Boys and Poo, the 8th Wonder of the World

The boys and I field-tripped to a goat farm today with some friends of ours. We could also refer to the event as Adventures in Poo. The sheer variety of excrement thrilled a posse of little boys to no end.

Brownie is seven but has long been peculiarly interested in the world of poo. Between the pot-bellied pig, roosters, chickens, goats, cats, horses and dogs, he delighted in a wonderful array of literal field samples.

Our sneakers bear witness.

We loved on huge, fluffy, herding dogs. Yes, that is the official name of the breed. Genus: Fluffy. Species: Herding Dog. My 7-year-old asked me, seriously, if it was a lion. Oh, I am a fine and upstanding homeschooler.

We also gazed upon all sorts of prize-winning goats. This one is due to give birth any day. Bless. Her. Heart. Clearly, you can't blame her for not wanting to be photographed.

The good news is that mama goats apparently lose their baby weight super fast. This one just had babies days ago! {That seems downright unfair. She's probably a celebrity goat who has a personal trainer and weight-loss pills at her disposal.}

Also? Baby goats start walking around within 30 minutes of being born. I was thanking the good Lord that my own babies did not do that. 

And though we oohed and ahhed over newborn goats, marveled at a 3-legged cat, sampled goat cheese and fudge, and tickled this ginormous pig with a chicken feather....

What did we talk about the entire way home?

Poo.

Mommy, are flies the only animals that eat poo? Why do flies like poo? Did God make them to eat poo?

He went on to describe each animal's specific size and shape of poo and told me he is really, really interested in learning more about poo.

And after he queried about loftier subjects like how God made us from the dust of the earth and how, exactly, God made our eyeballs, we returned again to the topic of poo.

The world is just full of wonders, he sighed.

Yes, yes it is. And a certain little boy's fascination with the world of poo is certainly one of them for me.

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{Tell me I'm not alone. For those of you with boys,

please reassure that all of this is within the range of normal.}

For the Girl Who Just Can't Pray...

Sometimes the soul sits silent. Overwhelmed by the pain that would sear too deeply if it succumbed to feeling, the soul instead goes numb. And when a soul sits catatonic in order to protect itself, the girl who houses the soul becomes figuratively paralyzed, unable to stretch uplifted arms to God.

It's ironic that then, when the soul most needs communion, it simply can't. Though the girl can undeniably feel the grace of His strength, she can't feel the comfort of His presence.

And then guilt {because she's prayerless,} adding spiritual insult to literal injury, coats the numb soul with a shell. So with a trifecta of hurt, numbness and guilt, the girl walks through the day with a pulseless soul wrapped up in a prayerless spirit. Funny and pathetic that when the girl can't feel anything else, she can still feel guilt.

And there the girl sits, right in the middle of a string of near-prayerless days yet needing it more than ever. And what do the saints do when a sister needs a hand but can't raise her own? They do it for her, raising petitions on her behalf to the One who always hears.

And what does God do when He sees that numb, broken girl who loves Him but can't always feel Him? That girl who needs to talk it out but she's gone all mute? He sends the Spirit to intercede for her, "with groanings too deep for words," because the girl is weak and just doesn't know how to pray.

But God loves that girl with an everlasting love and even prayerless days can't separate them. He loves her enough to send perfect gifts at perfect moments because He is, after all, the consummate gift-giver. His gift to her on a melancholic, prayerless Saturday was a song that expressed just how she felt but couldn't speak.

And this song became her prayer, is her prayer as she walks the hard road. She imagines Him with strong, outstretched arms reaching down to the weak, mute, limp-armed girl, saying, "Sweet child, I know you are empty and prayerless but know that I'm writing your story into my song." There is divine purpose in all of this.

So thank you, Ann, for sharing this song with us. And thank you, Christa, for writing it. It was the perfect gift for a prayerless girl. And of course, thanks be to God who lovingly gifts songs as prayers when our own words just don't come.

{Italics note lyrics in Christa Wells' song, How Emptiness Sings.}

Click here to listen.

