to pay for sweaty, smiling kids.

[I am not including a picture because it's just, well, gross.]

Covered.  Our home covered in love and grace.  We are called to love each other with the kind of love that blankets, the kind of love that suffocates selfishness and annoyance and fear and hatred.  That is the kind of covering I am praying for for our home and for our country and for our world right now.  I hope and pray that you are covered, too.

Above all, have fervent and unfailing love for one another, because love covers a multitude of sins [it overlooks unkindness and unselfishly seeks the best for others]. 1 Peter 4:8 AMP

Perspective

I couldn't catch my breath.  I had been on this walk for nearly twenty minutes.  I wasn't walking quickly.  Why couldn't I catch my breath?  Why were tears pricking my eyes?

It was Monday, the start of the first full week of the kids' eLearning.  We had been at it all morning.  Mom, Mom, Mom, MOM.  I wanted to change my name.  I couldn't stop reading the news stories.  The major cities were being told to "shelter in place" (no leaving home unless you were getting groceries, going to the doctor, or going to work, etc.).  Would we be next?  My mind was racing.

Aaron encouraged me to get some fresh air.  He could take his calls [he's working from home now] and keep an eye on the kids.  I started out thinking I would jog, but I just couldn't muster the strength or desire to move at more than a slow lumber.

I tried tuning into my church's daily devotional on YouTube.  Somehow I was redirected to a different  preacher.  I'd heard him before.  This time it was different, though.  He wasn't in a suit standing behind a pulpit.  He was in casual clothes, sitting on a stool, looking downright haggard.  He'd just lost his niece.  A few months prior, he'd lost his brother.  This recording must have been taped some time ago, because I know since then he's lost his wife.  At any rate, his daughter, also a preacher, was tearfully interviewing him, trying to make sense of what seemed like such a senseless tragedy.

My mind wandered to all the deaths in Italy right now.  To all the deaths here.  To all the heart wrenching, sudden, excruciating goodbyes.  Tears pooled in my eyes.  I came to the tunnel that runs under the main road between our neighborhood and a green space.  I don't know why, but I wanted to take a picture.  So I did.

I noticed as I captured the shot, the brightness obscured the details.  When I tapped my screen, I could make the puddle in the middle visible, the walls darker, the path at the end a little clearer.   I took a second picture.

As I continued the walk, I realized I liked the first perspective better.  I liked the light at the end of the tunnel.  I could choose to focus on the puddle and darkness and winding road or simply on the light.  I realized I was okay with ambiguity as long as I knew I was walking into the light.  The path wasn't perfectly clear, but my next few steps were.  I decided to choose light.

I emerged from the tunnel and noticed another thing.  My gait felt odd, off somehow.  I had been looking down, unfocused,  subconsciously avoiding cracks in the sidewalk that were placed at uneven intervals.  I decided to change my perspective again.  I looked up a little.  I focused ahead.  My gait became even.

I looked up even more.  I walked steadily.  Then something else happened.  As my head tilted back, my mouth naturally fell open a little.  Breathe.  My shoulders, which I hadn't realized were hunched until that moment, relaxed.  I could breathe again.  Deep, cleansing breaths.

I allowed the preacher's words and familiar scriptures to sink deep into the recesses of my troubled soul.  I reminded myself that God's plans are a mystery.  He is bigger, so much bigger than me.  He is good.

Today is Tuesday.  I am choosing my perspective.  Yes, as of tomorrow night, we will be officially ordered to "shelter in place."  But I am focused on the silver lining...I am in love with all those living within the walls of our home.  I am blessed to spend this time with them.  I hope and pray that any who happen to read this will find peace and love in their own shelters as well.

But as for me, the nearness of God is my good; I have made the Lord GOD my refuge, That I may tell of all Your works.  Ps 73:28

Before the World Went Mad

It was the first week of March.  The virus was spreading but still seemed manageable somehow.  China was far away.  Aaron was in Australia on business.  I had exactly 2 concerns:  Would he get quarantined upon return to the U.S., and where were we going for spring break?

Aaron loves planning trips, and I hate it.  Since he's been so busy with work recently, we hadn't booked a thing for spring break.  Now it was just a few days away, and I was scrambling.  I booked a campsite (literally the only one left in a 5-mile radius) only to cancel it after reading the rainy forecast.  6 people and a wet dog crammed into a smelly, damp tent for 5 days.  Um, no.

I remembered Aaron suggesting we visit a dude ranch while we lived in Texas this time around, embracing the local culture.  A quick Trip Advisor search lead me to the Silver Spur Guest Ranch ("guest" because visitors don't actually have to do the work on the ranch).  I didn't know where Bandera, TX was, and I didn't care.  All I cared about was that they could take us for 4 days and that there was only a chance of rain one of the days we'd be there.

Spring break arrived, and we spent the first few days at home.  Aaron was adjusting to our time zone again, kids were playing together, days were lazy and peaceful.  Thursday rolled around, and it was time to head the ranch.  We dropped Abby off at the dog sitter's house and hit the road.

Silver Spur Guest Ranch was amazing!  JUST what we needed.  Not a TV in sight.  Wifi was spotty and only available up at the main cabin.  The kids quickly embraced this screen-free world.  Playground, pool table, foosball, chess, horse shoes, fossil digging, hay rides, feeding animals, cafeteria style meals (where "you get what you get, and you don't pitch a fit"), 2 friendly, wandering donkeys (protecting the chickens from coyotes), cowboys singing campfire songs, s'more every night, reading, riding horses, bullwhip lessons, fresh baked cookies every day at 3:15.  This place was a little bit of heaven on earth.  Seriously the best family vacation we've taken in the States.

We even visited the historic downtown Bandera, the "cowboy capitol of the world."  General store, western wear, craft stores, and delicious coffee (with baby goats in the side yard of the cafe).  We can't wait to go back!