Make A Splash!

  Thanks to my sweet little sister for moving up in the photography world and letting me inherit your camera. Watch out people- I have a big girl camera now!!! I have no idea what to do with all these fancy knobs and buttons. But I see mom's whip out these big ole' things all the time... so I am sure I can learn. There's probably like a mom class somewhere- free childcare, lattes, how to have a totally awesome DIY 3-year-old-birthday party and how to use your fancy-shmancy camera. All in one fun-filled afternoon. But I haven't the time (or desire). So I am piddling around and figuring it out at home- in a rain storm- which I am sure is great for the camera. I digress. Day 3 of constant rain in Nashville. Hope you are enjoying sunshine- people of the world. Rainy Day? Make a Splash!

There will be Twix Bars for Breakfast!

I fed her a Twix bar in bed at 11:30 p.m. Everything hereafter reasons to be punishment for the fact that I fed my 4-year-old a Twix bar in bed at 11:30 p.m.

At 4:40 a.m., two nights ago, I woke up in a sweat. We were staying in an old, two-story home tucked away deep in the woods of a college campus in Rome, Georgia.  Earlier that day I saw a young, nerdy guy in his early 20's walk into the local Starbucks with an archaically long pistol holstered boastfully to the outside of his blue jeans. Followed by an old woman who was sure enough in a moo-moo with no undergarments. But that is neither here nor there. Just scenes that flashed through my head at 4:50 a.m.

But back to 4:40 a.m.

I woke up in a sweat. Nestled into a 4 poster bed with Annie, on the second floor of the house deep in the woods- I was tossing and turning- covered in sweat. I woke up. We were both on top of the covers. I felt Annie and she was hot too. In a sleep stupor, I cracked the door and went down the hallway of the old house. I remembered seeing a thermostat in the hallway. 78 degrees. 78 DEGREES?!?!? It's summer in the middle of Georgia. Old ladies wear m0o-moos to Starbucks without undies. Who set this thing on 78 degrees?!? Still in my sleep stupor, I cranked the dial down to an ungodly number.

And instantly it kicked on and the doors to the four rooms along the old hallway sucked shut.

I stumbled back to my room, numbered R3, to find a locked door.

You know the feeling when you nod off while driving and the sound of the rumble strips, or an 18-wheelers horn, snaps you out of it? It's an instant wake-up call.

Awake. Alert. Aware.

That was me at 4:40 a.m.

I tried coaxing the handle into not being locked. Jiggling it softly and then quickly turning to the left and right. Tricking it into thinking it was not locked. A girl has to try. It was clear this would not work. So I went to my band mate's room who was sleeping across the hall from us. I knocked. I knocked again. And again. And then I started calling her name. "ANNNIIIIEEEEE WAKE UP." Nothing. "ANNNNIIIIIEEEEE I'M LOCKED OUT." Nothing.

I learned something valuable about big-girl Annie (as little girl Annie likes to call her)... if there is a tornado in the middle of the night, I should rescue her. Otherwise SHE WILL DIE.

"OK Jenny. There has to be a way you can pick the lock. You can do this. Think like a criminal."

Next to my door was a writing desk of sorts. On it were cards advertising the camps summer marriage series. Next to the cards were 3 creepy glass cats who were staring at me. No pens. No paper. No hidden room keys. Just the cats who stared. And then- I saw what was in the middle of the table- an urn surrounded by flowers. My heart stopped. Seriously? An urn surrounded by flowers? What kind of sick person wants to die and be left at summer camp?!?

Focus Jenny. There was nothing to pick the lock with. It was time to explore the old house in the woods but can I just say- I am not a thrill-seeker. I don't find any joy or sick pleasure in being in an old house, in the woods, in the dead of night, with glass cats and urns staring at me. I scoured the house. There weren't any phones. No TVs for that matter. No hidden keys. No kitchen where I can find utensils to pick the lock. Nothing. My car keys are in the bedroom. My cell phone is in the bedroom.

5:00 a.m. rolls around. It is raining. Soon there will be thunder. Soon Annie will wake up to the sound of the house shaking in the dark woods and I will not be there. She will be in a new room- on an old Victorian bed several feet off the ground- she might as well wake up in a death trap- and she will call my name and I won't be there.

