Solomafia Strikes Again

Guess I wasn't thinking straight

Couldn't tell wrong from right

Went ahead and called you up

I got a little drunk last night

-Eli Young Band

You might wonder how the above lyrics relate to my five year old child (unless you know him, then you are nodding your head: Yup, sounds about right.)

To be totally truthful, Solly has been having a tough time "adjusting" to Kindergarten. It's not like we didn't see this coming, I mean, after all, I warned the new, incoming principal over the summer about this kid. I even called out, "Good luck with that!" as I dropped him off on day one......and every day since. (And then hopped the curb as I rush out of that parking lot with a crazed look on my face!)

And it doesn't help that they gave him the novice teacher; the one they brought in from the middle school who has had ZERO experience working with 5 year olds. Her initial emails were full of frilly hope and excitement; about how she was so fond of sitting on the floor with her grandchildren, quietly reading books, doing puzzles, creating cherished memories. (GAAAAAAG me now before I shoot myself!!)

We knew from the start that she was in trouble. The rose colored glasses were blinding her to the stark reality that this was a room full of boorish monsters! And this one Solomonster in particular, whose main goal in life outside of completely ignoring anything she might have to say, is to cause her daily heartache and sorrow. 

Before I paint a horribly negative picture of our little beast, please know, he is a super sweet child. He loves warm hugs, kissing (bordering on creepy), being held tight while sitting crawling around in laps and being read to.....and adventures.....and excitement......and super heroes......and total and utter destruction.....

So, the first "Yellow Card" came home (on week one) kindly informing us that Solomon was talking too much. We all laughed because "Oh my Gosh! It could be SOOOO much worse!" We patted him on the back and told him to be quieter and listen more. But really, we were secretly relieved. Oh, talking. No real harm in talking......

And the Yellow Cards rolled in every week or so: too much talking. And we smiled, feeling like our little card carrying NRA murderous devil, the kid who recently asked what body parts we didn't need, which ones we could "just get rid of", was at least under control in the classroom. 

But as the Mafia might have it, put one monster with another and all of a sudden, there's a pair of them......and then an entire clan......and Solomafia Boss hooked up with "another kid who is a bad influence" according to his teacher at his conference (Really? Are you SURE it isn't the other way around???.... This was the same conference she compared him to her son.......who was expelled in ninth grade......and is now in jail.) First impressions are a B!%$H. 

One thing led to another and this week we received his first red card (and subsequently our first trip to the principal's office.)

The principal, who is apparently trying to qualify for an early Sainthood later this year, spoke softly and kindly to Solomon, explaining that he was not mad but that it was not okay to rip down the classroom decor and tear it up with his buddy. Solomon sat, almost abashedly, in my lap, arms around my neck, unable to even look at the principal. We told him we knew he could do better and we don't want him to make a habit of seeing the principal in his office. I hugged him, told him to be on his best behavior and sent him on his way.

That afternoon, Solly came home with this:

Sigh. So, he went from destroying to creating. Perhaps the pendulum swung a little too far.....but really, "placing paint on another student?" As in, art class? At least he wasn't flinging it right? And holy smokes, HE WAS PARTICIPATING! This time last year, he wouldn't even sit through an art class at school, let alone, "place paint" on anything!

The next day, he came home with yet another one:

I'll admit I am running out of excuses here but, hey, at least he bothered going into the bathroom right? I mean, my biggest worry before he started school was whether he would bother using the restroom at all and opt instead to just go outside at recess! I even warned the principal. But look! He made it to the bathroom! Bonus points! 

OK, ok, I am not trying to make light of this. As I dropped him off on Friday, before meeting with the principal for the second time of the week, (which means he has been to the principal's office more in one week than any of our kids COMBINED in all the years they have been in school!), I reminded Solly of his behavior, of listening and following directions. Short of pleading, I just hugged him and then noticed the police officer standing by. 

"Solly, I know! Why don't you tell the Police Officer that you will try harder to behave in your classroom?! Go ahead! Tell him!"

Solly looked at me as if I had lost it, a big grin spread across his face as he replied: "Nah, I'm not gonna do that!"

The amused Police Officer chimed in: "Well now, maybe I should walk you to your class." 

And THAT is how he got his first police escort. 

"Get used to it, Kid!" I called out. The Officer at least has a good sense of humor. 

After meeting with Solomon's Principal (God Bless Him) I immediately drove to the girls' school where Lily was to read her D.A.R.E. essay in front of the entire 5th grade, the Sheriff, the Chief of Police, the School Superintendent, State Reps, the District Attorney and other such important people.  

As she got up to read, I noticed Solomon's principal sitting behind us. He has a daughter in 5th grade as well. 

"My uncle went to prison and my cousin died because of drugs," she began. Attention granted by all. 

I shook my head. At the very least, it encourages some perspective from Solly's principal, after all, it's all relative.

****

That evening, Kurt asked Solly what color he ended up on today, expecting him to finally have a green day, for which we could go overboard congratulating him. 

"Um.....Yellow," he said plainly. 

"Really?" I asked, slightly sinking. "Yellow? Again?"

He looked at me, head cocked in contemplation. "Yup!" he finally exclaimed. 

"For what?" I wanted to know. 

"I don't actually remember," he said, which was probably the honest-to-God truth.

****

Later, Kurt and I were discussing what to do with this situation when Solomon came up singing from the basement.

"I got a little drunk last night," he sang. "Somethin' bout a midnight rain...."

"Um, Karen?" Kurt asked.

Sigh. 

I simply poured another glass of wine. (So sue me!) I'd ask what's next but something tells me it won't be long before we find out. At the very least, he is a creative little bugger.....I mean, rarely does she get to mark an ACTUAL box on those cards.....

Way to keep her on her toes, Solomontosaurus! 

(#NotWinningMotheroftheYearOverHere)

 

 

PHEW! That was a close one!

For those of you who are not on my email list and sometimes check in to the blog to see if anything new has come out, you may have been faced with the horribly traumatic experience of finding that the blog was gone recently. Or at least, you couldn't find it at gracefulchicken.com!

You see, apparently when you set up a domain for auto-renewal and then cancel the credit card it renews on and then don't read your emails in order to get the final notices that the domain has not been paid for and therefore will not renew, the registrar takes it away! I know, crazy, right?

So after a week of hair pulling stress, too much reading and rereading (in a failed attempt to understand how it all works and what I need to do to reacquire my domain name), several conversations with different people at the registrar who told me the best they could do was have me transfer the name so that they could charge me for it so that I would have access again, (which still doesn't make sense since I had no access to the domain anymore in order to transfer it) and then a little stroke of luck as the light went on (briefly) in my brain and I put two and two together and figured out a way to get around it......www.gracefulchicken.com is back up and running.

