I'm linking up again for Five Minute Friday, where an incredible community of women let go of writing rules and should do's for the joy of just writing. One prompt. Five Minutes. No editing. Check out Lisa Jo's site for all the details and join the fun!
The phrase stirs uncomfortable.
Wedged in between my two big sisters in the backseat of mom’s
maroon Isuzu Trooper II. Waiting to be noticed in between high school
boyfriends. Wavering in between sizes as my body grew three times carrying
three babies. Then waiting three times again--maternity clothes too big, but favorite skinny jeans just a dream-- in the blah of in between, trying to
shrink back to the body I remember as my own. In between houses, in between
best friends, in between churches, in between dreams.
The in between makes me want to hurry up, get to where I’m
going, to where I want to be.
Yet, maybe there is something good about the in betweens?
Something more than uncomfortable?
I love sitting in between Noah and Elias for special couch
snuggles watching Monsters Inc. yet again. Feeling there soft and
squishy little boy hands in between mine, hearing their silly comments and
funny questions in between their favorite animated scenes.
I love the time in between afternoon and night. Yes, dusk is
what they call the in between. Where the Lord’s fading sky masterpiece and cool
breeze gifts make back porch dinners the perfect thing for in between play time
and bed time.
And really, isn’t all this life we live in between? In
between the beginning...formed from dust by the Maker’s hands and then molded
in my mother’s womb, and the next beginning…reunited for eternity with the
Maker in glory.
Hmmm….yes, all is in between. How will I choose to view the
in betweens? How will you?
I remember the feeling of tapping my foot. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Seven-year-old small me sitting in the middle of the big sanctuary stage at my
first trumpet recital, trying to find the rhythm, the beat. I must have tapped
my black patent leather shoe twenty times before I took the biggest breath my
little lungs could hold and blew the first note of Hot Cross Buns.
It’s been 24 years, but sometimes I still feel like that
little girl with the crimped hair and missing front teeth, desperately trying
to find the rhythm. To know for certain that my feet, my fingers, my heart, my
life are centered on the right beat before I make my first move.
But unfortunately three crazy little boys are not the
patient audience that attended my inaugural recital. I don’t have time each
morning to wait until I feel perfectly prepared before playing my mother song.
If I waited, I’d probably be tapping for a long, loooong time.
So I’m learning to find my rhythm in Christ. Learning to
listen, desiring to synchronize my steps with the Spirit and trust that as I
follow God I will play well the song story He has written just for me.
This post is part of Five Minute Fridays, a kind of creative exercise flash mob where everyone writes on the same prompt for five minutes all raw and beautiful just for the sake of writing. Click here to check out what others are saying and join in the writing fun!
They adore him because they know him.
They trust him because he is trustworthy.
They respect him because he is respectable.
They laugh with him because he is silly.
They wrestle with him because he is strong.
They walk around with tools in their pockets, pencils behind their ears, and black socks pulled high up their ankles because they want to be just like him.
He is adventure and approval.
He is snuggles and security.
He is wild and stern and tender and he delights in who they are and who they are becoming.
He is their Dad. They are blessed.
And I am blessed to watch this beautiful story unfold of a dad and his three boys.
I am Mama. I am Wife.
Yes, I am blessed.
I'm linking up with Lisa-Jo for my first Five Minute Friday. The assignment, the gift, is to write for five minutes on the topic given without worrying about self editing or over thinking or finding the right words. Just write. So here I go.
Listening. It’s where life happens. It’s where the leaves’
rustle and songbird’s song and squirrel’s scurry combine into nature’s
symphony. It’s where shovel into dirt and dump truck wheels on concrete sing a
boyhood masterpiece. It’s where God’s still small voice becomes loud enough to
hear because I’m still.
Life is in the listening.
Without the listening there’s too much of me talking.
Talking that tries to control little boys who were made for moments of wild.
Talking that stir up frustration inside because controlling is futile—though
training is fruitful. Inner talking that sounds like self pity and says poor me when the day is full of serving
and I just want to be served.
But to listen…to listen is to hear the Spirit’s whisper
reminder that I’ve already been served the greatest gift by the Greatest
Servant. To listen is to hear my Jesus tell me how he was all poured out for
me, his child, and if I pour myself out for his children, too, then he’ll fill
me back up. Service is not for the poor but for the rich, so I am rich in
spirit when I serve.
But some times, lots of times, I don’t listen. I don’t hear
those sweet, true, convicting, redeeming, life-giving words because I don’t
stop to listen.
Little boys waking up grumpy after too much fun jumping the afternoon away in their cousin's birthday party bounce house.
And now before anyone has even gotten out of PJs, there's been bickering and biting, wailing and whining, crying and complaining, ungrateful grumbling, and disgruntled disobedience.
Ever have one of those mornings? A morning when you just want to send everyone back to bed and pull the covers over your own head and not emerge for a really, really long time?
I know my attitude has turned as sour as theirs and I only want summer sweetness...but sometimes don't know how to get there.
"Apart from me you can do nothing." Jesus' words from John 15 broke through.
My joy dwindling, my mood despairing, my words discouraging...I decided to choose Jesus. And in that choosing I saw silly moments sparkling through the Monday muck.
And I chose to give thanks...for the voices that whine are also the ones that say, "I love you, Mommy." And the hands that steal toys from a brother are also the hands that hug him. And the time I don't have alone is the time I am gifted to spend training and being trained by the three little blessings given from God's heart to mine.
It's peaceful for a moment now. The baby sleeps. The big boys turn roots and sticks and avocado seeds into wild treasures and jewels unseen. And we're almost rounding the clock to lunch time and nap time and our favorite time when Daddy comes home.
And I give thanks, too, that Monday mornings don't last forever.
Hello Monday. Thank you for coming. And I'll be thankful when you're gone.