I ran upstairs and took the camp's marriage cards with 3 annoyingly happy looking couples and began to whittle them away. I would pick the lock. I had to. There may not be a single piece of metal in the entire house but by God I will try and re-create it. With slivers of card-stock I wriggle and wrestle with the lock.

The 3 creepy glass cats cheer me on! The urn person becomes my cheer-ghost! The annoyingly happy couples slide in and out, in and out. You can do it! With hard work and therapy and Jesus and a getaway to this magical house- you can do it! I try the happy white couple. Then I try the happy Hispanic couple. Then I try the happy bi-racial couple. None of them work. None. I try my fingernails. I try waking the other Annie again. No use. That girl might be dead. I turn my thoughts back to Annie. Poor little thing. She couldn't get into the bed by herself and she was afraid to get out of it because it was so high. My only option now was to wait by the door until she woke up and then tell her to jump. OK, slide. But I might as well be telling her to jump off Niagara.

I lay down with my nose touching the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move. A furry black spider. Awesome and of course. I stand up in fear. I don't have a shoe- all I have are my glossy couples on card stock- and they have failed miserably to save the day.

All I can do is wait.

Finally- thunder claps so hard she wakes up crying "Mommy. Mommy. I'm scared."  And I am trapped on the other side of the door. I feel sick to my stomach. It's just a door. It's just an old house in the woods. But- oh my gosh- this is what it feels like to not be able to take care of your baby when they are scared. To try everything in your power and still not be able to reach them. Literally- every mom or dad or grandma or grandpa or lover who has ever wanted to protect their person, but couldn't, ran through my head. And now it's 5:30 and I am crying for Annie and for the whole world. And the cats are staring at me and judging me and the dead person in the urn is crying too. Want to break my heart? Make it impossible for me to be with my little girl when she is scared.

"ANNIE. Baby. Listen to me. Mommy's locked out of the room!!! Isn't that silly? And I need you to come rescue me!!! Can you be my hero and come rescue me?"

"MOOOMMMMY."

"Annie. Can you hear me?"

"Yes, Mom."

"I need you to be brave and slide off the bed and come unlock the door for mommy. Can you do that?"

Nothing. Silence.

SHE FELL BACK ASLEEP.

Seriously?!?

I knock on the bedroom door. "ANNIE. BABY you have to come rescue me. Wake up! You can do it! Come save mommy!"

"I'm sleeping mom. Just open the bathroom door."

"I'm not in the bathroom baby. I'm in the hallway and there is a SPIDER AND I NEED YOU TO RESCUE ME."

Spider is a trigger word in our family. It leads to screams-tears-convulsions.  I saved it until I absolutely had to. And it worked. It was her rumble strip. Instantly Awake. Alert. Aware.

"I'm a little bit scared mom but I'm gonna be brave!"

"OK baby- I'm so proud of you! You can do this! You're my HEEEERRRROOOOOO."

I hear a thud followed by "whoa!".

Little feet running to the door. I coached her through unlocking the tiny lock. She didn't think she could do it. She had never done it before.There were a few moments I was a little unsure myself. And then- she flung the door open with as much pride as she could muster.

She was wide awake and squealed with joy. "I SAVED YOU!!!!!!!"

I picked her up and put her back in the bad and thanked her for being my hero.

"Mom. I thought you were in the bathroom so I just went back to sleep."

"I know baby- it's OK. It was confusing."

"Yeah, but then I realized you were locked outside like a pet."

That line still makes me giggle. Her eyes were getting heavy. And I couldn't stop smiling. I was so proud of her.

"Mom- can I have the other part of that Twix bar for breakfast since I rescued you?"

This is the smartest child alive.

Even at 5:30 a.m. She snuggled close.

"Yes baby- you're my hero and heroes get whatever they want for breakfast."  She smiled. And we fell back asleep knowing

 there will be Twix bars for breakfast.

My hero.

