whistle, don't crawl

(from More Little Visits With God by Allan Hart Jahsmann and Martin P. Simon, ©1961)

The weather was very cold, and the ice on the river was frozen clear down to the bottom. A man came walking down to the river. He wanted to cross where there was no bridge. “I wonder if this ice will hold me?” he said.

For a long time he looked at it and thought it would, but he wasn't sure. Then he said to himself, “If I crawl over, it won't break so easily.” So he crawled over the ice on his stomach. The ice held him, but he was worried all the while.

On the other side the man saw a big truck coming down to the river. Without stopping, the truck drove on the ice and over the river. In the truck was a little boy riding along with his father. The boy never worried a bit that the ice would break. He was whistling a happy song all the while.

Which one was safer on the ice, the happy little boy or the scared little man? They were both safe. But there was a great difference between them. The boy who trusted his father was safe and happy. The man who did not trust the ice was safe but worried.

Some Christians are like the boy; others are like the man. Some trust that God will bring them across the way to heaven. They are happy with God and do not worry. Others are worried that they will lose their faith or that their faith isn't strong enough. So they crawl when they could ride and whistle.

You have Jesus, your Savior, with you every day. So trust Him. Be happy. Don't worry. Don't crawl. Ask Him to take care of you on your way to heaven. Then trust Him to get you there safely.

The Bible says, “You are kept by the power of God.” So do what the psalm writer said, “Trust in the Lord.” Then you'll feel like whistling.

Are you the scared little man or the happy little boy? I would love to say that I'm the happy, trusting little boy. But it would be a bald-faced lie. I am the scared little man in that story, no contest.

Jesus tells me in the Bible not to worry (Matthew 6). I want to intellectualize this and write about how to trust God, what steps to take, what formula to follow, and so on and on ad nauseum. Know why? Because I am a procrastinator. As long as I am talking about “how”, I don't have to actually do it, do I.

Trust is not a 12-step program. That would be a nice, gradual thing. Unfortunately, trust is just action. I don't get to first “feel” trust and then wait for an opportunity to act it out. Nope, trust happens in the very acting.

If I'm stuck on a ledge and my husband offers to catch me and I trust him, I'll jump. I can't trust him and stay on the ledge. This has some very scary implications for my Christian life.

I'd have to give up worry.

Oh, no biggie, right? I mean, who likes to worry? Ummmmm …. a lot of us, I think. But speaking just for me, I can make myself about sick worrying over my children, but the thought of not worrying makes me feel …. guilty. As if my worry were proof of my love ….

And what about finances? What responsible, spiritually mature person doesn't worry about their finances? Naturally we call it “planning” or “budgeting” or something else …. but can you plan for the “what-ifs” of the future without any worrying? Really?

Then there's knowing God's will for my life – you know, all the lifestyle choices from career or family size to tonight's supper menu and tomorrow's social calendar. Does God want me to eat only organic vegetables and whole grains or is it okay to serve frozen pizza and french fries? Does God want me to homeschool my children or should I send them to the local school? Does God want me to serve in the positions at church that I am asked to do or does he want me to say “no” to them and dedicate myself to prayer? Just in case I run out of things to worry about for my children or our finances, I can always worry about whether or not I'm hearing God's will correctly.

This is starting to sound ridiculous, even to me.

But it's my reality. I'm the scared little man, crawling on my stomach over the ice, wondering whether it will hold me or crack and plunge me to a frozen, suffocating death.

What would it be like to whistle on the seat beside my Father, trusting Him to carry me where I need to go? It feels a little irresponsible ..... a little child-like ….

What would it look like for me? What would I do differently in a life of trust?

Eat inorganically. Send my children to school. Read novels instead of nonfiction. Lie in the hammock instead of searching the online parenting forum for ideas and solutions. Invite friends over even though their kids might wreck my house and lose pieces to my children's toys. Work in my flowerbeds regardless of the pollen count. Give up on being thin, fit, and fashionable. Play. Laugh. Love. Dare.

What would trust look like for you?

Psalm 91

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.

I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress,

my God, in whom I trust.”

Surely He will save you from the fowler's snare

and from deadly pestilence.

He will cover you with His feathers,

and under His wings you will find refuge;

His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

You will not fear the terror of night,

nor the arrow that flies by day,

nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,

nor the plague that destroys at midday.

A thousand may fall at your side,

ten thousand at your right hand,

but it will not come near you.

You will only observe with your eyes

and see the punishment of the wicked.

If you make the Most High your dwelling –

even the Lord, who is my refuge –

then no harm will befall you,

no disaster will come near your tent.

