Evey Wonder

"Good morning, Eve." I smile at my youngest child. The one with the wild corn-silk colored hair.

"Your face doesn't have any boogers on it," she tells me. It's her version of a compliment.

"It doesn't, huh? Well yours doesn't either." I wanted to return the favor.

This morning was church. Dan exalted that he was able to get her into a church dress.
She hates them so. I don't even know why we bother.

"I got her in that black velvet dress," he smirks.
"It's dark green," I correct him.
"No, it's black," he retorts.
"Dark green." I can play this game all day.
"Anyway, she's in it," he exclaims.

And she is. She is in a dark green velvet dress with puffy sleeves and a scallop-edged trim. The dress is exquisite with all its trim and underskirts; I'm sure it's from Nordstrom or Neiman Marcus. I don't know because I got it at a thrift store for $2.00. It was a score and I snatched it up.

My child stands looking at me with a brilliantly tailored dress, white floppy socks and silky hair which keeps flopping in her eyes. She keeps doing somersaults, revealing her Ariel underpants. I have no shoes for her except her blue lady jane sneakers and I honestly don't care.

I have always heard about people who grew up saying, "My Mom wanted me..." and then they'd finish the sentence with a heaving sigh...
... to be a piano player
... to be a figure skater
... to be a doctor
... to be a boy

And I swore to myself that that was ridiculous silliness. Why would we want to change someone?

But then I had my Evey and I caught a glimpse of the envy.

When one wrestles to have a child, I suppose that *one* might think they can pick a child who is angelic, free from sharp edges and incredibly demure.

More realistically: I suppose that the only child to make it through such a barren place would have to be a very strong child. A child whose will to live needed, well, a strong will. And that's what I got. 

When I was filling out Eve's preschool application form, one of the lines asked me to say something about Eve. Exhausted from the 40 pages of paperwork prior to that one I wrote snarkily, "Eve will never be a ballerina." And she won't. Her build is not suited for ballet. *For the record: I don't care.*

But I can tell you this: A month ago I took her roller skating for the very first time. She fell approximately 172 times and I can tell you that nearly each time she fell, she laughed hysterically. "Whoa, this is fun," she said as she scampered to her roller feet before she fell again.

She's not afraid. This child is fearless.

When she first learned to walk, one of her first "steps for mankind" was a bouncy plummet down our stairs from the second floor. She cried a bit, but not as much as you'd expect.

Eve will walk in the middle of a circle of older kids and say, "Hi, guys!" They'll say, "You're just a baby," and she'll say, "Wanna play?" Fearless.

Last year she saw her sister coming home from school via the back yard and before I could catch her, Eve ran stark naked into the school field, screaming her sister's name.

At the Christmas Eve service at our church, she didn't know the words to "Silent Night" so she put on her most solemn face and sang "Lollipop. Lollipop..." to the tune of Silent Night. Quick on her feet, that one.

She is unbridled joy, limitless energy, eternal discoverer and courage unlimited. She is the reason my head falls hard on the pillow every night and why I laugh so hard all day.

My job, as her mother, is to show her that I love her just the way she is. And since she'll probably be close to six feet tall, my other job is to show her to hold her head high, smile wide and love deeply. The nay-sayers of the world might try to snuff out her courage, but with a strong backbone I'm hoping she'll retort, "Hey guys... wanna play?"

Gray Days and Sunshine

The days after Christmas have a stunned feel to it. The crescendo of holiday hoopla has dropped off very suddenly. We're left with a full week before the new year celebration to reflect on the fact that Chicago winter is upon us, that the evenings come sooner and that we're a little unsure how looking forward to the next celebration-- Valentine's Day-- is going to make up for the gray which surrounds us.

When I have a flight scheduled on a day which is cloudy, I'm always impressed with how we ascend above the cloudline into a world which is blindingly light-giving. The sun reflects brightly off the clouds so much so that I am often forced to pull my window shade, even a little. Every time this happens I tell myself, "See? It only SEEMS like there is no sun. But beyond that cloud covering is something far more marvelous than you could have ever imagined."

In fact, when the plane descends back into cloud cover and lands on the gritty runway, I find my heart is fuller when I know that I have seen the sun; the gray doesn't bother me as much.

This year I don't anticipate having the opportunity to take that flight, but when I peruse the pictures of this past year, of the memories that beam brightest, they simulate that sun effect on me.

I see a very proud girl in a blown glass workshop.

 

I see beautiful fragility.

I see creativity.

And color.

Summer mornings.

New life.

Motherhood.

Garden pride.

Sheer joy.

Expression.

Playing with food.

Uninhibited.

Peace.

Sketches.

Little helper hands.

Summer fun.

Becoming.

Christmas Giving

We are unemployed. This is a heavy statement to make, but at Christmastime it's ten times stronger because everyone is giving, giving, giving and it's hard to be wise with money but generous in heart at the same time. Tricky.

I'm reminded of the story of Elijah and the poor widow woman. He approaches her at a time in life where she was on the brink of total deprivation of food. She can't even bake bread. She only has flour and oil. Even if you were a master chef on the Food Network you can't make anything wonderful out of two ingredients like that. "See? You dip the dusty flour in the oil and then you make a paste that will have ALL your friends asking for the recipe."

So Elijah comes to her and says, "I need water and bread." Wait... let me back up... God TOLD him to go to her in her poor state and ask this. God says, "Go to Zarephath and a widow will give you food."

So he goes. He asks. And she reveals, "As surely as the LORD God lives, I don't have any bread... only flour and a little oil. I'm gathering these sticks to take home and make a meal for me and my son that we may eat it and then die."