Running, Birds and an Evil Hawk

It is 6:59 a.m. and I am sitting on my front porch watching birds. Annie, my four-year-old, is still sound asleep. I'll admit. She sleeps in late everyday. Most days I have to wake her at about 9:00 a.m. But if you have a child, please don't be jealous. In her waking hours she runs laps across parks and fields for fun. Then she does it again and again. Then she doesn't nap. She doesn't even honor "quiet time." Instead, she sings at the top of her lungs in character voices. Strange characters that she has made up. Then, when quiet time is over, she runs more laps. And she always, always wants me to run with her. And I do. Because I don't have a desire to produce a sibling for her to run with. So I run more laps out of guilt that she's not going to get a real-life-sister-in-a-cage for Christmas like she really wants. And I dance. And sing in character voices and then run some more.

And she unfolds this way with gusto, passion and slightly creepy superhuman energy each and every day. She is a freak of nature.

So don't be envious that she is still asleep. Soon she will wake. The giant will awaken from her slumber.

Until then- I sit and cherish the silly, mindlessness of watching the birds in the trees directly across from my front porch.

There are millions of birds, if not hundreds, who live in these trees. I know. Because they wake me up every morning. Whoever the ring leader is, he starts his yapping each morning around 4:00 a.m. when it is still dark and still night time. By 5:45 a.m. they are in full swing.

*Side note: My new neighbor just walked out and got in his car with a metal Star Wars lunch pail. There is no kid in sight. Please tell me this isn't a thing grown men do? Is it?

There are three birds who are clearly in love with each other. They bicker and fly around each other and chase one another. There is definitely some tension between two of the birds. They are clearly both chasing the other bird. And the other bird (it has to be a sassy pants girls) is clearly enjoying leading them on a chase. She is not making it easy for them. She is weaving in and out of trees like a wild woman. I think she is trying see which of the other two birds will die first. One of them- oh my gosh- yep, one of them is going to smash into a tree branch any second now and die. Then I will have to have a small service and bury it so the neighborhood cat doesn't get it and drag it around and leave it on my stairs for me to explain to my hysterical four-year-old why there is a dead bird head on our front porch.

I was so unprepared for a bird funeral today. Why can't they just try polygamy?

There are about ten birds playing chase or follow the leader or some sort of game like that. They are free like children. I follow their patterns as they follow each other around power lines, up trees, swirling around a squirrel and resting on tree branches for mere nano-seconds before taking off after the next leader. This is their version of summer fun.

There are two birds sitting in the little tree to my right. They must be the elder of the birds. They are buried in the branches, perched and sometimes talking. Mostly resting. Mostly just being. A cluster of birds fly by to occasionally taunt these elders, perhaps begging them to come play, but they are not shaken. They have done their fair share of playing. Now they rest. I look at them and I wonder- will I ever rest?

They look back at me. Curious. Still. The breeze slightly swaying their branch. The breeze slightly blowing through my hair.

You are resting, child.

A host of birds chase a hawk. Every single morning this happens. This enormous hawk with vulture like wings and midnight black, leathery skin swoops down to the tops of our trees. I think he is after our baby birds. And we will have no part of that. No, we won't.

The birds rally the troops and begin to dive bomb the hawk from every direction. I take it upon myself to narrate. "That way!" "Left" "He's back peddling! Quick! "RIIIIGGHHHT" "YOU SON OF A"  "FREAKING BIRD EATER- GET HIM!!!!!!"

I gasp.

He appears to have gotten one. They press in harder. Making noises that sound more like wild baboons than birds.

"Birds unite!" "CHARGE!!!!"  "KILL HIIIIIMMMMM," I say with gusto.

OUT. LOUD.

I freeze.

Oh my gosh. I just said that out loud. I just narrated that out loud didn't I?

I quickly scan the other front porches in my row of condos to see if anyone else may have heard me narrate the epic battle. With overwhelming relief, I see no one. But I'm sure my neighbor, whose front door is wide open heard me. I am sure she is thinking, "Please tell me this isn't a thing grown women do? Narrate bird battles while their child sleeps to an ungodly hour each morning."

What goes around comes around.

