Lilly turns 12 today. Twelve.
"It's my last year of being a 'tweener," she informed me the other day.
I had to think about that. It seems hard to believe that anyone might mistake Lilly for anything other than a teenager. For one thing, she is tall; tall for her age and especially tall for a girl in our family.
And Lilly is strong. She can punt a soccer ball farther than I could carry it even on my best day.
And she is fearless. Lilly insists on watching scary movies in the dark. "It's scarier that way," she says. Then, when the movie is over, she's not afraid to go down in the basement or out in the yard. And when Lilly is in goal, she will fall on a soccer ball as though it is a live landmine and it is up to her to save an entire village of orphans (makes me cringe just to think about it!).
Recently, one of Lilly's teachers told me that some of her classmates had singled Lilly out as the "kind of kid who could do anything." And I believe it.
Still, there is something very child-like about Lilly. And I mean that in the best possible way.
She still goes trick-or-treating on Halloween, and begins planning her costume weeks in advance.
And Lilly still gets excited about her birthday--and isn't ashamed to say so. "Its my birthday in two days, six hours and 42 minutes," she will declare, out of the blue.
And, best of all, Lilly still lets me read with her before bed, a practice her sisters had long since given up by the time they were twelve.
"You know," I said at last. "There's no rush. You can be a 'tweener for as long as you want. Longer, even. Because I like you just the way you are."
Happy Birthday, Lil!
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
communion
I like to serve communion. There is something so basic, so real about it. If you have ever fed somebody who was truly hungry then you will know what I mean.
Everybody comes to the table differently. Some come full of enthusiasm and excitement, while others come slowly, reluctantly, if at all.
Some who come know exactly what to do; where to stand, when to take the bread and the cup, and. most importantly, when to sit down, Others have no idea what they are doing or what comes next. They look like deer caught in the headlights, waiting for me to do something.
Some people become very social around the communion table. "How have you been?" they whisper as they reach for the bread. Others are quite solemn, looking at nothing and no one as they contemplate the body and the blood.
Some who come to the communion table wear their hunger on their sleeve, while others keep theirs tucked away in a pocket or a purse where no one can see it. But it is still there.
Sometimes, when I am at the communion table, I am reminded of the time I was asked to help out in a food pantry in Mexico. The pantry was held in a little church in one of the most desolate areas of one of the most dangerous cities in Mexico. When we arrived, people, perhaps in the hundreds, were already lined up outside, waiting. Men, women, old people, young people, infants stood in the sweltering sun, hungry, longing to be fed.
When we had finished laying out the food on tables in front of the altar as well as along the walls of the sanctuary, -the doors to the church were thrown open and the people were invited to enter. Some made their way around the room as though they knew exactly what they were doing; others entered slowly, reluctantly as though they had no idea how they got there or what they were to do next. Some of the people chatted noisily in a language I could scarcely understand while others simply smiled their thanks. Some cried; while others laughed.
I am convinced that what happened that day in that little church was no less communion than the service we hold in our church every other Sunday. And it is not because we gave out food or even because we were standing around the altar. It was communion becuase all of us, servers and served alike, came hungry with our hands and hearts open, longing to be fed.
"Do this," Jesus said, "as often as you will in remembrance of me."
Everybody comes to the table differently. Some come full of enthusiasm and excitement, while others come slowly, reluctantly, if at all.
Some who come know exactly what to do; where to stand, when to take the bread and the cup, and. most importantly, when to sit down, Others have no idea what they are doing or what comes next. They look like deer caught in the headlights, waiting for me to do something.
Some people become very social around the communion table. "How have you been?" they whisper as they reach for the bread. Others are quite solemn, looking at nothing and no one as they contemplate the body and the blood.
Some who come to the communion table wear their hunger on their sleeve, while others keep theirs tucked away in a pocket or a purse where no one can see it. But it is still there.
Sometimes, when I am at the communion table, I am reminded of the time I was asked to help out in a food pantry in Mexico. The pantry was held in a little church in one of the most desolate areas of one of the most dangerous cities in Mexico. When we arrived, people, perhaps in the hundreds, were already lined up outside, waiting. Men, women, old people, young people, infants stood in the sweltering sun, hungry, longing to be fed.
When we had finished laying out the food on tables in front of the altar as well as along the walls of the sanctuary, -the doors to the church were thrown open and the people were invited to enter. Some made their way around the room as though they knew exactly what they were doing; others entered slowly, reluctantly as though they had no idea how they got there or what they were to do next. Some of the people chatted noisily in a language I could scarcely understand while others simply smiled their thanks. Some cried; while others laughed.
