Archives for August 2005

We have a mom here, plumb out of compassion. Sadly, we also have a girl who is constantly hurting herself and is no stoic. There is also a boy who is rowdy and wild as well as a baby fresh from a nap but not really fresh, sort of squashed looking and cranky.

The compassionless woman is slumped over the controls and this plane is headed for the ground. Will the Holy Spirit intervene yet again? Is there really no temptation except what is comman to man? Is God faithful? Will He provide a way out?

I’ll keep you posted.

Our company has departed. They were here 17 days. Days 1-6 were lots of fun for kids and grownups.

Around day 7 things started to crack, the kids were at each others’ throats, Paul had just left the country and I was weeping if I breathed.

By day 9 the other husband was gone and the kids were still fighting and the only words Margaret and I exchanged were to tell each other the other’s kid had hit one of our own.

Day 10 we both got out of the house, separately, which was vital for everyone.

Days 11 and 12 we did some fun things and spent a little time apart each day.

Days 13 and 14 she went to another friend’s cottage.

Early morning of Day 15 Paul returned and then late evening of Day 16 Matt returned. Yesterday the kids had a lot of fun together and we parents got out for dinner while my mom babysat for the 4th time. (She is going to have a MANSION in heaven!)

Last night at dinner, Matt thanked us again for our hospitality and we all dissolved into laughter thinking about the mayhem of the past weeks.

They are on their way to their new home for the next few years while Matt gets his Ph.d. As they were pulling away, Margaret shouted, “Give us four days and we’ll be ready for a visit!”

We’re going to give them a little bit more time to build up a longing.

He was due in near midnight last night. Sadly he sat in Miami for a couple of hours because of lightning, then another because of an alleged mechanical, then one more to wait for a flight crew. This meant he wasn’t able to make his final connection from Chicago, the hub of doom. He called around 7 p.m. which I knew wasn’t good as he should have been flying somewhere north of the Mason-Dixon. With an air of resignation he relayed the news that best case scenario he would be flying into Chicago around midnight and would rent a car, hopefully to arrive home around 3 a.m.

This was decidedly not good news for me since I was exhausted and about to put the kids into bed. I had already called a friend to pray for me as I was committed to treating my children with gentleness and respect. I bitched a little about his itinerary which had him flying around Venezuela at 6 every morning and then leaving at 11 the morning he was coming home. You never want the last flight out of anywhere, especially Chicago. I mentioned this and then felt guilty knowing he was tired and frustrated, facing another flight and then a long drive. I apologized.

“You don’t need to apologize,” he said.

“Well I’m sorry to be bitching at you about something out of your control. I just wish you seemed more upset.”

“I already moved past anger. It is what it is.”

“I know. I guess…OK, here’s my request, when you are about to hurl a bag of poo at me, would you please acknowledge that you are hurling a bag of poo and be a little apologetic so that I can be all sweet and, “It’s not your fault, I understand, etc”?

“Yeah, I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

When he travels, which averages out to every couple of months, he is gone for about a week. He has had a couple of trips that have been under seven days, but by and large they are closer to eight. The hard thing is it only averages out to every couple of months, which means that he can be home for four months then ( like this past Spring) be gone three weeks out of a six week period. I realized this week that this is not working for me and that we can make some requests. For example, make it known that trips exceeding seven days are really stressful on our family and see if there is any way they can be avoided. I wish I had learned to make requests a long time ago.

My instinct is to just state my needs or rather to whine about my unmet needs, but to ask for help was a foreign concept. “Ask and it shall be given…” And if it’s not I can choose what I want to do in the situation other than whine and moan.

Imagine that.

Sitting at a stop light today I rested my head back and happened to look in the rearview mirror. I saw my son who was also leaning against his headrest with the same relaxed expression that was mirrored on my face and I realized with a jolt how much he looks like me.

He was a elfish little baby: big blue eyes, dark hair, fair skin and sticky-outy ears like his dad. We called him Paul’s Mini Me until Birdie came along and we realized she was his clone. The resemblance is so striking that she has interrupted people since she was 6, when they begin, “You look…”

“I know. I know, just like my dad.” She knew the meaning of the word clone by the age of 4 or 5. Beanie is cut from the same cloth.

I remember when C. Riley was a baby and he flashed me a look that I knew was my own. It took my breath away, to recognize myself in him. At times he has smiled or made a face and I’ve seen one of my brothers. But until today I hadn’t been able to see how our very bone structure is similar, our cheekbones and the shapes of our eyes.

He saw me looking at him and immediately smiled. My lips unfurled the identical smile.

And then love began to leak out through my eyes.

Two nights ago I had my first dream about my father since his death June 22, 2003. This was surprising to me as I dream often and God speaks powerfully in my dreams. I wanted to dream about my dad for obvious reasons but nothing came until now.

I was watching him play basketball from several yards away. When he caught me looking he stopped and then sort of danced around with a big smile on his face. “Can you believe he almost died?” I said to a friend who was with our family the many months in the ICU. She began to cry and then I did too. We were both so grateful that he was so healthy and full of joy having been so close to death.

And then I awoke and remembered he was dead. But it wasn’t terrible. The waking reality didn’t negate my dream. He is dead and yet I know he is alive – and dancing.