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I wrote this post a couple of weeks ago, scribbled thoughts on scrap paper and stuffed into the tangled abyss known as my purse. I almost didn't publish it because I have an annoying tendency to write only from where I am, expression pouring out of the moment. And thankfully that string of prayerless days came to an end--numbness replaced with emotion, healing, hope and finally, prayer. So these thoughts don't feel as current and worthy of expression. But maybe you're in a string of prayerless days yourself. If so, this post is for you. Know that there is One who intercedes for you.

Enjoy the Show

When the walls start closing in, it's best to just get out.
When mess and mundane swirl about and your chest feels heavy, sky and trees have a way of pointing the narrow gaze upward and opening the tight lungs wide.

Juxtaposed against the bigness of beauty, my world feels small. And that's a good thing.

All the human talent in the universe can't match the brushstrokes of the One who keeps the tulips and daffodils looking their best. When they worship Him with their radiant heads held high, trusting Him for everything they need to live beautifully and purposefully, I'm inspired to follow their lead.

These three energetic ones begged to stay longer, to run more, to explore other trails, to watch the fish just a few more minutes. I promised to come back every week through the spring. They need it...and so do I. Their souvenirs were sticks and a few leaves stuck in their hair. Funny how the one and only Greatest Show on Earth is free.

Spring brings forth the beautiful new, offers fresh reminders that dark, wintry dormancy always births life anew if we'll just wait and trust.
And then it bids us, begs us, to come enjoy the show.

And so we did.

::

God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone, but also on

trees, and in the flowers and clouds and stars.

~Martin Luther

{All photographs taken in our local botanical garden.}

When You Want a Rewrite...

Sometimes life stops you dead in your tracks and all you can do is tell your lungs to keep breathing. Suddenly the urgent worries of yesterday—what to fix for dinner, how to discipline your three-year-old—seem laughable. You wonder why you wasted sacred precious energy on the non-essential.

And when the story you wanted to live erodes into as a twisted plot you'd never choose, you’re desperate to scribble away reality, to erase with such force that it rips up the pages altogether.

In gut-wrenching moments of anger, distrust and ingratitude, I echo-scream Ann’s words, I would have written the story differently!

And I would.

The conflict that steps in uninvited involves a different cast of characters for each of us. Cancer, addiction, death, mental illness, adultery, suicide, joblessness, a wayward child—I’m more acquainted than I wish with some of these storylines.

Wishing away the plot doesn’t write it away. No. We have to live it, endure the conflict even when the story’s resolution is nowhere in sight.

We’re all writing our stories, telling it with our lives and sometimes with our pens.

And we do that because we’re created in the image of the One who told His story with His life and His words. And even He, perfect and blameless though He was, pled for the cup to pass.

And we do too. I do. Please, God, let this suffering pass.

But it didn’t for Him and it doesn’t for us and for the joy set before Him, He endured the cross. And for the joy set before us, we endure too.

We endure because the story really does end happily ever after, even though the conflict and the climax that seem to go on without end, they can feel like hell. But for the author and perfector of our faith, the resolution is always redemption.

Always. Hallelujah!

And so we have a choice.

We can snap shut the book and give up, choose to be a hapless or bitter victim.

Or we can write our stories with our prayers, fight this battle on our knees. Because as the chapters unfold on this plane, I know we’re merely characters of a larger plot playing out in the heavenly realms and in the depths beneath. The Author tells us that our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.

Living our story with grace and fortitude is not a polite acceptance of sin and suffering. On the contrary, it's a battle. We fight for the strength to press on and we intercede that others may be able to overcome. There was nothing polite about the cross.

And there is nothing polite about the real and raw and redemptive stories we live out 2,000 years later.

But because of the cross, because of Jesus with us and in us, His resurrection strength pulsing through our weakness, we can live our stories well, victoriously even.

And as we live it, we tell it. We’re all storytellers in that way you know.

For a word-girl like me, I know I’ll write my story in some form, even if the readers are just God and me. I know it will be a story of hope and perseverance and trusting in an always-good God, even though the days are not always good. And though the resolution is nowhere in sight, I choose faith...

Being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.

My story, though one of struggle and heartache, is also inevitably one of victory and hope.

Because of Jesus, hope.

Because of Jesus, joy.

Because of Jesus, redemption.

And if you have Jesus, this is your story too.