I am convinced that what happened that day in that little church was no less communion than the service we hold in our church every other Sunday. And it is not because we gave out food or even because we were standing around the altar. It was communion becuase all of us, servers and served alike, came hungry with our hands and hearts open, longing to be fed.
"Do this," Jesus said, "as often as you will in remembrance of me."
Monday, August 22, 2011
$300 for back-to-school supplies and all I got was a lunchbox!
I took Amelia back-to-school shopping the other day and got an extreme case of sticker shock. "Three hundred dollars," I said looking into the half-empty cart, "for what?"
Whatever happened to the good old days when all you needed to go back to school were two No. 2 pencils and a packet of loose-leaf paper that you used in last year's binder? For sixth grade alone, Lilly needs 4 dozen No. 2 pencils and five separate notebooks. "That's twice as much as I got throughout my entire school career" I tell her.
And whatever happened to dorm furniture constructed entirely out of milk crates, cinder blocks and 2x4s? It was always kind of exciting at the beginning of the year to see who could build the most elaborate yet efficient structure out of materials mined from dumpsters and unattended loading docks. These days, college-age kids coordinate their purchases from Target and Ikea so their room will look just like it does at home. Where's the fun in that?
And whatever happened to the days when the teacher handed out textbooks at the beginning of the year? The first thing you did was to check who had had the book before you. When it turned out to be someone you knew--your friend's sister's best friend's brother--it was exciting. Of course, with the exception of adding your name to the list, you were not, under any circumstances, to write in the book. But everybody did anyway. If you were lucky, your friend's sister's best friend's brother wrote in all the answers for the problems that weren't listed in the answer key at the back of the book. If not, the artwork was at least amusing..
These days, for a mere $18, you can own your own math book. The beauty, I'm told, is that you can not only write your name in the beginning of the book, but every page thereafter if you'd like, which is just what I need: another math book with writing in it.
In amongst all the pencils and folders and plastic storage bins in my cart the other day, there was one item for me: a new lunch box. In the good old days, I was not allowed to buy a lunchbox because, in my mother's opinion, a hot, nutritious meal for $.35 was too good a bargain to pass up. So while my classmates lined up their new lunch boxes next to their two No. 2 pencils and last year's binder, I played with the money on my desk until, most days, I lost it.
Of course, having spent nearly three hundred dollars on school supplies, a new lunchbox seemed like an expense I could ill afford. But, then again, I thought, how can I afford not to.
Whatever happened to the good old days when all you needed to go back to school were two No. 2 pencils and a packet of loose-leaf paper that you used in last year's binder? For sixth grade alone, Lilly needs 4 dozen No. 2 pencils and five separate notebooks. "That's twice as much as I got throughout my entire school career" I tell her.
And whatever happened to dorm furniture constructed entirely out of milk crates, cinder blocks and 2x4s? It was always kind of exciting at the beginning of the year to see who could build the most elaborate yet efficient structure out of materials mined from dumpsters and unattended loading docks. These days, college-age kids coordinate their purchases from Target and Ikea so their room will look just like it does at home. Where's the fun in that?
And whatever happened to the days when the teacher handed out textbooks at the beginning of the year? The first thing you did was to check who had had the book before you. When it turned out to be someone you knew--your friend's sister's best friend's brother--it was exciting. Of course, with the exception of adding your name to the list, you were not, under any circumstances, to write in the book. But everybody did anyway. If you were lucky, your friend's sister's best friend's brother wrote in all the answers for the problems that weren't listed in the answer key at the back of the book. If not, the artwork was at least amusing..
These days, for a mere $18, you can own your own math book. The beauty, I'm told, is that you can not only write your name in the beginning of the book, but every page thereafter if you'd like, which is just what I need: another math book with writing in it.
In amongst all the pencils and folders and plastic storage bins in my cart the other day, there was one item for me: a new lunch box. In the good old days, I was not allowed to buy a lunchbox because, in my mother's opinion, a hot, nutritious meal for $.35 was too good a bargain to pass up. So while my classmates lined up their new lunch boxes next to their two No. 2 pencils and last year's binder, I played with the money on my desk until, most days, I lost it.
Of course, having spent nearly three hundred dollars on school supplies, a new lunchbox seemed like an expense I could ill afford. But, then again, I thought, how can I afford not to.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
God speaks
This was a difficult spring. Take March, for instance.