Phew!

That was on top of a ridiculous week that included (but was not limited to): missing an IEP meeting for Liam, as well as five kids' dentist appointments, sending Solly to school with an ear infection (and apparently "because he wasn't running a fever and needs to suck it up" wasn't a good reason when I spoke to the nurse who calmly replied, "Yes, but he hurts."), missing the bus every. single. day., and then losing a rabbit (seriously, who loses a rabbit?.... Fortunately, it missed us and came back....sucker!), and finally, showing up at the Vet's office to get meds for the dog but forgetting my wallet. (As it turns out, you can run a tab at the Vet's office....they are good like that!) And then, because I forgot my wallet, I couldn't go get the medication at the pharmacy that I needed to pick up for Aidan who also had an ear infection (which he had been complaining about for weeks but I had just finally gotten him to the doctor that week, because SOMETIMES I SUCK AT MOTHERING!)

Apparently, this is what I get for vowing, after the death of another friend the week before, to appreciate each and every day, regardless of what it brings. Serves me right!

But all faith in the world was restored when my bestie showed up at the Pharmacy to bail me out, pay for the meds and even had a Starbucks drink for me to brighten my day. Never a day goes by that I am not thankful for my friends!

Have a great weekend, friends!

More OCD Tales

People ask how Madeline is doing all the time. She is doing fairly well. She is still in school and only begs me maybe once a week to homeschool. This is great progress.

Her intrusive thoughts currently all revolve around cheating, which is not surprising with school in session. (Did you write the answers on my pencils? Are the answers on the tags to my shirt? Am I cheating? Oh no, I need to change into a different outfit because there are answers on this one!)

It is sad and scary and sometimes a bit ridiculous bordering on comical all at the same time. She suffers. She is tormented. But she also recognizes the illogic of it all. She knows her brain is tricking her, that her mechanism for turning off irrational ideas is simply not working, but it is so real to her that she suffers all the same. There are set backs, and there is progress. And she is pushing through.

She was getting out of the car the other day, wearing a tank top and heading in to take a quiz when she stopped and looked at me, that wide-eyed horror stricken look I have come to know so well.

"Did you write the answers on my arms?" she asked.

"What?" I asked, exasperated. "That's silly. Just the OCD talking, Madeline. Move forward."

"You did! You wrote all the answers on my arms!" she exclaimed, emphatically.

"Madeline, do you see answers on your arms?" I calmly asked.

"No."

"Do you have a potion to reveal the invisible ink that I must have used to write the answers on your arms?"

"No."

"Then I would suggest you just wipe the invisible answers off your arms and get into school," I said, half amused with myself.

"You are so mean," she said as she rolled her eyes and exited the car.

Yes, yes I am.

What's worse is I wrote the WRONG invisible answers, kid!

(I swear, I am the worse mom for this job......or maybe, just maybe exactly what she needs....)

First Day of School

If you know me well, you probably know I have "Time-Management Issues" (which I like to think of as a symptom of being an optimist.....I am just so sure I can get those dozen things done before I have to be wherever it is I am going next.)

Well, believe it or not, summer went by in a blink of an eye. And as we were nearing the first day of school, trying to keep Madeline's anxiety at bay while the other kids excitedly prepared, I didn't really manage the time like I might have had I really believed school was actually going to start on the 31st.

As it turns out, the school district was not kidding about the start date and so the night before, I scrambled to figure out what the kids would need, and if we even had those things since my one futile attempt at back-to-school shopping was met with a Target that was mostly out of stock on all the essentials. (And then I forgot to get to Staples to finish collecting supplies......because in my mind, there was still plenty of time left, Summer! Way to ruin a perfectly good dream! Sheesh.)

Aidan was the last to go to bed since, like his mom, he struggles with time management issues as well and was trying to finish up his summer reading project. At 10:00 p.m. I told him he needed to pack up his backpack and go to bed. He emptied his backpack (from last year, still full of cookie crumbs and other assorted gross stuff) and asked which folders and binders he needed. I went through the list. I had only managed to find 2 of the right colored folders (for PE and Computers); not exactly a gold-star moment. I did get excited when I saw I had gotten the black binder needed for math but then quickly remembered that, oh yeah, his math class is at the high school so this middle school list does not apply for that class.....(I made him take it anyway because it's better to have something than nothing.....assuming we are not talking about diseases.....then nothing is pretty darn great!)

Anyway, Aidan was up by 5 a.m. working on his assignment and was out the door early to catch the bus. (One down, four to go.)

Madeline was up by 6:15, almost an hour early but was too excited to go back to sleep. (Given her nerves over the past couple of weeks, we were just happy to see her smiling and ready to go.)

Lily awoke, already in her school clothes (that she wore to bed, as is her norm) and quickly got to work making her lunch.

Liam kept an ongoing count down to let us know how much time we had before the bus arrived.....his nerves getting more and more edgy as the clock ticked away. (Think: FOUR ALARM FIRE when there was only 20 minutes left!)

Needless-to-say, with all we have going on, I felt a huge sense of relief when I sent these three off:

And with smiles no less! We were so grateful (even if it was a short lived happiness.....)

Then there was one.....one kid to get to school.

Solly started Kindergarten this year. Our district only offers half day (because they hate us) and so I signed him up for afternoon as it is one less kid to get ready in the wee small hours of morning.

Solly was excited about starting Kindergarten but he definitely had some reservations as the morning went on. (I also had some reservations because they put him in a class with a teacher who used to teach middle school reading lab and has ZERO experience with Kindergartners. She is a grandma and "loves children, loves reading to them, doing puzzles with them, playing games" but when I met her, I got the feeling that, in her rosy colored world, she had no idea what it would be like to have a classroom full of Solomons.....and I put my money on Solomon breaking her.....give it a month.)

After reading a random email from his teacher the night before, I realized she had given out a supply list at the orientation night (that I happened to miss since almost everything that happens in the district is Tuesday or Thursday evenings when I coach.) At any rate, I wrote the teacher, requesting the list and she wrote me this lovely email, apologizing for the unnecessary stress this must have caused me. I chuckled. There are many things that cause me stress but whether or not Solomon has a pencil box on the first day of school is certainly not one of them. (Whether he chooses to keep his clothes on at recess or pee in the bushes instead of using the bathroom, well, those may be on my list.....)

As we were driving home from Staples with his supplies (and his Starbucks lunch of champions: chips, chocolate chip cookie and chocolate milk......because I am mother-of-the century here.....) I got a call from our neighbor whose 5th child (of 7) is also starting Kindergarten. She wanted to know if I knew what time school started for the boys.

