We wanted to send Gma a special birthday greeting so we wrote up some happy day wishes to send off into the wind for delivery. We tied our notes to balloons and posed for a few pictures to document our act of love. With a few hugs and kisses blown to the wind, our love took off in the next southwestern wind.
Happy Birthday, Gma! We love you!!
It was a day I had dreamed about for years. Four years to be exact. It would be the day that would mark my arrival to womanhood by participating in a rite of passage all young girls endure but soon learn to love and indeed sometimes even live for.
I was going shopping!
It was a tradition started by my maternal grandmother. On a grandchild's tenth birthday she would take each out for a day of mall shopping. (Not to be confused with shopping of the blue-light variety that you suffer through with your mother and all siblings in tow.) Mall shopping meant Toys R Us and Dilliards, up scale shopping with a cookie and soda all your own from Mrs. Fields.
After my initiation (which garnered me among other things a black leather mini-skirt and black vest which my mother deemed too streetwalker for a young girl and promptly returned much to my fairy godmother's and my chagrin) I felt special, loved, set apart.
Less than a month later I would go with my church to carol at a local Children's Home. My heart ached as I understood what the presence of these children meant. They were the unwanted, the unloved, the set apart because of behavioral problems.
And I wondered who would take them shopping on their tenth birthdays.
The next year I determined that I would compile all my birthday money. I would march right into the Children's Home and pick out my very own orphan to take shopping, stopping only to buy them any flavor of Mrs. Field's cookies they wanted.
Until my mother explained to me the logistics and legalities of doing such an impossible thing. And reminded me that real life doesn't play out just like the movie Annie.
Undeterred, in my later teen years I found ways to find these unwanted and set apart children. I would volunteer in a similar home, participate in after school inner-city programs, and visit camps where such children were made to feel for the first time loved and wanted and set apart for who they were, not for what circumstance and unfit parents and economics had allocated for them.
Today I find my days full of children of my own. Children who I pray will never doubt that they were and are wanted, that they are loved, that each holds a special part of my heart. After having my firstborn I wondered how I could ever love another child, even my own, the same way, with the same intensity and fullness.
And then, as every mother knows, the mysterious mathematics of love are introduced into your life. The same way that infinity divided by any finite number is still infinity so is a mother's love. No matter how many times it is divided it is still available and offered in it's same fullness and intensity and depth to the next. And the next. And the next.
Experiencing full days with hands full, I still knew my heart too was full. Still able to love more. Able to love somebody's forgotten child. Wanting to find other children who could use more love, more attention, more direction than perhaps their parents were able or willing to give.
Every other Monday night I tell my husband that I have found my children. This year, all 25 of them. Children that come from broken homes, impoverished homes, homes of neglect or homes missing the constant presence of parents. On such Mondays they greet us with mile wide smiles, eagerly awaiting us to open the doors to their hour and a half of love.
An hour and a half of basketball and skill development might not seem a significant offering. But when that time includes affirmation that they are amazing, that they are talented, that they are worthy of merit and when it includes a character lesson that can serve as a tool for bettering themselves in a belittling world and when it is delivered with a firm but committed insistence and when it includes a sharing not only of my love and the others serving with me but of God's affection for each, it becomes nothing less than an evening of love.
I, we, are there because of our love for them. The love we share is one that we have experienced first hand from God and desire to pass on and on and on. A love inexhaustable. Because when we have done all the loving on them that we can do, that's when His love for them takes over.
Possessing enough love for Adwale, Kwame, Samuel, Meech, Alunga, Sydney, Ricky, Deng, Danny, Joseph, Jessica, Yashina, Umed, Eugene, Enes, Jerry, Tyrone, Mohammed, Samir, Wesley, Tammim, Hope, Chelsea, Frankie, Elias, and Jose is a daunting task for even the most benevolent of mothers' heart.
But when it's God's love we share and offer, that, only that is a love truly and literally sufficient to stretch by infinity.
To infinity and beyond.
My dear, dear friends, if God loved us like this, we certainly ought to love each other. No one has seen God, ever. But if we love one another, God dwells deeply within us, and his love becomes complete in us—perfect love! I John 4:11-13
It was to be an adventure to be remembered. We would never forget. At least until tomorrow. By then tomorrow would then be today and would have adventures aplenty of it's own. But today was still today and we had trees to climb, sword fights to be won, and imaginations to wander as far as their little feet could take them.
But today someone was tired. Too tired to climb or fight or wander. All she wanted was the warmth found cuddled inside her mama's jacket while tucked into her mama's snug embrace. A moment of snuggles and a few sways to this side and that and this little one was out. Off to an adventure of her own within the confines of her dreams.
I was tired too. Tired but determined not to be put out for the count just yet. So I lay my sleeping bundle underneath the canopy of roots provided by an overturned tree and set out for adventures my own. I would play the part of nurse for the injured, encourager for the loser and human gps for the lost.