Early in the month, Amelia received her first college rejection letter. While I applaud the efforts of the various admissions staffs to ease the blow, and I appreciate all the care that must go into the wording of those letters, rejection is still rejection no matter how difficult a decision it was to make or how large the applicant pool might have been.
Next, we learned that my aunt Betty, a favorite in our family, was diagnosed with inoperable cancer and had, at best, only a few months to live. On the same day, Amelia’s boyfriend decided that since they would be going their separate ways next year it was best to break up sooner rather than later—a sentiment with which, in theory, I agree, except when it causes my daughter undue pain.
Then, on the 20th, Amelia’s 18th birthday, Mark and I flew out to Ohio to be with Betty for what we were sure would be the last time (to make matters worse, we asked Amelia to drive us to the airport at 5:00 in the morning!). We did not return home until late the next day, just a few hours after telling the girls that Betty had passed away.
It wasn’t until the 28th of March, however, that it all began to come apart for Amelia. That was the day that the college she had her heart set on, the one that from the very beginning had been her first choice, turned her down. I came home from work that day to find her locked in her room, the covers pulled over her head, crying. When I asked what was wrong, she stuck one hand out from under the covers and handed me a crumpled, tear-stained piece of paper and I knew exactly what was wrong. Sitting on the side of her bed, I was speechless.
“Please God,” I prayed, “give me the right words to say.” When, at long last, I was finally able to speak, here is what came out:
“Do you want to go to the movies?”
“Yes,” came the tearful response. And so, on a cold and bleak Monday night in March, Amelia and I went to the movies and drank ourselves sick on blue slushies.
It wasn’t the most profound thing I could have said; nor did it change Amelia’s circumstances or the way she felt about them. But, it got her to throw back the covers, and to put one foot in front of the other until things began to hurt a little bit less which, sometimes, is the best any of us can do.
That God sure does know what to say sometimes.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
how could this be?
Today I was reminded yet again of how strange and unpredictable life is.
On Monday morning, we learned a classmate of Amelia's was missing; by late Monday afternoon, we received confirmation that she was dead. Murdered. Tuesday morning, we heard that another classmate had allegedly killed her. Intentionally. Brutally. Mercilessly.
One minute, I was spreading mulch on the rose bushes, and the next I was trying to wrap my head around man's inhumanity to man. One minute, I was waving a flag at the Fourth-of-July parade and the next I was asking how could this happen?
After all, these weren't just any kids. These were kids from my hometown. I watched them both grow from children into teens and young adults. I clapped for them at school plays and cheered for them on the soccer sidelines. I waited in playing field parking lots and driveways for them. I stood in their kitchens and they stood in mine. I knew them or, at least, I thought that I did.
At times like these, I am forced to admit that for all my efforts to control life, to make schedules and plans; to choose the right schools, the right friends, the right activities for myself and my children; even to regulate the temperature of my home and the softness of my bed, there are some things in life that are, and always will be beyond my ability to control. And, at times, even to comprehend.
On Monday morning, we learned a classmate of Amelia's was missing; by late Monday afternoon, we received confirmation that she was dead. Murdered. Tuesday morning, we heard that another classmate had allegedly killed her. Intentionally. Brutally. Mercilessly.
One minute, I was spreading mulch on the rose bushes, and the next I was trying to wrap my head around man's inhumanity to man. One minute, I was waving a flag at the Fourth-of-July parade and the next I was asking how could this happen?
After all, these weren't just any kids. These were kids from my hometown. I watched them both grow from children into teens and young adults. I clapped for them at school plays and cheered for them on the soccer sidelines. I waited in playing field parking lots and driveways for them. I stood in their kitchens and they stood in mine. I knew them or, at least, I thought that I did.
At times like these, I am forced to admit that for all my efforts to control life, to make schedules and plans; to choose the right schools, the right friends, the right activities for myself and my children; even to regulate the temperature of my home and the softness of my bed, there are some things in life that are, and always will be beyond my ability to control. And, at times, even to comprehend.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
running and reverence
Today I ran just to run.
Why else would you run? my daughter asked in disbelief when I announced that fact at the breakfast table.
To be honest, most days, I run for all the wrong reasons. Sometimes I run because I ate too much dessert the night before. Other times I run because I see my neighbor out running. Still other times I run because I am afraid if I stop running I will never run again and I will turn into a great big couch potato. Because, most nights, I eat way too much dessert.
When you run for the wrong reasons, running becomes a less than pleasant experience. When I run to compensate for past excesses, all I can think about is how far I have to go. And when I run to keep up with my neighbor, all I can think about is how fast I have to run. And when I run because I am afraid of becoming something or someone I do not want to be, I simply cannot run far enough or fast enough. But today was different. Today I just ran.