The two grand-momma birds are still sitting on the branches to my right. Unmoved by the epic battle. Or the flirting birds. Or the group of birds relentless in their quest for worms in my flower beds. Or the ones who are just flying to fly. Just to move. No. The grand-momma birds just sit. Knowing they will face those other responsibilities soon enough.  Knowing that cool, breezy mornings only happen for a few minutes each day. Knowing that the world will not stop while they sit and they will not get too far behind in their duties. What is truly all that pressing?

I hear Annie yelling my name now. She never wakes up gently. It is always with full gusto and passion. Soon she will say, "Hi mom. Should I tell you my dreams now or later? Do you want to play? I was thinking we could play princess and we can BOTH be princesses! What are we having for breakfast? When are we going outside? Do I HAVE to go to school today? Mom, I just want to run."

I know you do baby.

And the talking will not stop for the next twelve hours. And I am grateful for the moments on my porch. And I am grateful for her. And I am grateful for the old lady birds who speak Jesus to me. Reminding me of what rest truly is. And I am grateful I didn't have to bury a dead bird this morning. And I am grateful my neighbors don't judge me for being the bird lady. And I am grateful that we haven't caught the evil hawk yet. It gives me something to look forward to.

Tomorrow morning.

Here- where I find rest.

Why I Like Her.

I just got off the phone with my mom.

She is currently, at this very moment, sitting on her back porch coaxing the largest raccoon I have ever seen into eating bread out of her hand. She gives me the play by play.

"OK. He's getting closer. And closer. Can you believe this?!? He's not even scared of my voice!"

"No SIR. Do NOT eat from that bird feeder! Do you understand me?  That is not yours. Do not eat from the bird feeder."

"Mom," I try and get her attention, "Who are you talking to now?"

"Oh- still the raccoon. He knows what I am telling him. He understands my voice."

And somehow you get the feeling- listening to my mom converse with this wild raccoon- that perhaps it actually does speak her language and does understand her voice.

Her. The lady who talks to- and names- wild raccoons. The one who fearlessly sang Jesus Loves Me to an angry longhorn who's horns were pointed straight at her, because she was sure this was the best way to calm him down. The one who decided to rent a sheep from the neighbor down the street, to bring to church and use as a sermon illustration. Her. The one who frantically calls me with a sheep bleating in her back seat, wondering why the sheep isn't calming down when she sings it Jesus Loves Me.

I mean- it worked on the longhorn.

Her.

The one who has made the absolute best of the empty nest and the daughters and granddaughters living all over the country. Not once giving up on her rights to be the most active grandma ever... even if it means playing hide-and go-seek in a self-made tent over Skype.

Her.

The one who has always encouraged alone time and freedom of expression. Even when it has meant children (and grandchildren) who hide under blankets and threaten to move to the woods behind the house (but actually just run-away to the laundry room). "I'd run away too!" She would say. And inevitably this leads her into quoting- and butchering- the entire storyline of Alexander and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. "Move to Australia and eat worms!" she says in a moment of solidarity with her troops.

Her.

Who has built Annie a "magic house" deep in the woods. Complete with year-round Christmas ornaments, ribbons, wind chimes, Gnomes and magnificent stories. Her. The one who taught me to dream and think and pray and ask good questions and make craft projects- even when they all sucked- and not be afraid to build forts in the woods and produce my own newspaper by the age of five.  Her. The one who keeps giving Imagination. Creativity. Curiosity. New eyes for things long forgotten in this world. Like bugs and magic houses and old people with stories rich in heart ache and beauty.

Her.

The one who gave me my sisters. And by extension, my nieces. And kept my dad around- even when he was really mean- a long time ago- before he was the dad, the amazing dad, that he has grown to be now. Her- who has loved us all well. And fought to keep us together. And fought to keep us loving each other. And fought to keep underwear on our bodies and food in our bellies and fight in our spirit. Her. The one who was stepped on by people who claimed to love her- who was fired, humiliated, betrayed- and kept going back for more. Because it wasn't about HER. Or them for that matter. It was about something bigger. It was about love winning. It was about Christ being constant- redemptive- worth it... even when people broke her.

Her.

The one who keeps fighting.

Her.