"Oh, thank God I am not the only one!" I told her.

I drove Solly to school at what seemed like a reasonable drop off time (12:30) and pulled up in front where there was an enormously LONG LINE of parents and kids waiting to go inside. There was ONE CAR in the actual car line and I hesitated. I must have missed the memo saying we were supposed to walk our kids in and seriously, why are all these parents doing that? I called my neighbor. Is this normal? While I had no intention of parking and walking in, wasting 20 precious minutes of this three hour block of FREEDOM, I felt this slight pang of guilt......She assured me Solly was independent enough to go it alone.

I watched as the little girl in the car in front of me got out and stood in the back of the line all by herself. I felt another wave of guilt.

"Solly," I said, turning around to look at him square in the eyes. "You are going to go into the school like a big boy, all by yourself, show all those other kids how it is supposed to be done, ok?"

"Got it!" he exclaimed.

"Great. You go on out there then and have a fantastic first day."

He gave me a kiss and got out of the car, heading toward the wrong door. I rolled down my window:
"Solly! You have to get in the line and go through THAT door," I hollered, pointing at the line and then the door.

He took one look at the ridiculous line, looked back at me with a daring glance and then ran through the grass, behind the trees, avoiding the line completely and stealthily snuck in the door behind the teacher who DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE HIM.

I guess he was dressed appropriately:

The little girl on the left is the end of the line.....Solly looked like an old pro cutting through that grass in his camouflage.....

I will admit, I said a little prayer.....for the teacher and the entire school for that matter. They will need it.

(Day two he tried to climb out the truck window at drop off.....I had to explain to him that he really should use the doors at school.....so he pulled his backpack back in the car, opened the door and literally fell out in a heap on the ground....he got up grinning: "I'm ok!" and rushed away. Oh lord help them.....)

What Doesn't Work With OCD

Having a child with a mental health disorder makes life far more challenging. What's worse is that it is really not something I can completely explain to people unless they have seen the symptoms and meltdowns for themselves, which of course, they haven't because children with OCD are very good at hiding their symptoms from people until they burst. From the outside, someone who knows Madeline might just sense a little anxiety or discomfort when really, a war is raging inside her.

This has certainly brought out some of my less than perfect parenting as I try to navigate what sometimes seems like an enormous abyss.

My parents have been privy to some of our more difficult moments; those marked by some of my greatest parental fails (and some successes that were total shots in the dark). And believe me, so much of this walk has felt like darkness......we go along, trying to understand, trying to figure it out, to research, to learn but time and again we stumble, fall flat on our face, shake our fists to the heavens because what the heck is this? AND WHY? There are just so many unknowns.

Nonetheless, here are some of my greatest fails to date, (I do not recommend trying these at home).

1. The therapist told me to have Madeline hold an ice cube to distract her from the intrusive thoughts causing the meltdowns. At one point, when forcing her to hold the ice in her hand was simply not working, I just poured the entire cup of ice on her. (For the record, while it did stop the screaming momentarily, the screeching that followed was probably not worth it.)

2. Madeline had been fighting the need to repeatedly wash her hands for several days. One night, towards the end of our FL trip (she had unfortunately had a relapse and was really struggling again), she went into hysterics and she spent ten full minutes washing with the bar of soap, lathering her hands over and over while in the shower. When I came to see what was going on and stupidly asked why she was doing it, she said her hands were dirty and wouldn't get clean so she had to wash them again and again. I took the bar of soap away (insert hysterical screaming) and she rinsed the soap off, (still screaming) and demanded I give her the soap back because her hands were still dirty and needed to be washed again (screaming, screaming, screaming).

Impatiently I exclaimed, "Madeline, this is your OCD! Your hands are NOT dirty," and then I impulsively grabbed her hands AND STUCK THEM IN MY MOUTH to prove how clean they were. She got quiet, wide eyed yet somehow still glaring.

"Ok, um, well, they might be dirty now," I said, handing the soap back.

3. At one point, we were walking inside and Madeline started walking to and from the door repetitively. Without even thinking, I slapped her on the back, as if that would snap her out of it. Ever try slapping someone out of a diabetes episode or an asthma attack? Yeah, it works about that well! (For the record, pinching does not work either, unless you are just trying to make the kids really mad, then I highly recommend it.)

I am sure there will be more where this came from because if there is one thing this experience has taught me it's that I am far from a perfect parent, maybe not even close to a good parent when you throw in big obstacles......but onward we press because at the end of the day, that's what loving parents do....just keep swimming, just keep swimming, whatcha gonna do you're gonna swim, swim, swim....

(It just might not be a very straight path.....)

OCD or That Moment When I Realized I Do NOT Have the Patience of a Saint!

It has been a while. For that, I am truly sorry. I miss the days when writing was fluid and consistent, when I had the time to sit down and put to paper, er, the computer screen all that had happened that day or week, sharing the laughs and the challenges and the sorrows that came our way.

But somehow, as if I never expected it to happen, life has been so full and overflowing that I have not had a second to spare. Or perhaps, I have not chosen to spare it on writing.

I wish I could report that the last few weeks had been all fun and games. I wish the only story I had to share was the one where Kurt and I were discussing what sport the little boys should participate in and Solomon, having walked in to the middle of the discussion, chimed in, in complete seriousness, "I want to be on a SWAT team."

 Later, when I came up to tuck him in and say goodnight, I found him like this, ready:

I wish I could bottle up his youthful innocence. I wish his 5 year old self could somehow remain close by as he grew up into the man he will become. (And I swear that room was clean and tidy earlier that day!) Sigh.

At any rate, these last few months have made me realize just how flawed I am as a mom. I used to think, 'wow, I must be a pretty patient person to deal with all that gets thrown my way with 5 kids, a husband, and over 50 animals.' But no. No, I am not. 

You see, several months back, we took our oldest daughter, Madeline, to England. She had been invited to train with the Wolverhampton Soccer Academy and we gladly took her. It was an incredible trip. We were so pleased. But upon our return, our world turned upside down. 

Madeline, the child we have never worried too much about because she is a hard worker, a straight A student, a kind and caring person, a talented athlete, (and the list goes on and on), broke.

That sounds harsh, so let me explain. We returned to PA the week before the PSSA testing took place in the schools. This state testing for Pennsylvania takes place over a two week period and the school places a HUGE emphasis on the tests, telling students that they need to do their best because not only is their knowledge being assessed but their teacher's lives are at stake! (Ok, ok, not exactly but the kids are led to believe that they are personally responsible for the assessment of their teachers....they were even told that this test was so serious and important that if they were to vomit all over their test, the school would have to send the test to the state to prove that the child had gotten sick......no pressure or anything.)

