I don’t know when it was I realized I am not an instinctively fun person.

This is a problem as I am the mother of three children and although two of them are nerdy little readers, they don’t want to only sit around reading and drinking coffee. They want to have fun. I don’t want to be their best friend or anything, I just want to stop being the curmudgeon I am so easily. “Stop splashing!” (poolside) “Stop yelling!” (outside) “Go read!” (anywhere)

I have actually asked God to help me be more fun. A few days ago I had an idea for something the kids would love. We were already planning to take them to opening night of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I decided to leave an anonymous letter inviting them on a hunt. A series of clues led them to the movie tickets.

I asked my sister for help with the clues. She said I didn’t need any. She was right. I sat down this morning, plotted out the hiding places and made up some rhyming clues that required a bit of thought. They happily raced around the yards finding clue after clue. Finally they lifted the turtle sandbox (“This reptile moves very slow…” I know, should have been “slowly” but needed to rhyme with “go”) to find the tickets. Oh joy and excitement! They didn’t realize the tickets were for tonight. When this dawned there happiness knew no bounds.

After the movie we wondered if either of them would make it through the factory tour like Charlie. Both were confident they would. Privately their father and I saw the boy falling into the chocolate river in the first round. Both of us were fairly confident the girl would make it as she is a rule follower/pencil pusher and generally a sweetie. Then we saw her attacking the chocolate fountain in the theater lobby after the show. Our confidence was shaken. She might have a future as a chocolate river rat too.

A large man just came into the room singing that he is going to bed to the tune of “Surfer Girl” and knocked the shade off the window. I was already feeling tired. I am now rattled. Need to close.

Remind me to tell you about:

themes
needy gardening
healing
hunger
theater instincts

Good night.

Birthday week has ended. My sister was here with her husband and baby girl. My brother-in-law, David, totally redid my Mom’s front porch, which was great for her but a little frustrating for the birthday girls (Torey, July 6, Me, July 8) and my two big kids who are all raving fans of an alter ego of David’s called, Monkey Boy.

Monkey Boy is a tall, shrieking, wild-eyed creature who came into being the one day last year that Torey and David were able to swim in our pool. We had just taken possession of the house and hadn’t even moved yet. I was deep in buyer’s remorse as every surface needed to be painted or replaced. My friends, I do not exaggerate. I am talking carpet in the dining room, carpet in the kitchen, carpet in the bathrooms – plush. Don’t try to imagine it, you will most likely pass out and be unable to finish what is mainly a happy post. I am not even going to tell you about the walls. Another time I will tell you more about my buyer’s remorse, just know I had it – BAD.

David was goofing around with the older kids while Torey and I kept an eye on the babies. I don’t know what inspired David to start acting like the largest monkey this world has ever seen, but he did. Using the diving board as a tiny stage he started preening and grooming and shrieking. My kids fell in love immediately, ran and got the hose and began spraying him, which was a reasonable and clever response. Monkey Boy hated that and the shrieking increased. He chased my kids and wrestled away the hose, lost control and was vigorously hosed down again. Torey and I were dying. At one point Monkey Boy grabbed at her and tried to pick her up. He made me nervous up close. I preferred him on the diving board. This went on for a couple of hours. Laughing maniacally, clutching my stomach I knew this was worth the future work inside the house.

That Fall we planned all the fun we would have next year. Torey and David lived in Illinois at the time and many weekends up here with us were the given. And then they moved to British Columbia to support David’s sister as she went through her second round of leukemia. They planned to spend Christmas with us. David would then drive the moving truck and Torey would fly out with the baby. The day they were coming up, several days before Christmas, David began to feel uneasy about backtracking up here. After prayer they decided he should start for Canada immediately. It was so sad not to have him. It was only the second Christmas since my Dad’s death and both my brothers got stranded in airports on Christmas day. There were so few of us.

The good of David not being there was that it allowed me to realize what we lost without his presence. Sure there weren’t a lot of beer bottles on my counter (He is Canadian.) and there were half as many jackets strewn about (just Torey’s) but there also was no big family cookfest, no massive snow fort built and barely any wacky schemes. He was terribly missed.

I told him this last week, how much fun he is when he is around, how much I love him and how grateful I am he is my brother. Telling him this I was tempted to throw it away with a silly voice, as if it was a joke. Paul and I do this too often. But I stood firm and spoke the love in truth.

It was a great week. Why does time fly when you’re having fun?

Oh Monkey Boy how we miss you! Thanks for bringing back my sister and your odd little duck. Your next visit will not be soon enough.

Our hose is always waiting for you.