Write it with your life and fight it on your knees.

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Several days ago, my mom told me that precious Ann was hosting an opportunity for a She Speaks scholarship. I know, it’s the second time I’ve entered for a chance at one of those scholarships in just a month. And honestly, it seems a bit inconsequential at this point, in light of the current state of my story. 

I told my mom "thanks," but that my word well seemed to have dried up, right along with my heart...that any words would have to filter down from the real Author. And so they did. And so I wrote. I wrote fast and hard and barely edited; I just wanted to make the deadline. I'm wondering if it even makes sense.

And if it doesn't that's okay. I trust the Author to take my story wherever He may choose. And if She Speaks is what He wills, well, I would be honored. 

If you’re wondering what this event is all about, She Speaks is a conference for Christian women who aspire to be speakers, writers or ministry leaders. The conference is part of Proverbs 31 Ministries. At She Speaks,

You will learn how to make the most of your messages, the nuts and bolts of speaking, writing, leading and influencing, and have the opportunity to meet with some of today’s top Christian publishers. She Speaks is not just another conference … it is a true experience with God and a revival in your calling!

-Lysa Terkeurst, Proverbs 31 Ministries

For more information on this fantastic conference for aspiring speakers, writers, or ministry leaders, see the end of my post or visit the conference web-site.

For the Love of the Flea Market

I've been a little blue. But my mom, wise in the ways of therapy, knew just the trick.

"We need to load up the kids and head to the flea market tomorrow morning," she insisted. "We'll pick up some of those sausage biscuits they love so much and make a morning of it."
And so we did.

I threw all three of my young 'uns and the rusty beach stroller {the one that's good for dirt and sand} into the van and we took a "field trip" to the Wednesday morning flea market with Nana.
We're a classy bunch, no?

Lest you think the flea market is some rinky-dink, small-scale establishment, let me tell you otherwise. Our flea market is the size of a small city. And I do say that with a strange sense of pride. Brownie informed me that he had walked two miles by the end of our excursion and he may have indeed been correct. 

You can buy everything from roosters to razor cartridge refills. I'm quite certain a not-so-small percentage of the wares are not exactly legal or legitimate. But we shop there anyway.

The flea market never fails to deliver in five key areas. I now look for these items, turning each outing into my own personal, junky, scavenger hunt: Eiffel Towers, Elvis tchotchkes, Jesus art, Confederate flags, and ammo.

{Expired pharmaceuticals are also gaining in market shares.}

Sometimes the Eiffel Towers are well-concealed. But if you look hard enough, you can always spot one. See? Here's one masquerading as a fluorescent, plastic, corked decanter. I don't think I want to know what's been "decanted" in there.

And all of this is what makes the flea market one of my favorite local haunts. My mom and I visit the flea market on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. No kids allowed. We sip hot coffee, buy Christmas presents and stock up on a year's supply of local color.

{A photo from Thanksgiving}

But this was my first spring excursion. It will not be the last.
We walked past vendors selling forsythia clippings and baby bunnies, farm-fresh eggs and newborn puppies. We trod dirt aisles lined with antiques and auto parts and gently-used sneakers, all the while inhaling a blend of fried food, fresh produce, baked bread, truck exhaust, and cigarette smoke. Call me crazy but it's actually a really pleasant aroma and strangely comforting.

I picked up the noteworthy homemade biscuits from the snack bar while the kids and my mom listened to a musical posse crooning and plucking everything from Johnny Cash to Vestal Goodman.

{The same musician I saw at Thanksgiving evidently plucks this painted bucket-broomhandle-stringed instrument year-round.}

One side of their "stage" was blocked off by the biggest, rustiest, coolest antique truck ever. As Brownie eyed the truck, an older gentlemen told him, "If you look up 'truck' in the dictionary, a picture of that there vehicle will be sittin' beside it."

And on the bed of the truck? Cages of "back-up-singing" roosters that seemed to cock-a-doodle-doo right on cue.

Seriously, you cannot make this stuff up. The market should charge admission.

It goes without saying that the flea market is a literal treasure trove of people, junk, and seriously amazing loot. I spent $10 and came home with a lovely bottle of organic olive oil, an Anthropology-looking necklace, one tube of my favorite lip balm and four jars of face cream. My absolute favorite brand...for $1 a jar!