Anyway, the Friday before the testing, I got a call from the school. Madeline had broken down in the classroom, would I please come in because she wouldn't talk to the nurse or the guidance counselor. 

I was there in less than 10 minutes and Madeline and I sat in a private office as she told me that she had a problem. She told me that she knew it didn't make sense, that it was really silly but that she couldn't stop rereading questions, even after she knew the answer, she had to loop around and read and reread over and over to make sure she got every word correct. She broke down in the class because after 45 minutes, she had only gotten through two questions on the classroom work. And to make matters worse, if she breathed in through her nose, not her mouth, she had to reread it again. And to prevent herself from erasing and rewriting all her answers, she had to make tally marks on the corners of her papers and in order to get through certain things, she had to tap her thigh and click her fingers just right and......

The list went on and on. She cried and cried. I cried for her as I embraced her and told her that what she was dealing with was called OCD, that it was something we could get her help for and that she would get through it. Feeling slightly better, she went back to class and I explained to the counselor what she had told me.

The next two weeks were increasingly worse. Each day, it took her longer and longer to get through the tests. She panicked every morning when I dropped her off, often going into hysterics and begging to stay home. Each day, I encouraged her to get back into the classroom, to not worry about the tests, scribble on them for all we cared, they just don't matter at all so just guess and move on, or just put all C's for every answer, it simply doesn't matter. But, she is a perfectionist and would die before guessing or answering without fully knowing the answer.....

We found a therapist who used to work in the schools with high-achieving kids like our daughter and we got to work. However, after two sessions, the state testing now over and Madeline now unable to get out of bed, clothe herself or even eat, the therapist referred us to the OCD clinic in Pittsburgh. Our child was essentially paralyzed. She could not get through a morning, much less school or life. We were scared and sad and full of questions. What had happened to our incredible little girl?

Her doctors tested her for PANDAS because of the quick onset of the symptoms but really, when thinking back, she had already been struggling with OCD for quite some time. (If you remember the part of Nemo when Dory suddenly remembers Marlin and everything they have been through, that is like me, when I recognize that we have been missing the signals for a while....) Her second grade teacher had once asked if she was a bit perfectionistic because she erased and rewrote every word on a spelling test at least four times, even though they were all spelled correctly the first time. She had bloody hands every winter from the obsessive hand washing which we thought we had gotten somewhat under control. She had tantrums we just chalked up to hormones. She had freaked out several times this year because of questions like: "What if I cheated on that homework? I don't think I did but I saw someone hand in theirs before I was done and what if I saw the answer and then just used their answers?"

In retrospect, there were already signs but we missed them. 

The Intensive Outpatient OCD clinic referred us to a private therapist whom we began working with. For over a month, Madeline sat quiet, unable to participate and then broke down into full temper tantrums and hysterics the entire 30 minutes home, and for hours thereafter. She could not get out of bed in the morning without my help, could not get dressed, could not pick anything up, touch doorknobs, buckle or unbuckle her seatbelt, or go to the bathroom without staring for long periods of time at the toilet paper and then the hand soap as she washed and rewashed her hands. She couldn't turn on a shower, or bathe herself without me talking her through it, handing her scrub brushes, soap and shampoo, in just the right order. She could not put on shoes without me tying and retying them dozens of time, until they felt just right. And don't get me started on soccer cleats and socks and shin guards. 

For months, we lived this private hell. She would awake screaming in the middle of the night, every hour on the hour. She could not even get to sleep without me holding her down and then sitting in her room for hours. And as Madeline suffered, we all suffered. 

There were moments when I felt like our world was caving in, like we were losing our child. I worried that this was her end, that her brain was literally breaking down and she would be lost forever, like in the movies when the main character sinks deeper and deeper into insanity.

I immersed myself in books, trying to understand this battle we were facing. I spoke to the therapist via email and text, and scoured the internet, trying to understand. This wasn't the funny, "OMG, I am sooooo OCD" type of thing; you know, how we throw the term around when we like things symmetrical, in order or "just right" but really, we just have a strong preference. 

What we were facing seemed more like a monster. What we were experiencing seemed more like hell. 

And this is when I realized, I am not a saint! I know, I know, shocking. (Those of you who have known me for a long time, just go with it.....) Because the more and more I went without proper sleep, being awakened by screaming at all hours of the night, sleeping on my child's floor or draped over her to keep her still and calm, the less well I managed. 

At one point, I recall cursing at her, actually telling her "I F'ing needed to sleep, so please stop the screaming already because I can't do it anymore and I will have to admit you to a hospital if you keep it up." 

(In case you are wondering, threatening a kid who is struggling with a mental health disorder DOES NOT CALM THEM DOWN.)

It has been almost four months since this all began. It has not been an easy ride and I am not as good of a person as I had once thought and am fully aware of areas I need some major growth. (And seriously guys, don't mess with me when I am lacking in sleep!)

That said, I am so happy to report that not only is Madeline functioning again, doing all things for herself that had been temporarily suspended, but she is currently finishing up a residential soccer camp here in Georgia with her sister. She has spent the last few nights on her own in a dorm, training with a professional academy, participating fully in an experience we weren't sure she was capable of only weeks ago. 

And clearly she is enjoying herself!

She is not cured. She is still struggling with intrusive thoughts, "what if" questions about not being able to breathe, about choking, about death, about contamination. She still gets stressed and starts washing hands and repeating things and seeking reassurance. She still calls and asks these crazy questions that she knows are completely irrational but she has to ask anyway, because OCD requires it. But......BUT! 

                                                  

She still soars......the heights just vary, depending on the moment, and with each passing day, with the proper medication, the therapy sessions that are now productive and making sense, the work we are doing as a family, Madeline is fighting back and is showing us that she will survive this and yes, even thrive. This hardship she is facing will make her stronger, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually....and perhaps the rest of us will grow a little, too. 

So, dear readers, I am sorry I have not written, but life has been full. It has been crazy and hectic, at times hilarious and fun, but sadly, full of scary and painfully challenging moments. Truth be told, it has challenged us to our core and made us reconsider everything we once thought to be true. But it has been real. Even in the midst of despair, as we have wrestled with the unknown, it has been real. And, today, we are thankful.

The Piano Lesson

When our oldest son, Aidan, was just 9 months old, we noticed he could match pitches. He would repeat back to me whatever note I sang and would easily finish the musical phrase I left undone. My parents were so sure of his excellent rhythmical abilities that they bought him a drum set when he was two (a gift I am still pretty certain was some sort of revenge present....) It proved to be a hit (buh-dunt-dum) and he has since become quite the drummer. 