As I ran, I thought about all the parts of my body that were working together in that moment; the harmony between my brain, my heart, my arms and my legs. And I listened. I listened to the beat of my heart, the way it quickened as I climbed a hill and the steady rhythm it dropped back into when I came to a level stretch of roadway. I listened too, to the sound of my feet hitting the pavement; the splash of water as I ran through a puddle. And I remembered: people and places. birthday parties and Christmas and the lyrics to an old favorite hymn. And I ran; just ran.
Reverence, Barbara Brown Taylor notes, is the act of paying attention; of looking twice at the people and things you might tend to run right past. "It is one way," she writes, "into a different way of life, full of treasure for those who are willing to pay attention to exactly where they are."
Why else would you run? my daughter asked in disbelief when I announced that fact at the breakfast table.
To be honest, most days, I run for all the wrong reasons. Sometimes I run because I ate too much dessert the night before. Other times I run because I see my neighbor out running. Still other times I run because I am afraid if I stop running I will never run again and I will turn into a great big couch potato. Because, most nights, I eat way too much dessert.
When you run for the wrong reasons, running becomes a less than pleasant experience. When I run to compensate for past excesses, all I can think about is how far I have to go. And when I run to keep up with my neighbor, all I can think about is how fast I have to run. And when I run because I am afraid of becoming something or someone I do not want to be, I simply cannot run far enough or fast enough. But today was different. Today I just ran.
As I ran, I thought about all the parts of my body that were working together in that moment; the harmony between my brain, my heart, my arms and my legs. And I listened. I listened to the beat of my heart, the way it quickened as I climbed a hill and the steady rhythm it dropped back into when I came to a level stretch of roadway. I listened too, to the sound of my feet hitting the pavement; the splash of water as I ran through a puddle. And I remembered: people and places. birthday parties and Christmas and the lyrics to an old favorite hymn. And I ran; just ran.
Reverence, Barbara Brown Taylor notes, is the act of paying attention; of looking twice at the people and things you might tend to run right past. "It is one way," she writes, "into a different way of life, full of treasure for those who are willing to pay attention to exactly where they are."
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
lightning strike
The other day, Mark asked if I was ever going to write in my blog again.
"What would I write about?" I said.
"I don't know," he said. "Everyday epiphanies."
"Fresh out," I said.
The truth is, I haven't felt very inspired--or inspiring--of late, although, between the passing of a loved one and Amelia's graduation from high school, not to mention a new job and other life events I have had plenty to think about. I just haven't felt like writing.
A friend whose blog I enjoy reading (yes, Jill, I read your blog) recently moved her family to Oklahoma by way of Virginia and other points south. As if all that wasn't exciting enough, when they arrived in their new home, they found themselves in the path of a tornado. Some tense moments watching the storm as it advanced and then hunkered down in the master closet made for great blogging. "Why can't something like that happen here," I whined.
Another blogger whom I stalk (sounds creepy, doesn't it?) has the cutest kids (I've seen the pictures) If her children don't do something cute, they say something memorable all of which lends itself to some downright precious blogs. While my girls have their moments, few would consider their teenage hijinx cute and some of what they say should not be repeated in public. Ever.
"Maybe," my husband offered, "it's not what you write about but how you write about it that makes the difference."
"Maybe," I said. "But a little lightning sure would help."
"What would I write about?" I said.
"I don't know," he said. "Everyday epiphanies."
"Fresh out," I said.
The truth is, I haven't felt very inspired--or inspiring--of late, although, between the passing of a loved one and Amelia's graduation from high school, not to mention a new job and other life events I have had plenty to think about. I just haven't felt like writing.
A friend whose blog I enjoy reading (yes, Jill, I read your blog) recently moved her family to Oklahoma by way of Virginia and other points south. As if all that wasn't exciting enough, when they arrived in their new home, they found themselves in the path of a tornado. Some tense moments watching the storm as it advanced and then hunkered down in the master closet made for great blogging. "Why can't something like that happen here," I whined.
Another blogger whom I stalk (sounds creepy, doesn't it?) has the cutest kids (I've seen the pictures) If her children don't do something cute, they say something memorable all of which lends itself to some downright precious blogs. While my girls have their moments, few would consider their teenage hijinx cute and some of what they say should not be repeated in public. Ever.
"Maybe," my husband offered, "it's not what you write about but how you write about it that makes the difference."
"Maybe," I said. "But a little lightning sure would help."
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