Truly, the Confederate-Parisian-Elvis-Gospel-Gun-Totin'-Rooster gods were smiling down on me today.

The kids bought some slightly-expired gum and a sweet old lady gave Cupcake an ancient Motorola flip-phone. Honestly, people take one look at that toddler head of curly hair and they give him whatever is in his hand. He's a veritable 3-year-old shoplifter. No wonder he's such a mess.

My mom purchased a cast-iron skillet. For me. I can't believe that I've lived this long without one. It's downright shameful. She can't believe she raised me on skillet cornbread and failed to provide me with a seasoned pan of my own. I think this sobering reality guilted her into getting one for me. Plus, it was a bargain at $10. When you are southern and a mom, it's never too late to impart the domesticity you overlooked when the kids were young and driving you bananas. This gives me hope for my own neglected and undomesticated children.

For someone who just can't help but take note of people and irony and the idiosyncrasies that define us as individuals and sub-cultures, a few hours at the flea market is like drinking from a fire hose. My dream job {the realistic one, not to be confused with the unrealistic Food & Wine travel writer / photographer one,} is working for a local newspaper, covering people and places that make our locale unique, colorful, and vibrant.

In the meantime, I'll be an enthusiastic poseur with my every-now-and-then blog post and amateur iPhone photos. And in case you're wondering what to get me for my birthday, there's a darling Eiffel Tower decanter I just can't live without. A Terrorist Hunting Permit wouldn't hurt either.

Grace Like a Child's

The boys use unkind tones with one another and their patience seems non-existent. With edgy frustration, I correct them constantly.
The older two have trouble staying focused on their schoolwork. I am bothered by their distractibility.

They forget to pick up after themselves and they'd always rather play or make art.

I fuss at her for not being ready on time.

She misplaces things, often, and it flies all over me. And every time it happens, I am quick to remind her of how frequently she does this.

She asks 20 questions about Jesus and demons and the Pharisees and I become exasperated that I cannot even get through a chapter of the New Testament without all of why's and what's. She is such a skeptic, I think to myself, annoyed by her unending dialectic.

They tend toward selfishness with their stuff and their space and I tell them to share and treat one another the way they would want to be treated. But it seems they don't listen.

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I pray for patience. I don't like my tone. And I can't seem to change as quickly as I'd like to. Or at all.

Many days, I'd rather write or read or make art than teach them math or grammar.

I struggle to be ready on time and have them ready too.

This morning I lost my phone.

Distracted by e-mail, I forget to finish breakfast.

I read through one chapter of the New Testament with them and ask 20 questions in my head. I'm not brave enough to voice them like she does.

I keep my chocolate out of their reach and don't share my soda. The mama deserves a few things of her own, I rationalize.

They mess up all day long. And so do I, their messes often mirroring my own and vice versa.

Instead of the circle of life, we are the circle of mess.

They are desperately searching for assurance that they are just as loved when they screw up. And I'm searching for it too.

In case you can't tell, there's been a lot of mess around here, literal mess and soul mess. And with that comes desperate longing for grace and forgiveness and consolation that we are still okay.

Recently Blondie turned 10 and requested a trip to Build A Bear, just the two of us. On the way we had a conversation that went something like this:
Mommy, do you miss me being a baby?
Yes, sometimes I do. Sometimes I wish I could go back and start over because I feel like I'd be a better mom.
But you can't be a perfect mom. Everyone makes mistakes. Even if you started over you wouldn't necessarily be better. Nobody can be a perfect mommy.
I turned away so she wouldn't see the tears and I scribbled our short, profound dialogue on a piece of scrap paper when I stopped at the next red light.
Often I wonder why she's not the mommy. At times, she seems wiser. And she is certainly more gracious. All three of them are so very forgiving each time I ask their forgiveness, something I do a lot of and yet probably not enough of. They never deny me grace, not even for a second.
They don't expect me, at 37, to be perfect. But I have a default tendency to expect them, at 10, 7 and 3, to get it right more than they get it wrong.
It stings to write that but it's the truth.
Jesus says that the kingdom belongs to "such as these," that we grown-ups would be wise to take off our blurry, scratched, grown-up lenses and see the world like a child sees it. That we should model our faith after little ones.
The upside-down-ness of it all gets me every time.
Desperately, I pray that He will grow up my grace and my faith to be more like theirs.