Fast forward several cellos, violins, pianos, and guitars later, all of which he or his siblings are currently studying, and you get to Solomon. 

Solomon has had a major propensity toward music, especially singing. For years, we have often heard him humming the main theme to Star Wars while immersed in his legos or singing along to whatever tune happens to be on. He, too, has very good pitch and around his 5th birthday he started asking when it was his turn for piano lessons. While I have sat with him a couple of times at the piano, teaching him some VERY basic things in effort to appease him, I decided last week that maybe he should get a trial run with the girls' teacher. After all, he is kind of needed to complete our "Family Band" ....(move over Jackson 5!)

Last week, I asked her to just try him out for about ten minutes at the end of Madeline's lesson and so into the practice room the three of us ventured. He hesitantly slid onto the end of the bench, as far away from the teacher as he could muster without falling off.  

"So, what do you know about the piano?" she asked, in her pretty thick Korean accent.

(Insert DEAD SILENCE.)

"So, let me tell you something about the keys that is pretty interesting," she went on. "You see, the keys come in two color: These are the white keys and these are the black keys," she said, pointing them out.

Solomon turned and looked her square in the face. 

"Um, that's not actually very interesting," he said in all earnest.

And so ended his first lesson. The end.

No, no, actually, she continued to try and grab his attention for nine more excruciating minutes until he finally told her:

"You know, I don't really want to take piano lessons after all."

And THAT was when she came out to tell me, "Maybe we should try again in a few more months.... or never...."

(Ok, ok, she is too kind to add the "or never" part but you could tell by her body language that she meant every word of it!)

Happy Father's Day to all you dads out there. (And happiest returns on the day to Lily, whose birthday not only trumps Father's Day this year, but also adds her to our double digit kids!)

Extended Stay in Wonderland

Kurt and I were watching the hockey game last night when we heard noise from upstairs.

"Why did we have kids again?" I asked in jest.

"I don't know," he answered.

"I mean, we would be having much more fun without them," I joked.

Just as I finished saying it, we heard footsteps tumbling down the stairs and into the room popped Solomon, completely and utterly naked.

"Mom! Mom," he energetically exclaimed, half out of breath.

"Uh, Solly, why are you naked?" I asked, stifling my laughter.

He ignored me and continued. "Mom, you know those things that hold clothes?"

"You mean, drawers?"

"Yeah, drawers. Well, I accidentally pulled off one of the handles. But, in a way, it's like fixing it because now it is easier to get to my clothes," he explained. I could hear Emeril in my head going BAM!

And by "pulled off one of the handles" he meant "completely demolished the entire drawer."

And that is when I realized that my life is not like a series of short adventures into Wonderland as I had once imagined but more like an extended stay at the Mad Hatter's tea party. And what's more, today, as I sat down to write an email to our neighbor and ended up shopping on Thirve Market, while editing my iPhone's playlist because WHY IS THIS HORRIBLE MUSIC ON MY PHONE?! before unloading half the dishes, writing a partial grocery list, gathering together a dozen eggs to sell, peeking through the mail, and oh what's this? My kid's homework pile and school news......probably need to glance through that....while planning out my garden, checking the calendar, thinking about how to hang the kids' art for their "Home Art Show" that our in-house docent, Solomon, is hosting, (and not finishing a single one of those things!), I realized, not only did we check into this party without an ending date in sight, but yours truly IS THE MAD HATTER!

A Mad Hatter with a team of demolition minions to supervise......who in their right mind thought that this was a good idea?!

Life and Death

I turn my back to the wind
To catch my breath
Before I start off again.
Driven on without a moment to spend
To pass an evening with a drink and a friend

I let my skin get too thin
I'd like to pause
No matter what I pretend
Like some pilgrim
Who learns to transcend
Learns to live as if each step was the end

It was Easter in England. It was Easter everywhere I suppose but we had just landed in England, about to start our grand Footie adventure. Early in the afternoon, a text came from Lily: An egg had hatched! Easter arrived, bringing with it new life! Hope everlasting! We were tickled.

From across the world, I could feel Lily's excitement as nine peeps hatched that week; I sensed her worry as three almost died and her relief when they were nursed to good health by my faithful mom and Best-Neighbor-Ever. I mourned for her heartbreak when one of them did not survive and she buried it by herself next to the shed and wept...for hours. 

My mom cried from Florida, sad she was not still there to comfort and console. Lily cried in western PA, discouraged that the roosters would kill one of their own. I sighed, tears held back, helpless in England. Actually, helpless no matter where. Life can be cruel. But one thing that this life has taught me is that no matter how cruel, life goes on, even amidst sadness and death. We cannot hold onto what we have, what we had, what is to come. But those valleys give rise to great mountains. 

(Time stand still)
I'm not looking back
But I want to look around me now
(Time stand still)
See more of the people and the places that surround me now
Freeze this moment a little bit longer
Make each impression a little bit stronger
Freeze this motion a little bit longer

England was a fantastic blur (that I hope to share in a picture-post on a different day) and there were many moments I paused, wishing I could somehow capture them and keep them with me. But it was over before we knew it and a few days after we returned from overseas, I went out to the barn to tend to the peeps and found that our bunny, Morgan, had given birth to five kits. They were cold and lifeless. 

Five. Dead. Bunnies.

Shocked and a wee bit panicky, I texted my Best-Neighbor-Ever and she said she'd be right over. I began removing their damaged bodies from the cage. Only two of the kits seemed like they could have been viable. The others had been trampled and were damaged beyond repair. I held one under the heat lamp. Maybe if they just warmed up they'd come back to life. Maybe they were alive and just very deep sleepers. Maybe I was ridiculously hopeful; hopeful that somehow I was mistaken. But how would I tell the girls? Should I even tell them? Did they need to know this? The kits did not move. There were no detectable heartbeats.

"I don't even know what to do," I confessed to my friend, moving in slow motion as if in a dream. 

"Well, we should bury them," she offered, not wanting to look at the little bodies in front of us.

"You're right, " I agreed, gathering up the supplies and bundling up the babies.

We buried the bunnies next to our back coop and added a stone to mark their grave. The girls wept upon hearing the news, hearts broken in pieces. But, life somehow manages to keep moving forward. 

That night, I made the mistake of scouring the internet for information to help me process the dead bunnies and stumbled upon a post from someone who had "brought cold bunnies back to life" by warming them up. I was sick to my stomach. Did I just kill bunnies that could have been saved?!?!?! 