For He will command His angels concerning you

to guard you in all your ways;

they will lift you up in their hands,

so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.

You will tread upon the lion and the cobra;

you will trample the great lion and the serpant.

“Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him.

I will protect him, for he acknowledges My Name.

He will call upon Me, and I will answer him;

I will be with him in trouble,

I will deliver him and honor him.

With long life will I satisfy him

and show him my salvation.”

the sun cure

I just spent the better part of an hour in my husband's greenhouse.

Hit by the heat (it was 105 degrees Fahrenheit), I opened the jaw of the vent wider.  I watered the lettuces and the children's hopeful log-lined garden plots, twice.  I hooked the water wand over the hydrant, ready for next time.  And then, I sat on the permanently reclining green chair at the back and just basked in the sun.

When I opened the door to leave, thinking it had been only a few minutes, the temperature dropped about 20 degrees in the open air.  Everything looked a bit dim.  Two mourning doves took flight.  Tiny little blue flowers in the grass shivered under a honeybee's attentions.  A squirrel scampered off, interrupted.  I had to reorient myself, like coming home from vacation.

On the way back to the house, I took off my flipflops and walked barefoot on the grass.

My husband (let's see, what shall I call him on this blog.....?) has, for the last two months, regularly recommended this treatment - greenhouse time.  Somehow, though, once the children are all separated for quiet time, the allure of a snack and a good book drives all thoughts of the outdoors from my mind.  I just want to shut down, as quickly as possible, for my own little quiet time.

He was right, though (as he very often is).  There is something very physically relaxing about green things and Extreme Sun (it was down to about 90 when I left).  It's as if my very pores are hit with tranquilizers, and the effect lingers.

So I spent my time lying in the sun instead of catching up on email or starting supper or crossing something off my to-do list.  My chores all still here, none the worse for the wait.

And even away from the sun, my skin still tingles.

a "wasted" day

Today is Saturday.  

Usually, by Friday afternoon, at least, we (I) plan our Saturdays to maximize our time together (i.e. "our joint ability to get a lot of chores done").

This week I am too pooped to muster thoughts of efficiency.  This week, we watched a movie on tv Friday night.  It had absolutely no literary merit and was not otherwise lofty in any way.  (If you must know, it starred Steve Martin and John Candy).  We stayed up late and laughed ourselves silly.

And then ....

....we slept in.  Until the sun and the children woke us up.  It was lovely.  And even more lovely was having absolutely no plans for the day.  It felt deliciously decadent to know that we could watch tv all day if we wanted to (that would be a shocking first for us, but it felt like a real possibility).

Mid-morning, I found myself posting on facebook that I was "doing nothing", and realized that I had in fact already fed the baby breakfast, started a load of laundry, cleaned the bathroom, bathed one daughter and showered myself.

Huh.  But it did feel like "nothing", somehow.

Later, after watching a Chinese language dvd with the girls and helping Sugar and Spice make lunch (which they usually do by themselves while Nice sets the table), I folded laundry, took a quick nap, read an extra chapter to Sugar and Spice from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (while advising Nice to keep Lil' Snips away from various enticing household dangers), and then decided to bake cookies.

And it still felt like "nothing."

I spooned lumps of cookie dough onto the trays, mulling over this anomaly:  I was doing as much as, or more than, I would have on a day powered by a to-do list, and yet .... I felt relaxed, carefree.  Was it the extra sleep?  Having "backup" (as husbands who work away are gratefully but inadequately called when they are home)?

Both sleep and the presence of my stalwart husband help, of course.  But I feel as if I have discovered something alluringly simple.  Today I was focused on enjoying the day, relaxing, just being with my family.  My intention was to deliberately "waste" my day.

Instead, serendipity happened:  I was productive with my time.  And, miracle of miracles, I enjoyed it along the way.

I wasn't hurrying.  I didn't push children out of my way (*blush* as is my custom at times).  I didn't say "not now" when Nice longingly admired the pictures in one of Lil' Snip's books.  Instead, I stopped what I was doing and read her the story - right then!  (that only deserves an exclamation point, I'm embarrassed to tell you, because it is so highly unusual for me).  I didn't fret about time & schedules - in fact, we ate lunch early because .... we were hungry early.

I would like to say that this has been an epiphany and hereafter I will run my household with a lighter touch, but I don't suppose there will actually be an overnight transformation.  It does give me a faint sort of hope, though, for a different reality.  Could life be like that - always?

Or is that what heaven is for?