And in one way they do listen to what I say about treating others the way they want to be treated...they teach me, through their unconditional love toward a failing, flailing mama, how to love them.

The Evolution of a Word Girl

This post is part of the Cecil Murphy Scholarship opportunity offered through She Speaks conference {Proverbs 31 Ministries.} For more information on this fantastic conference for aspiring speakers, writers, or ministry leaders, see the end of my post or visit the conference web-site.

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I started blogging several years ago. I didn't have an audience or an agenda. I just wanted a place to share and write and connect. Before long, the fun but superficial posts on recipes and furniture makeovers and family outings gradually gave way to posts about motherhood and struggle and finding joy in the everyday.

And the more I wrote, the more I realized I couldn't not write.

I wrote posts I never published. I wrote through tears in my journal. I wrote to others and I wrote to Jesus. I scribbled hard on receipts in the Publix parking lot and memorialized thoughts at stop-lights with a golf-course pencil and the back of a bank envelope. And it slowly dawned on me that I wrote...a lot.

The "writerly me" I’ve located in the midst of motherhood and marriage and mess feels both new and nostalgic, like getting back in touch with a childhood best friend.

As I backwards trace through youth and young adulthood, I see shadows of a word girl. My 5th grade poetry book? A prized possession. Diagramming sentences? My favorite. What I got in trouble for in 7th grade? Passing notes. {Lots of them.} Letters and notebooks from college filled with tales of love and lament? Check. I loved literature and mythology and the power of a great story.

And I recall my senior year of high school, going in early before school to get special tutoring from Ms. Joyner, my quirky, brilliant, gray-haired AP English teacher, who painstakingly helped me maintain consistent tenses and locate compelling themes. One-on-one, she taught me composition and I loved it.

But I didn't become a writer.

I became someone who had to do a lot of writing for her profession. And while I felt at home in academia and loved my career, I wasn't telling much story. Writing then lacked the personal narrative I never knew I was longing for.

And now that there's more space for my thoughts to run free, I'm able to write about the real.

Last year I wrote for the first time about marriage. My marriage. The imperfect, almost-wasn't marriage and how God brought redemption out of mess. It was a guest post for Chatting at the Sky so I sort of chalked up the response to Emily's larger audience. But last month I wrote a bit more about marriage and once again, it seemed to resonate.

I never thought I'd write publicly about that part of my life. But I've now had an opportunity to encourage other women who are tired of putting on perfect every day for the outside world yet struggling desperately behind closed doors.

I know how that feels. I did it for years.

And 15 years after "I do," it's still hard. Marriage is not for the faint of heart and sometimes I want that story to have its happy ending already so that I can move on to more glamourous tales. But God...He keeps writing His story out of our failure and I guess we've been good at giving Him a plenteous supply of material.

I didn't see the struggle as a story but someone else did. Bonita, an encouraging writer friend, left this comment on last month's Love Story post:

Scooper, I thought it before, but now I know it. You need to write a book. This is it--your book--this trudging up the hill and sliding back down and clamoring back up again. This is your story.

You write it well. You live it well. And you express what so many of us experience in the day-to-day living out of love.

And so many will relate to this, to your transparency and willingness to let us peek into your tear-filled closet.

I don't say these things to everyone and I have a really good track record for picking winners. You are one of those winners, Scooper. Not many people can write this way and express it all so well. You have a book in you, sweet friend!

I cried. I felt scared and exhilarated. Why? Because someone called me a writer and I dared to believe her. What's more, she read the words of my big ol' mess and she said it's a story others need to hear. And whether I delve further into that plot or write something entirely different, whether I publish a book or continue to narrate the grace-drenched everyday in relative obscurity, I know that God has woven story through my DNA. He has given me words and they are my offering to Him and to others.