I kept reading, looking for other examples. Most of what I read told about young rabbit mothers often failing to keep a first litter alive; about how frequently first litters are dead upon being born, etc. But I kept coming back to the thought that I could have saved them. After tormenting myself for over an hour, I grabbed a flashlight and headed out back. Almost midnight, it was dark and beginning to snow. I grabbed the shovel and went to the grave thinking that mama rabbits bury their babies to help keep them warm, maybe burying them helped keep them alive. I stuck the shovel into the ground and as I was about to turn over the soil I had a moment of clarity. 

I texted my friend about it in the morning:

Me: So, it took everything I had to NOT dig those bunnies up last night.

Her: WHAT?! 

I watched this video about a guy who revived dead bunnies by warming them up. I KILLED THE BUNNIES! Seriously, three of them were irreparably damaged but the other two were just perfect, you know, outside of being cold and lifeless....

OMG! I HELPED you kill the bunnies!

Well, there were far more articles saying that first time rabbit moms often give birth to dead litters.

Let's go with that.

Even this morning I thought maybe they would still be okay since rabbit moms bury their bunnies to keep them safe and warm. But Kurt said that if I brought them back now they'd probably be like zombie/vampire bunnies and come eat us.

And the girls would be confused and horrified. 

See my dilemma? I actually went out at almost midnight to check on the rabbits and then dig up the bunnies. But then I stopped and said: Wait, this is INSANE! 

Stick with that. This is insane. Dead is dead. 

Yes, it is. 

But will you come dig me up after I die to see if I come back as a zombie vampire?!! After all, that's what friends are for. 

*****

I told you she is the best!

Time has not stood still, try and try as we might....we cannot force it to do so. But in those moments of grief, time seems to move so slowly that one can only believe that that moment will last forever and joy has ceased to exist. 

Not more than a couple weeks would go by before the tiniest Silkie peep hatched whom the girls named Biddy May. The next day, Bingo, our beloved one-eyed duck, was killed by the neighbors Doberman. Once again, Best-Neighbor-Ever came to help dig a hole. Sadly, we are getting to be old pros at this. 

"On the bright side, we know we can dig a lot deeper now," she offered. 

(Husbands be warned.) 

My children have learned the joy of new life, and the heartbreak when it is over. We have learned the art of burying the dead and of saying goodbye. With each feathery or furry friend, a little more innocence chips away. But such is life.

I just hope the burials get easier. 

We bought these pretty lighted flower and globe ornamental garden stakes to mark the graves and as I was sticking them into the ground, Madeline asked, "Wait! Are you sure you are not impaling their heads?"

"No, I know where they are buried and I am not impaling them." 

"Oh good," she said. "Because it just doesn't seem right to impale someone's head, even if they are already dead."

And the eulogies are even worse. As Madeline said some words over Bingos grave, it took everything I had not to burst into giggles:

"Family and friends, we are gathered here today to bury our mostly loved duck, Bingo.....who only had one eye and was blind in the other, so really, he had no working eyes. But we loved him anyway because we saved him when no one else wanted him and he was going to be killed by the farmer. And we kept him alive a year longer than he would have had and he lived a happy life here, but maybe sometimes he was sad because he couldn't see a thing. And that is how he died: He made a mistake and wandered into the neighbor's yard where he was eaten by their dog and he will never do that again. So, farewell Bingo. We will miss you walking in circles. Have a nice life in heaven."

Lily wept out a little more of that childhood innocence. Our sister-like friend hugged her then suggested they go play. 

Life went on and we ate chocolate and everything was essentially okay. 

Summer's going fast, nights growing colder
Children growing up, old friends growing older
Freeze this moment a little bit longer
Make each sensation a little bit stronger
Experience slips away
Experience slips away...
The innocence slips away

-Rush

Easter Bacon, 2016

"For God so loved the world that he gave us Jesus.....And bacon."

--Kurt (a.k.a. my husband.....there is a reason I do most of the spiritual teaching in the house....)


Seriously, I know it is a time for full rejoicing at the resurrection of Christ but really, bacon is so much more tangible sometimes. All that fatty, salty goodness......I sometimes wonder if God could have gotten away with just the bacon. (No offense, Jesus.....not trying to discount your sacrifice or anything.....I am pretty sure bacon was the gift of remorse God offered after kicking Adam and Eve out of the Garden.....like he felt a little bad so here's a little consolation prize.....definitely softened the blow if you ask me!)

As I type this, we are thousands of feet above the ground, flying toward a land already celebrating Easter Sunday. It’s like our personal attempt to get to Easter quicker, to escape the burden of Lent and the sorrow of that pre-Easter Saturday, arriving where we left off, hopefully with renewed faith and a revival of life.

I don’t fly well; I will admit it. I do not like being so high above the illusion of the sure footedness I feel with the ground directly under my feet. Madeline noted that everything looks so small from up here. Perspective is an amazing thing. Truth be told, most things ARE so small, we just only realize it when we remove ourselves from our norm and look at it through different lenses, from a distance perhaps.

Eating took on a different tune when we stopped filling ourselves with sugar and wheat products. It was scary at first, like taking leave of solid ground, but by the end of Lent, it did not feel so unfamiliar; it had become comfortable, a new norm. Adding candied eggs and treats suddenly this morning seemed odd…..why would we fill our bodies with stuff that isn’t sustaining, that doesn't nourish us? (Ok, admittedly, the kids had no problem tearing into their Easter baskets and devouring that which had been off limits for the last few weeks....SOME even learned why we don't eat the whole darn chocolate bunny at once!)

Cracking through the other forms of wastefulness was a different sort of beast though. It did not take long for me to realize that it was just too big of a feat to conquer. There were too many conflicts, too many justifications, too many temptations.

Oh, and not to mention, I am too imperfect!

While we should have filled dozens of bags or boxes to donate and throw, we got through only a few. While I should have freed plenty of time to finish up my books and devotionals, I am still wading knee deep in the trenches, digging through the muck to recall what I already read so that I can plunge forward again. While our budget should have been rejoicing from all the saving we did, I struggled to make everything add up just right with this big trip looming and the preparations for Easter upon us. 

And the list goes on and on. 

But, Easter is here! Well, it’s Easter SOMEWHERE anyway, and the fact remains, it never disappeared to begin with. All that wandering and waiting, that fasting and pursuing, just a remembrance; a reminder; just a discipline for our spirit, one that gently guides us back into the grace that existed before we began and will continue on until we are no longer even remembered. 

So yeah, bacon is pretty darn awesome. A close second perhaps.... But it can’t free us from ourselves. Only Jesus can do that. And that is what he did between the cross and the tomb and the emptiness and the rising. Our bunnies may be hollow, but His promises are not. We may celebrate with bacon (and/or chocolate filled tummy aches!), but our Easter joy comes from the love of God, and God alone. (And we know he loves us because he gave us Jesus.....and, yeah, bacon!)