Finally when all my adventurers are tucked in for the night and then again after a drink and another trip to the bathroom, I could have my rest. A few minutes to read, to pray, to converse with my husband. Resting in His promises, comforted by His goodness and expectant for the adventures of tomorrow, I am asleep.
You've heard this song, right?
Count your blessings, name them one by one
And it will surprise you what God has done!
We did that today, counted our blessings one by one. Our list grew and grew and grew. Seems gratitude is the perfect antidote for discontentment. All our sorrows and complaints faded in importance and severity as we were reminded of our great wealth and provision.
Already fall is fading into winter here. Instead of thinking of frostbite, we're thinking of snowflakes upon our eyelashes. Rather than shiver at the thought of wet toes, we're thinking of steaming hot chocolate. Though the weather outside may get frightful, we'll be beside our fire, thankful for a warm home and family beside us.
Have you counted your blessings today?
She is the friend who turned my lemons into beef stew. She's the hostess with the mostest...good food, that is! Her gifts are many, supportive wife and chef extraordinaire, but it's her friendship and support to me while exploring my gifts and calling that has meant so much to me.
This weekend she asked for a family portrait session and I was thrilled with the opportunity for more practice. Encouraging me in my pursuit of my photography education, she has offered me her pregnant belly, her newborn, her kids and now her family as willing victims/models for my desperate attempts at improving my understanding of my camera and potential clients.
We walked out to the marsh near my home and even with the chill in the air and the many distractions nature provided, I trust these pictures show the warmth of their familial connection and the focus of one family to keep smiling, even after the camera is turned off.
Here's to hoping Stella and Dot agree with me that imitation is the best form of flattery. Remember this? Today I made my own version of their coveted necklace.
For 2 bucks.
(Honey, that's a savings of $72 plus s&h so I'll just go ahead and put that amount into my personal savings fund...)
Look for a Strella (my abbreviation of estrella, for obvious reasons ;) and Dot coming soon...to your dollar store! ;o)
We were hosting a baby shower for a friend and had been forewarned about the crazy mother-in-law who was sure to make an appearance. I had come expecting a woman with wild hair and erratic movements. And though her behavior was a bit abnormal, her story was gripping and I couldn’t pull away from her compelling words.
Her son had left her, left the home, left the faith. Her heart was broken, her home empty, and her faith shaken. Not knowing the wheres or whats but only the what ifs of her son’s existence, she was reduced to tears and worries. Unsure of where to turn, she turned to her God. Crying out, she poured out her sad complaints, her bitter accusations, and begged for mercy.
“This is my son! The one who I birthed and raised and loved for so many years. I have no news, no source of help, and no idea of what to do.”
In the noise of her laments, there was only silence. And then, His response.
“He is my son. I love him more than you ever could. I have had plans and dreams for him before you even knew him. I see him even now, he is never outside the apple of My eye.”
I wondered as I heard her then. Why her? Why this mother for this son? Could her instability have provoked his flight? Could her inability have left him ill equipped? Were all his problems rooted in the incompetency of his mother?
In time, God drew her son back, back to his mother and back to his faith. A different man had emerged, one who had found a beautiful bride and was now an expectant father.
This memory returned recently as I struggled with the enormity of my own responsibility as a mother. These are my children. Their future, their character, their success depends on me. It is up to me to prepare the soil of their hearts, to plant seeds of truth, and to water and tend. The resulting harvest must speak to my success as a mother, anything else will leave me ridiculed and feeling like a failure. I want to boast of my aptitude as a mother through the lives of my children.
Feeling the pressure and seeing the challenges increasing, I wondered, "Why me? Why this mother for these children? Surely there must have been others more competent, more educated, more experienced that You could have chosen."
His answer came to me in a still, small voice, just as it had to her. "They are mine, my son and daughters. I have had plans for them before you ever knew them. My eye is on them now even as it was when they were still in the womb. My hand is on them now, leading them and teaching them, and yes, at times even using you.
"Take a good look, mother, at who you were when you got called into this life. I don't see many of "the brightest and the best" among you, not many influential, not many from high-society families. Isn't it obvious that God deliberately chose men and women that the culture overlooks and exploits and abuses, chose these "nobodies" to expose the hollow pretensions of the "somebodies"? That makes it quite clear that you can't get by with blowing your own horn before God. Everything that we have—right thinking and right living, a clean slate and a fresh start—comes from God by way of Jesus Christ. That's why we have the saying, "If you're going to blow a horn, blow a trumpet for God." (1 Corinthians 1:26-31, emphasis mine)
Oh.
I see.
Phew, what a relief!
It is really You raising my children, providing for their every need and preparing their way.
And sometimes, you choose to nominate the village idiot as their mother. Knowing full well that through her foolishness and humility, she would find all necessary wisdom and strength in You.