That's why I would love to win a scholarship to She Speaks. I want to connect with other writers, to learn, to share, to be equipped, and to see where story leads. I've longed to go to the conference for several years now and a scholarship would provide that opportunity. As my heart is unmistakably being pulled in the direction of writing, I'm ready to put my "work" out there beyond the scope of my blog, to follow this dream and see what God may have in store.

So thanks for reading my story. And I really hope to see you at She Speaks in July!

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She Speaks is a conference for Christian women who aspire to be speakers, writers or ministry leaders. The conference is part of Proverbs 31 Ministries. At She Speaks,

You will learn how to make the most of your messages, the nuts and bolts of speaking, writing, leading and influencing, and have the opportunity to meet with some of today’s top Christian publishers.

She Speaks is not just another conference … it is a true experience with God and a revival in your calling!

-Lysa Terkeurst, Proverbs 31 Ministries

Decade Girl

I laced up my sneakers and set out for a 10-mile run on that hot July day, ten-and-a-half years ago. I had recently finished a half-marathon so the run should have been easy but I felt awful, overheated and ready to puke. Something was off. Coffee hadn't tasted good in a week either. I should have put two and two together.

We returned from our annual July 4th trip to Michigan with The Man's family and in the wee hours of the next morning, the pregnancy test immediately showed positive. So did the next one...and the next. I was 6 weeks pregnant. Shocked and exhilarated and already sick, I felt like I was the first pregnant girl in the history of the world.

From the first flutters, she never stopped moving. Never. Stopped. And as my womb grew cramped, she kept kicking, my cracked rib testifying to her in-utero acrobatics. When the time came for her to make her long-awaited and long-labored entrance into the world, she burst out posterior, pulling clenched-fists up by her head just as she crowned.

She cried and I cried and they remain the most precious tears we've ever cried together. I had never known love like this. And when they put her in my arms, her crying ceased and she stared me down hard and I felt like she could see straight through to my soul. She intimidated me with that knowing stare.
She still has a way of doing that.

She didn't sleep in the hospital and she didn't sleep once we got home. In fact, she did not sleep through the night for two years. Her favorite place to sleep was with me. And while she did not snuggle or cuddle or really take to people much in general, she seemed to find solace nestled up against me when the sleep finally came.

I nursed her the longest of my three...16 months. She refused a bottle and so I just kept nursing. It seemed like forever, living in that attached state with one another. And then one day she was done and now it seems like no time at all.

As for that active baby restricted by her mama's belly, she never stopped moving. Alert and intense from day one, she spent the first eight years of her life not being still. It drove me crazy. Time and maturity are mellowing her and I find myself ironically nostalgic for those years that she squirmed and fidgeted all the live long day. Her relative stillness these days reminds me that she is growing up...and that one day I'll be nostalgic for the things that drive me crazy now.

I wasn't sure either of us would survive those early years. She was strong-willed and so was I. I wanted her to wear one dress and she wanted another. She never seemed to tire of trying to triumph over me. I was worn slap out by the end of every day.
And now? She is much the same. Intense and infinitely observant, she still asks more questions than any of my children. And she is determined to mete out truth in any situation, no matter how inconsequential {which does not always go over well with others.} She has a way of being both blunt and quiet, unaware of how she comes across. This makes me cringe at times and want to stand up and applaud at others.

She is a quirky blend of ironies and I spend a lot of time wondering what she'll be like when she's grown. Seemingly aloof and yet compassionate. A dreamer and also a realist. Fiercely engaged in whatever is going on but easily distracted by what's on the other side of the window.

Time will tell.

And it's days like today that I want to shake time by the collar and tell it to stand still.

The days are long but the years are short. That's the phrase I've heard from several different people recently and it's the truth. Is it ever the truth.

For that clenched-fist baby girl who never slept is 10 years old today.

I get a little weepy over birthdays. And when I get weepy I write and this is probably more than anyone besides her mama really cares to read.

Last night I tucked her in, her final night in single digits, and she asked, Mommy, what was your best age? Honestly, I don't know. But I have to say that where she is right now, this point in time with her? It's pretty sweet and I don't want to forget a minute.

Weeks ago she submitted a special birthday request...that I would sleep in her bed on her birthday. And of course I said yes.

It will be just like old times.

Happy 10th birthday sweet girl.