I will be grateful for the gift of a happily "wasted" day.  Now if you will excuse me, I need to go eat a cookie with my daughters....

the farmer takes a wife

This evening, after supper, I walked with my husband (who carried our son) and three daughters, back behind the barn and along the ridge through the cornfields to the neighbor's pig barn to watch giant tractors bring their manure-spreaders in to be filled.

One was green (John Deere).  The other was red (Case IH).  The green one had huge double wheels.  The red one was hinged in the middle ("articulated", to those in the know).  Both pulled 7300-gallon tanks of liquid manure, the weight spread over three sets of tires (the front two could be lifted free from the ground).

My daughters held their noses and exclaimed over how big the tractors' wheels were.  My son, ears covered by his fleece cap but his little legs sticking out, chilly, where his pantlegs had ridden up, just gazed around in wonder at the wide, wide world.

I watched them, my children.  I am their mother - these offspring so foreign to me, sometimes.  They know so much about tractors, growing things, and manure.

We drove out to buy milk from a neighbor's dairy this morning.  We spotted some new calves and day-dreamed about having one at our house.  Sugar, in her 9-year-old wisdom,  said we couldn't keep it in the barn, though, or it might get hoof disease.  Hoof disease?!  Was that in the science curriculum somewhere that I missed?

On the way home,  I admired the green growing in a field and Sugar said it was probably rye.  

After we (well, I) had marveled long enough at the giant tractors, we headed back home over the cornfields.  Sugar and Spice ran ahead, hair flying brilliant in the setting sun.  Nice stayed with me, hanging on to my arm and telling me what a nice mommy I was.  Lil' Snip bounced along on Daddy's arm and just looked and looked and looked.

I wonder what he was thinking ....

attachments

In the last couple of months, I've been de-cluttering here and there, as inspiration strikes me (thanks to Don Aslett's book: Clutter's Last Stand).  It feels great to clear out the junk, but I'm discovering some peculiar attachments.  

Empty boxes, for instance.  They are so useful.  So full of potential.  Think of the things they could hold!  The things we could use them for - why, organization!  Covering with cute paper for toy storage boxes.  Carrying a meal to a friend.  Shipping pottery pieces.  Stabilizing a full crockpot during transport.  Facilitating the wrapping of oddly shaped gifts.  And so on.  Don Aslett (or was it Sandra Felton of the Messies Manual?), advises keeping only four boxes of various shapes and tossing the rest.  I compromised (and felt strangely consoled) by using the boxes for the junk I'm giving away.

Chairs, too, claimed my affection.  The one at my desk has a caned seat, and (despite its dubious strength) brings me joy every time I look at it.  The dark wood armchair in our bedroom is incredibly comfortable, although seldom used for seating.  In my attic is a "telephone chair" with a charming calico-covered seat and an attached stand and shelf for the phone and phone book.  The beautiful heirloom rocking chair in the spare room is upholstered in ancient gold tweed but the seat is too deep to get out of easily.  It's a lot harder to part with chairs than cardboard boxes.  The chairs stay, for now.

I was already aware of my infatuation with books.  What caught me off-guard as I pulled one after  the other off the shelf was how many of my books evoked guilt in me (to the tune of "I should read this/there's so much good information in here.").  I liberated myself of FOUR big boxes.  No more vertical stacks on the shelves.

And then, of course there was the clothing:  baby clothing, children's clothing saved for next season, maternity clothing, and "pre-pregnancy" clothing, not to mention surplus coats and shoes.  Thinking of those who could use these right now (as opposed to me, "sometime" in the future) steeled me to be ruthless.  Five bags to pass on....

Toys were hard to get rid of - for me, anyway.  My daughters didn't seem to experience any pangs when they decided to give away my favorites.

But, despite all my wrenching feelings of attachment, out my Stuff went - box after merciless box of books, toys, clothes and all.Preview

I had some discouraging moments of contemplating how encumbered I've been by my Stuff, but mostly the high of de-cluttering has been sufficient to keep me from wallowing in regrets.  Emptying spaces has the exhilarating effect of directing my focus forward rather than backward.

It was cathartic:  when I cleared out an area and trucked the Stuff away, the house felt more spacious, airy, lighter with less Stuff.  I feel better able to pay attention to what I'm doing after some "shoulds" have been evicted. Possibilities seem to have multiplied.  I could get that door painted now.  I could rearrange the girls' room.  Start on that comforter for Isaiah.  Use that adorable flannel to make pajama bottoms for the girls.  Finally paint the trim in our bedroom....

.....Figure out how to keep the clutter I cleared out of my house from showing up on my to-do list....