Who calls to let me know that Annie is hugging a chicken... and she is sure that Annie was gentle and didn't squeeze the chicken too hard... that the chicken is just fine and loving it. LADY- I DONT CARE ABOUT THE CHICKEN. How is my daughter? Her- who keeps modeling over and over  and over again for anyone who will listen and pay attention... that life isn't really all that complicated. Wake up. Sit and stare at a few birds. Listen for Jesus. Go do something that matters- mostly- pay attention to the people and the world around you... no matter what your job title might be. Love well. Hope deeply. Drink richly. Call your kids- or someone else you care about. Befriend a few wild animals. Hug a chicken. Repeat.

It just shouldn't be as easy as hugging a chicken- but my God she makes it that way. With her,  life isn't all the complicated- even when it hurts like hell. Even when it is insanely complicated. She is chaos- but knows no chaos. Somehow- she is peace. She is content.

Her. She is maddening and absolutely freeing in one fatal swoop.

Her. Who sang Amy Grant songs before the rest of the world understood that Amy Grant's songs were life-changing. Her. Who explained to me and my sisters what it meant to live in an old man's rubble, why angels watched over us and how there were so many names for God but El Shaddai was one of her favorites. Her. Who told us we had our Father's Eyes. Over and over and over again. That we had our Father's eyes. That we were made in the Father's image and likeness- bearers of that goodness, freedom, grace, hope and love. We had our Father's eyes. He made us and longed to use us. And dad agreed. God didn't make us as girls and then limit how we might be used in the church and in the world... God made us fully in God's image. We had his eyes. We were to hold nothing back from the church or the world. Just like...

Her.

Her. Our biggest fan. Who brought cow bells and bull horns to football games to cheer for us.... the cheerleaders. Yes, it was embarrassing. Her. Who was so worried that my heart had been shattered in the 9th grade when all the other cheerleaders got homecoming mums and I didn't, that she went and ordered one for me herself. It ended up weighing about 20 pounds and was the most hideous thing I've ever seen in my life. But I wore it proudly through the parade because she loved me so much- she didn't want me to feel the sting of being alone. That was worth wearing ugly proudly. Her. Who texted me as I left this summer for South Sudan and told me she was proud of me and that also- if I felt threatened- to scream wildly like a monkey and furiously itch my armpits and crotch- because "People in small villages are superstitious. They won't touch you if they think you are demon-possessed."

Her.

Who told me time and again, "Jenny it was just an accident. Accidents happen all the time. It's no big deal." Who cared very little about the "stuff" in our house and much about the people walking in and out of it. Who taught me more about scripture than how to apply make-up. More about grace than about stuffy, alienating, pretentious living. More about mercy than judgement. More about freedom than bondage to what others thought about me or what others might be doing. Her. Who would rather we paint our bodies and our walls and our world with bright big strokes- than live small and afraid and neat and tidy and conventional. Paint washes off you know? That's what she would say. There was never an accident worth a dirty glare. Oh God how I'm grateful that there wasn't an accident- in her book- worth a dirty glare.

Her.

Who loves my baby girl more than I seem to love her sometimes. Who loves me more than I seem to love myself sometimes. Who just loves. And loves. And loves.

Her.

Who has taught countless men and women- now spread out and trickled all over the world- that if you dig your feet into the sand long enough or stare at a sunset and shut-up soon enough- you will hear from God. Because God speaks. Now one way. Now another. In dreams. During "silent sounds." On camping trips. In the mountains. At the beach. In your backyard. In the bathtub. On a bus with three hundred students driving to summer camp. God speaks. Over and over and over again. She has taught us that. Her. The one who heard God speak when she was stoned out of her mind and angry at the world and broken in a million pieces and all kinds of dirty and unusable- she heard God call her name and whisper to her that she had purpose. That she was loved. That she was known. That she could be set free. That he loved...

Her.

And she hasn't turned back. And her daughters- we rise and call her blessed. And those she has pastored through junior high and high school. Through divorces and teenage pregnancies. Through lost jobs and lost love. In delivery rooms and deathbeds. In magic houses and talking to raccoons on her back porch... God has used HER...

To remind us that HE IS- and that's enough.

I love you mom. This world is different because you have danced through it and shown us its beauty.