Translation: "Sweet mercy, stranger, I'm depressed and tired and completely depleted and you have the audacity to not only NOT help me but to ask something of me. You stink. God bless you. Off you go."

But Elijah persists because God has something wonderful planned. And every day that she gives first, her oil is never dry and her flour is always available. It's not steak and potatoes, but it's something. It's daily bread. Simple, daily bread.

So in the midst of this stretching time God suggested to me, "Hey Em... You know that fledgling business you have? Sweet Mercy Design? I want you to give the profits from some of those calendars to children." I quieted my threadbare heart and said, "Okay, fine. I'll do it." And then, amazingly, $300 came in for these children. I marveled.

I don't understand why my fantastic husband with a stellar resume is not being offered goo-gobs of jobs at his choosing, but I do know this: God is faithful to his children. So Dan and I take the flour and oil paste of our day, link arms with gaze toward God and throw some coffee down our throats for good measure. We don't have the heart to think two, three, four or six months down the road, but we do have enough for today. And for that we are thankful.

We arm our minds with encouragement from Scripture and this simple truth: God loves us.

May God quiet your fears this Christmas season. May He show you how great His love is for you. May He overwhelm you with His peace... the kind of peace that doesn't make any sense in the midst of the storm. And may He grant you the daily bread so that you may live.

Shalom.

Brilliant Hour

It's two o'clock in the morning.

I'm supposed to be sleeping, but my mind is still racing from the past 4 hours I spent in a local emergency room.

Before I continue: I'm fine, Mom. Don't call.

Arriving at the E.R. at 10pm, I honestly thought I would be the only one there. But there was a mass of humanity at that hour that I did not expect.

There was "punched in the face" guy who insisted on calling all his loved ones even though his swollen lips could barely speak a word. A lot of drama with that one.

There was "I love chasing my toddler" woman ... whose little one ran away from her at least 20 times, laughing all the while. The slowness to her steps betrayed her tiredness of the game.

There was "marijuana shirt" girl.

There was "I will do anything to help my son" man.

There were two bajillion people with the flu there and I did my best to stand in a corner far, far away from all of them.

I tried my best to shun the very, very cliché and overly trying-to-be-art hanging on the walls. Call me snobby, but it was hideous and I think it was intentionally so: They don't want us loitering, after all. 

I did have the opportunity to answer the ever-prickly "Do you work" question. "Yes," I said sweetly, "I'm a stay at home mom." And the lady registering my information gave me that knowing look of respect; I can only imagine she has two little ones at home pulling her hair out.

And, as luck would have it, all my killer symptoms seemed to disappear when the doctor entered the room. He did his best to make my condition look worse than it was, but at the end of the day, I can pop a few pills to make them, hopefully, disappear.

I distinctly remember him asking, "On a scale of 1 to 10, how much pain are you experiencing?"
"I would say... a 'four,'" I told him frankly.
He wasn't amused. "A four? You don't need to be worried about that level of pain."
"Yes," I said, "but I need to save the 'ten' for childbirth-type pain."
He smiled at that one. I was happy to amuse this midnight doctor; it will help to quell the pain of the doctor bill later.
"But I was funny," I will tell my husband as he furrows his brow at the hospital bill.

I was a little humiliated because the symptom that I thought was going to lead me into surgery tonight turned out to be far less evil than anticipated. I quieted my pride and thanked God that it was so.  The doctor gave it a "grown up" sounding name and some official paperwork with a script to make me feel less like a whiny patient.

At the end of the day, I saw humanity. And I prayed for them. I prayed for the teenage boy groaning. I prayed for the weary parents running after their toddlers. I thanked God that I didn't have to bring my own entertainment, aka- "Eve." And while I didn't like the mauve-flavored artwork in room 21, I did enjoy the wallpaper, so I focused on that instead.

All in all, a good night.

Now: Good night.

Reflections

I don't know why I subscribe to magazines.

They are so tantalizing with their glossy pages and perfect images and drama free cooking. The people look shinier and the food looks yummier. I enter that world and get lost in the beauty of it all.

But I know it's fake. I know about the lighting tricks and the makeup artists. I've seen those special articles about how they Photoshop someone to make them look more amazing than they are in real life.

I still have that annoying ache in my heart for perfection.

Recently I had this revelation about how I perceived my home. I was shooting away on my Canon camera when I saw a reflection of my dining room in a mirror. Just a reflection. It was fleeting, but in that moment I saw color and light and beauty and I thought, "Wow, that sure is a happy house." And then I had to laugh because I made that and I didn't even know it.

When I was studying fine art in college, our art teacher had us play tricks on the left side of our brain in order to let the right side of our brain engage. Apparently the left side of the brain is known for logic and math; it's also very bossy and dominant. In order to get into "right brain" mode, we would often "deactivate" the left side of the brain.

One way to do this is to draw the negative space. The negative space is the space in between objects. In order to draw the chair above, for example, one would focus on the white space in between the rungs instead of the wooden chair. In this way, the left side of the brain couldn't take over and say, "That is a chair." The right side of the brain would reply, "We're not drawing a chair. We're drawing interesting shapes around that object which you call a 'chair.'" The most important reason for this is to draw the object in perspective and in proportion. It works; believe me. The drawing is much more accurate when you draw this way.

So when I was snapping away happily on my camera the other day, I realized that by seeing my life through a mirror image, I was much more happy with what I saw. It took some of the negativity away. I was able to see the "in between" space. It helped me see things from a perspective I hadn't seen before.

Have you ever had a day where you're totally irritated with, say, your children... and then you pop them in the car and look at them in the rear view mirror and think, "Aw, how cute. I'm so lucky"? Same concept.

So put down your Better Homes or Food Network magazines. Grab a mirror. Look at the world anew. You'll be amazed.