As was mentioned previously my father died two years and now two weeks ago. The two weeks is especially poignant as my sister turned 28 two weeks to the day after my dad died. I turned 33 two days after that. My sister was eight months pregnant and I had just had a baby in January. Neither of us is much of a stoic on a good day. Throw in a couple jillion hormones, one dead dad and you had two exceptionally emotional girls. Our birthdays that year were flat and sad, something to be endured. Torey was already pushing the envelope on travelling restrictions, but there was no way she was going back to Illinois until after her birthday. I can’t remember if she stayed for mine.

It was my 33rd which I was keenly aware was the age of Christ on earth when He died on the cross. He got in and out fast, didn’t waste time. Not wasting time was very important to me on my birthday two years ago, my dad newly buried. Seven months before he had had a bad case of bronchitis, which dragged on for weeks and weeks. It was actually congestive heart failure. I begrudged him the weeks he suffered in that particular denial and the years previous of similar others. I was burdened by guilt for the time I had wasted waiting for him to be a different person, planning then to have a real true relationship. After a certain point I held him at arm’s length, the anger and hurt between us mingled with so many prayers of forgiveness that never seemed to bridge. Squandered time.

That year after his death I thought a lot about how to live. Jesus came to this earth clear; He lived to please His Father in heaven. I wanted to be that clear.

To encourage the consumption of water I fill a glass pitcher with my daily amount, set a glass next to it and drink through out the day. I eyeball it now and then to stay mindful of drinking consistently. Although it is a lot I usually empty the pitcher before bed.

Lately it has been very hot here, terribly. I find I am drinking all I “should” drink before dinner. I am thirsty. It is easy to receive what I need and more.

I want to be thirsty for the Bible, for love, joy, peace and all the fruit, for my children, for God Himself, all three, for my husband and my family.

And I want to drink my fill.

I want to get it all…every day.

“I was in heaven.” a little voice broke an unusual silence. My attention shifted immediately. It has been one week and two years since my father died; I am interested in heaven.

“What were you doing?” I asked.

“Wif Grandpa” she answered.

“You were with Grandpa?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

“In my house.”

“Oh you were in your house?”

“Yes wif Boo Boo and La La” (her brother and sister)

I racked my brain for an open ended question that might get me a little more information.

“Did Grandpa say anything to you?”

“He say, ‘Beanie…Sugar…Beanie…Sugar.”

I started to cry. My dad called me and my sister, Sugar.

I wasn’t able to wring anything else out of our pint sized prophet last night but today we told my mom about it. I asked her to tell Grandma what Grandpa said.

“He say, ‘Beanie…Sugar…Mama’ He open Mama’s door.”

This is not something I have said out loud but when I hear people talk about an “open heaven” it resonates with me. Since the death of my father I feel more clear about life here on earth. I feel more pointed to heaven. It feels closer. My father’s death opened heaven’s door for me.

When he was dying and after, people, knowing that he was a Christian, would offer the comfort that he was going to a better place. I believed this. I was grateful that my father was a follower of Christ but at that point it didn’t satisfy. It wasn’t enough. I was angry that we had wasted so much time, that he hadn’t taken better care of himself, that he had wrapped himself and suffocated in denial. My heart ached that my opportunity to be a daughter to him was over and that my kids wouldn’t have a grandfather.

The first Sunday after my dad died the singing at church was especially joyful. I tried to lift my voice but couldn’t. I stood there and wept. I have never been so bereft. I knew the Bible says that blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted. And so I waited to see if it was true.

Even when I didn’t really have a handle on the love and joy of Christ, He felt like enough. This was the first time where I stood with arms completely empty and waited. Would He show up?

He did.

It took some time and a lot of mourning. I was completely honest with Him. When something came to mind that stunk I told Him and I mourned it. I grieved that my Dad died not full of years, that our relationship had never been what I wanted or needed, that it seemed like he gave his best away to others. I grieved that he hadn’t prepared for his death the way I wanted, that almost everything he said he would do or be he didn’t or wasn’t. I grieved that he had lost his first love for Christ, that he had been worn down by the cares of this world.

One day as I was crying and grieving my dad’s seemingly wasted life the thought came to me that he had it all figured out. He was seeing through a glass clearly. Now that he has died he knows how to live. I felt compelled to pray for my earthly father’s heavenly perspective. I know I could have always asked for my heavenly Father’s earthly perspective, but I hadn’t. So I prayed. God answered my prayer immediately. Right away I felt detatched from things, stuff. I really noticed it when I saw a box of family pictures. Formally I would have felt a pang of guilt that they weren’t in a scrap book. Nothing. I am a mother of young children. The absence of guilt is noteworthy, in conjunction with pictures of my kids it’s a miracle. I felt clarity about my children, what was important and what could fall to the side. I didn’t feel as burdened by my home. I felt peace.

I was comforted.

I don’t know what my little one experienced, but am thankful for the reminder that my door has been opened.