I asked the kids what they would call a church.  This started because I was being snippy about church names, I don’t always set the best example, but it segued into a memorable discussion.  B said “Gathering,”  M. said “synagogue” and S. said “City of God.”

I like all three but I could see S’s City of God glittering in the middle distance.

She is seven.  At first I wondered, had she heard it from a sermon (Matt Chandler..) or was she ballparking?  Nope.  She read about Augustine in her history readings.  City of God…

As much as I am grateful for her beautiful history book, I am far more grateful for her shining faith. When I faced what had been done to her I knew I would have to face the question, where was God?  Why had truth taken so long, where was justice? I knew because these were my questions.

And then, frankly, the City of God’s emissaries can often disappoint.

Augustine writes a masterpiece as Rome crumbles.

Jesus says, the Kingdom of Heaven…and means NOW!

now and forever

amen

I learn a lot from my kids.  Logs for instance.  Never really did understand them until B. started doing them in Life of Fred (I am a big fan of Fred).  The only thing I remember about Algebra II was that my teacher was a colorful character aptly named Mr. Ognibene–ogni pronounced o-nee and bene pronounced ben-a.  His name means everything is good.  I love that.  I hope one day to write about a person named Mr. Ognibene, it is such a good name.  Mr. All is Well.

But in addition to learning about logs, I also learn things from the stories my children tell me.  They told me a story about a time in Roman history when the men were at war and the women showed their penitent devotions to a god by washing the steps of his temple with their hair.

They washed the steps of his temple with their hair…sound familiar?

Suddenly Mary’s gesture is illuminated in the story of other women showing devotion to a god, a forgotten deity, someone who once held sway.

She, however, picked the right Guy, the right Temple.  And at forty two years old I again find myself amazed that God holds my hand, draws me close to a story I love, a God I love, through these dear children, gifts from Him.

Ognibene.  A form of ancient blessing

(I still have a long way to go understanding logs…)

Coping strategies!

I am not the kind of woman who stays svelte when pregnant.  I have lots of home videos to prove this.  This last time around we had extra stuff going on because we were recovering from C. and the loneliness and pain associated with what he did.

I realized that I had several big things bearing down on my emotional equilibrium and I needed to control what I could (constructively, of course).  This involved prayer, a list of to-copes, and a plan.

One thing I needed to deal with was my growing girth.  I decided to look at my expanding rotundity as a necessary part of the process and I dubbed it my ‘bear suit’–a costume of sort, temporary, but a prerequisite for the beautiful little baby I was supporting (inside the bear suit).

It helped.  I would catch my reflection and say, oh, there is my bear suit!

Now I recognize that the bear suit was always there.  It is the symbol of all the messy, embarrassing, fierce things I do to love my children, all mommy school matriculants do to love their children.

Love for dignity, because “the greatest of these is love.”

Sometimes I will do something that surprises and impresses my children, little things like getting a wiggly baby dressed or opening a tight jar.  They will exclaim, “how did you do that?!” I will say, “mommy school.”  My matriculation (ha!ha!) in mommy school will last forever.  I don’t ever want to “graduate” just try to pass the classes.  The wiggly baby/jar “quizzes” are the easy part of mommy school.  The hard parts are really hard–trying to navigate successfully through grief and anger;explaining or at least enduring human failure and injustice.  Growing patience; asking for forgiveness.  Most of all I know that God is the principal, administrator, and ultimate authority for mommy school.  He loves my children more than I do and he clears away the clutter about what matters and what doesn’t.

What matters?  They do

How much? The cost of the Life of God,

Ultimately I pass or fail mommy school based on whether or not I reflect the love of Jesus and the power of His life in mine.

Which brings me back to a long held belief–kids or no kids, married or single, young or old, we should all be students of mommy school.

John 10: 1-21

hannah, rachel, and rebecca are beautiful names; but then i am pesky enough to like cassandra, mercedes, and veronica too

I keep thinking about before..

Before C. I would have told you that I wanted to tell everyone that God loves them and is inviting them to his party aka Heaven.  Then I would have said I wanted to help parents to keep their children safe.

This would be my ordinary psa–

be careful backing up/if you don’t have all the children with you make sure someone is watching them/never put a baby car seat behind a car/ double check everything/drive very slowly/if you feel any resistance stop car and investigate

then i would have said

children can be demanding, if you get to the point when you start to lose your temper it is okay to put the child/children in a safe place and take a time out

rest/pray/breath until you can handle the kids again

it is okay to ask for help, to take care of yourself esp. to do things to help you feel healthy/be healthy

if your baby seems very fussy or cranky check to see if they are teething, if they are feverish, achy or uncomfotable

when you get frustrated with a fussy child remember how fragile children are, remind yourself how much you would miss this child if they were taken

the last item i learned from Veronica, who owned my heart long before she was taken

I admit I am a shameless user.  I love the wordpress vibe.  It is mellow and cool like several other web sites that I am only familiar with because I am a shameless user.  This is what I mean:

first, I rarely think anyone is listening/reading what I say.  I am the equivalent of some of the quirkier people you might see on a busy urban street conducting a heated discussion with themselves.  I see this as shouting into the void, internet quixoticism.

second. because I tend to monologue, I see this as internet graffiti–I spray paint my words out on the wall of the net and do it art for art sake, hoping some waylayed passerby might think my “tags” are of interest

three.  there is a lot of cool stuff on the internet and I am not cool stuff.  i am middle age crazy.  the only caveat is I am crazy about my kids and by extension their welfare and by further extension the welfare of others, especially other children.

four. I don’t know how WP does what they do or how they make money out of it, but I know that I am not making them any money.  again, internet graffito artist.

five.  i don’t read as much as I should about what else is out there.  time. kids. busy.

which brings me to this,

tonight I looked around at some of the other stuff out there.  pretty cool.  but where is God?

why is there no God category on WP?  Is He hidden somewhere between hobbies and books?

We love Arrested Development and we tend to quote it a lot.  There is an episode where they stage Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam and George Sr. is supposed to be “God.”  He escapes and a woman cries out “there is no God!”  Funny, right?

Only even I can see that if our egoism, hobbies, obsessions are crowding out the Real God.

Something is missing.

Everything is lost…

if i were less of a slouch i would take a picture of the inside of my refrigerator and post it online.  my refrigerator always reminds me of my mil and it seems like an accurate gauge of my external cool, my pr.

my fridge ranges from clean and organized to messy and messy.  it is not pristine.  it is a off kilter and dusty on top.

i also need to eat better.  i am a stress eater, an emotional eater.

i need more time to squander on my family

this is protestant confession

this is internet graffiti

this is what i would work on if i didnt continue to have futile conversations with the state about the derelict, nay, medieval system behind the scrim of the juvenile system.

just after i wrote the last post M. and S. came in and told me that when they play with their small universe of  toy people they sometimes use the soundtrack of carmina burana.

I laughed and rejoiced at the beautiful invention of their world; no longer weary.

Jesus said, come to me, all you who are weary, and I will give you rest.

Weary is different than tired.  You can be satisfied and tired.  Weary is when you feel like you are giving up.  That’s it, you say, too tired for the exclamation mark.  i give up.

i feel weary.  i often have this feeling, the urge to go along.  with what?

with the social convention surrounding what embarrasses people.  many times a long silence from someone signals their discomfort.  the silence tells me they are embarrassed.

Sometimes I want to speak directly to that silence and retort, do you think this what i want?  i want…

i want

em to know she can tell her story fearlessly

when she tells me she is scared

i know she has reasons to be scared

people do look at you differently when you tell them you are broken

but then, who are they kidding?

we are all broken