On Being Found

Kurt and I are getting ready to head to England with Madeline who was selected to go train with the Wolverhampton soccer academy for a week. We leave the day before Easter so, one day on the way to school, I was explaining to the kids that we would be celebrating Easter early (again) this year. 

"Well, how is the Easter Bunny going to know that we need him or her to come early?" Lily wanted to know. 

"I will just send the Easter Bunny a message like I did last time," I said.

"How?"

"Well, I will put a note in the mail......or maybe I can tell the chickens who can tell the birds who can take the message to the Easter Bunny," I replied thoughtfully.

"Oh, I know!" she exclaimed. "We could tell the cats to tell the Easter Bunny since they go far away hunting."

"Hmmmm, I sure hope that wasn't the Easter Bunny's liver at our doorstep yesterday," I responded. 

There was a dramatic pause as it slowly registered in their now warped little minds. Then the car exploded in laughter as I said a silent 'You're Welcome' to their future therapists.

****

I was thinking about it recently: There is a strange sort of beauty in being lost. You see, if you are never lost, then you don't get to experience the supreme exhilaration of being found again. You don't get to experience the joy that accompanies finding your way back home, being welcomed with open arms, rejoicing in reunion. Traveling can do this for loved ones. ("Let there be space in your togetherness," said Kahlil Gibran, reminding us that in that space, in that time apart, we recall fondly those we love and we miss them....something not allowed by continual togetherness.....which is why I send my kids to opposing corners over and over and over again.....)

And while the Easter Bunny is probably very happy not being found (you know, that whole avoiding organ removal and full limb dismantling thing), the rest of us, well, sometimes being found, coming home again, is all it takes to renew our spirits and lift us toward joy. 

Dawson left the safety of the run to find Bingo.....

Lily brought them both home again.
And we rejoice.
(Even if I am still plotting to find them a new home!) 

Who We Are

The night of the Subway adventure, I was awakened a little before 2:00 a.m. by a screaming Madeline:

"Moooooom! Lily is puking all over our room.....ALL OVER MY BED!"

I resisted the urge to pull the sheets over my head and ignore her panic and instead leapt up and grabbed my stash of cleaning supplies that, let's be honest, I think I keep just for this occasion. 

When I arrived, I questioned why I had not gone with my first instinct and I dearly wished I still had on my blinders from the sub shop. My mind raced: didn't we JUST go through this a month or so ago? Doesn't that fulfill our quota for the year?

For the love of......!

Lily, top-bunk sleeping Lily, had sure enough become what might be described as violently ill.....if by violent we are referring to a sudden, torrential attack of projectile vomiting. From the looks of the crime scene, she had been assaulted by the sudden onset of whatever tummy bug Solomon should have picked up from Subway's bathroom floor (again, EWWWW!). Pink, regurgitated berry smoothie was dripping from the top bunk, down onto Madeline's lower bunk, somehow hitting every step of the ladder as well and covering EVERY. LAST. THING. ON. THEIR. OFF-WHITE-CARPET! (Kurt might claim it is a light beige carpet but trust me, from the Contrast Art perspective of that moment, it was definitely closer to white!)

I was furious. How many times had I told them to go clean their room in the last week?! How many times had I failed to follow up and make sure they had actually done it?!

Madeline curled up outside her bedroom door, exhausted; Lily, a pale heap on the bathroom mat next to the sludge covered toilet, quietly shivered. 

It took me a full hour to calm myself down clean up the disaster zone: half a bottle of Lysol, a full roll of paper towels, two full garbage bags of unrecoverable, drenched books, art work, notebooks, pens, pencils (and whatever else I angrily threw in there just because) and eight loads of laundry carefully rolled inward and piled up in front of the over worked machines.....why, oh why had they decided to leave all that clutter all over their floor? (And seriously, why couldn't it have been Solly, sleeping two feet from the bathroom door on the floor of his room? And finally, what's with my kids puking on each other?!)

At one point, after sticking in another load of soiled stuffed animals and sheets, I went into the guest bathroom to wash my hands and was met with this: 

Not only was their room a ridiculous disaster, but they had infiltrated the guest bathroom which was now oozing creativity in the form of ONE. GIGANTIC. MESS! (I refrained from taking a picture of the paint-stained sink and overflowing trash......)

But then something caught my eye. Four simple words.

Oh dear Lord! Why can't I just be mad for one moment before you throw something back in my face?! For, if they are the sheep.....who is their shepherd? And if that is my call in this moment, for this season, how will I tend my flock? With anger? Resentment? Irritation? 

Or will I follow The Way set before me, tending to them with love, compassion, and forgiveness?

(Honestly, Jesus didn't have kids that we know of and I can't recall any stories of him having to clean up the bodily fluids of anyone in the middle of the night while he really needed sleep and as far as I can tell, when he needed a break, he just climbed a mountain or entered a garden and told people to back off and they listened......I can't even use the toilet without interruption for crying out loud! But somehow, his example is supposed to apply here......so onward we push.) 

It is a funny balancing act being both a shepherd and a sheep; hoping to be found while also doing the searching.....praying for forgiveness while also doing the forgiving.....receiving grace in the midst of the dispensing.

I left the art room, silently finished the sanitizing and making of beds, gave Lily fresh clothes and covered her with a clean blanket. Then, I went back to the girls' closet, where I had angrily thrown Madeline's clean stuffed animals, and one by one I gently placed each animal back where it belonged so that they could be bearers of comfort to the one who loves them most. 

I am a sheep. YOU are a sheep. 

Let us also be good shepherds. 

When Blindness is a Virtue

We were in Subway on Sunday buying gluten-filled sub sandwiches for our gluten-starved children. (We stopped bringing gluten into the house at the beginning of Lent.....some kids have taken it better than others.) As we were walking out the door, Solomon told me he had to go potty and ran to the women's bathroom. When he came out, I asked if he had washed his hands.

"Yes, I did," he said, flippantly waving his slightly wet hands in the air. "Oh, but....." He stopped short and ran back to the bathroom. When he came back out, he was holding his mostly eaten sub sandwich which I assume he had put down [insert anywhere in the bathroom as it really doesn't matter because EWWWWWW!] in order to wash his hands. He took a big chomp out of it before I could manage any words. (And then I think we all just threw up a little in our mouths because again, EWWWWWW!)

After suggesting that maybe he did not need to finish the sandwich, I turned a blind eye.....because really, when your kid eats food off of a fast food restaurant's bathroom floor, sometimes it is best to simply put the blinders back on.

Subsequently, I went from begging for this:

To saying, um, scratch that and instead praying for this:

I think that is called surrender, right? 

It's amazing what perspective a little trip to Subway can bring!

That Moment When.....

For as long as I could
My intentions were good.
I assumed my affairs would be fine.

But I know very well
There's a long road to hell
That's been paved with intentions like mine.

--Billy Joel, All My Life


This is that moment. THAT moment.

This is that moment where I realize perhaps I descend not from the womb of Eve but from the bowels of the serpent.

The one where I stop short because, holy smokes, I just convinced my kids that breaking their Lenten fast was okay because it was their father's birthday, a special day, and after all, one break from the fast will not make or break their salvation.....God loves them; God won't mind; God understands .....we cannot, after all, be made perfect by the Law.....we cannot be good enough.....we cannot.....

Grace has us covered.

And they believe it. I believe it!

But then there's this: Jesus did not waiver in his fast, did not cave to temptation and certainly did not convince his flock to do so!

"Follow Jesus!" we are told....."What would Jesus do?" we are asked....."Pick up your cross, and follow me," we are lovingly beckoned.

Then realize how low your head will hang on that cross.

We wander and wander.....

So blind, we do not even know we are lost.....

         As he (Jesus) went along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?"
        "Neither this man, nor his parents sinned," said Jesus, "but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him." - John 9:1-3

Oh thank God! For I am blind.....so blind I often cannot even see my own blindness!

And so I wander......and walk in circles.....and the cock crows in the face of my denial.....for I am so, so blind.

Waiting to be found.

Yet, somehow, already covered.

Sunrise

Sunrise in the mirror
Lightens that invisible load
Riding on a nameless quest
Haunting that wilderness road.
--Neil Peart, Rush (Ghost Rider)

My intentions never included writing every day during Lent. While that seems like a worthwhile goal, I knew it would set me up for failure. And unlike Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird who said "[Real courage is] when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what" sometimes I think there is value in realism above courage; in knowing when to attempt the impossible and when to refrain.

That said, I was hoping by now that the stillness and silence would allow me time to muster up more Lenten writings but all I could come up with was how sometimes this journey feels more like a nameless quest that haunts me.

I want to tell you of all my successes: the extra time I have been able to spend with the bunnies (did I mention our bunnies Morgan and Messi? They may have babies soon so I am CERTAIN you will hear more then!), the time with my chickens, playing the piano, cleaning the house, working with the dog.....those things I ought to have been doing anyway but winter got in my way! But then I remembered, the journey is NOT about me......and so I was stumped.

Then, early this morning, I went out to kill catch a rooster who would not shut up and I was met by this:

And I thought how funny it is that sometimes even those things that cause us the most irritation can be beautiful displays of creation. And, with the sunrise behind me as I began my day, my load was lightened. (And because of grace, the life of Sunrise, aptly named, was spared once again.)

This is one lucky Roo.....he better hope his good looks last him a long, long time as he is certainly NOT surviving on charm or personality!!

No really, we should have babies VERY soon......

Storm

I looked out the window today to find one of our nice outdoor furniture cushions torn, stuffing strewn about.

I could hardly be too mad as it was I who left the cushions out for the winter and it was I who forgot the dog was outside for far too long which meant mischief was highly likely. Yet, I was ticked. Those cost money to replace. What wastefulness! In order to make good on our wastefulness fast, I will now have to figure out how to fix it myself which means, sigh, pulling out my sewing machine and remembering how to use it!

ARGH! STORM!

But really, my kids are not much better. Just yesterday Solly had his little buddy over again. As we were getting ready to leave I heard a familiar crinkling sound, the sound of something being opened upstairs. I sternly called the boys down.

"What are you eating?" I asked.

"We aren't eating anything," said the cutest, most innocent looking friend ever. Truly, I wanted to believe him.

"AJ, last time you were here, you and Solomon went into the girls' room, stole their candy bag and ate their candy," I said. "That is not okay. You are not allowed to steal candy."

"Ok, we won't do it again," he said resolutely.

"You are not allowed to eat upstairs either," I told him.

"Ok, I won't."

Later that day, I went up to see what they had been doing and found this:

Apparently by "We won't do it again" he meant "We just did it again but we won't do it again after that!"

After much thought though, I realize that when left to our own devices, we adults are often no better than our kids or our puppies: the most creative creatures at tearing into that which we ought not. We know better but we do it anyway. The temptations are great. The promise of pleasure, reward, instant gratification....it's all so difficult to pass up. The problem with this whole free will thing is that it often becomes a gigantic stumbling block for us. Whether we are five and finding candy to sneak into our tummies, or decades older dealing with temptations of far greater consequence, our free will is tested again and again. And I am not talking just about big things: those that get us fired, or divorced, or stuck in jail. No, for most of us, the stormy moments are made of the thousands of daily decisions that can go awfully wrong or fantastically right.

It's like we have been blessed with this wonderful, horrible gift. A wonderful, horrible, God-given gift. (And you just have to know, upon the giving, God also said: "Oh and Humans, good luck with that!" And I am certain he snickers daily: "Hey Angels.....look what that tiny human life form is up to this time! Wait for it, wait for it.....MESS UP! Ha ha ha ha ha! They are such predictable little beings.")

This Lent has been full of those delicious moments where life seems rich for the taking but our decision to refrain from waste has reeled me back in, mostly keeping me on the straight and narrow. 

I have taken dozens of pictures of things I would like to buy but haven't; I have put stuff in my cart, only to pull it right back out again; I have begun to use my time in unproductive ways, only to stop and do the prudent thing.....and to be totally honest, I have also often chosen to continue on with the nonessentials because the activity is just too good to pass up. I have fallen behind on my Lenten studies and have done more than one marathon reading session to try to catch up. I have yelled at my kids (isn't that a waste of breath?), been short with my husband (I have short genes Kurt, what can I say!), wasted valuable time on a whole lot of nothingness.....I have failed, and started over, and failed again (my own version of "I just did that again but I won't do it again after that!"). Every day I remind myself that showing up is the first step towards transformation, but then I forget: it is not the only step. 

Showing up gets us started.

Grace transforms. 

But here is a truly wonderful thing: Grace is not of our making. Grace is not of our doing. No matter how good, or bad (or in between) we behave, we can't control Grace. Grace came before us and goes ahead of us. Our job is in the decision making: deciding whether or not to accept it, latch on to it, believe in its power to redeem us. And in doing so, we are transformed so that we can become dispensers of a grace we all so desperately crave. We may create our own storms. But then there is Grace.  We might still have to clean up our own messes, fix our own mistakes, and stare at our failings time and again. But Grace shatters through all of that and leads us onward.....past the storm. 

(And then we will forget and create a new storm......God does a lot of sighing I think....but still there is grace.)