Friday, June 10, 2011

I would just like to say that I find it incredibly annoying when a "meh" meal produces major dirty dishes.

That is all. Goodnight.

Monday, June 6, 2011

Freewrite #1

I'll never forget the moment when I realized that my husband needed me to push against him. He needed me to be the strong woman that he married. He needed to not do things his way all the time, needed me to offer my voice, to not give up at the least resistance.

You see, I still believe in submission and authority, but it has taken on a different form than I ever expected or ever even saw in my lifetime. I think that my idea of submission was to never offer an opposing opinion or preference but to always defer to Justin, blindly trusting that he would make the right decision, the one that was best for me too. I'm coming to realize that submission is much deeper than just a non-resistance, but a laying down of my own desires in order to choose the best for my husband. At one blow this expels any notion of ruling with an iron sceptor as well as living in a passive-aggressive relationship with some form of submission that stifles true love.

It would be so much easier for me to just will myself to agree with Justin or want to do something just so that I can go along with him. This keeps the "problem" in my realm, no need to talk to Justin about it or actually enter into what might be a very uncomfortable discussion. I just set my mind toward a certain disposition and away we go... adding one more drop into my resentment bucket along the way. No wonder so many women are so bitter and feel so oppressed.

I believe there is deep meaning in the term "helpmate" for women. I believe that it is one of God's beautiful mysteries about women to be gentle and soft and at the same time strong. Now to live in that reality.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

The Mother Blues

Every morning I wake up and think "Ok, here we go. This is going to be a great day." And every night I fall into bed thinking, "I don't know how much longer I can do this." And I feel trapped, a lot. And I feel guilty for not feeling like I'm having the time of my life being a mom of two young children.

I remember planning our wedding and getting so stressed out to the point of grinding my teeth at night. So many people would act like this was the most fun thing I could be doing at this point in my life, but I was dying inside. I'm getting a strong sense of deja vu here.

I want to enjoy my children, not have them become a list of to-dos. But when your kids smell like pee, and need food NOW and want to go bye-bye and there are clothes to be washed, dishes to be done, food to be made (and on and on), I feel like I am only existing to take care of needs one by one by one by one by one. And those needs are only being met to be emptied out all over again. It's enough to drive a person insane... digging a ditch that four little hands are filling.

I hate that my favorite part of the day is when the girls go to sleep. I hate that Lana is getting the shaft because Eden demands her own attention.

I am learning, as a good friend shared with me, to find pleasure in the small moments. That even if the whole day was horrible, there might be one little smile from Lana or funny thing that Eden said to find pleasure in.

Wish I could write more. The girlies are stirring. Here we go...

Friday, January 21, 2011

Songbird Fly

"You kindof have a bird theme going on right now, don't you?" A friend was sitting in our dining room motioning toward several items of decor. "I guess I do" was the only response I could offer.

But it got me thinking. I've always said that my house is a big part of where I find artistic creativity, and I find it interesting that sometimes art speaks what our subconscious knows. Yes, I do have a thing for birds. The more I think on it the more obvious it seems, and it occurred to me that perhaps I should tell you the story of Songbird Fly.

It was about a year ago when I was once again rehashing certain events of the past. Even for my fairly sheltered life, there is enough content to keep me busy. Well-meaning organizations, loving parents, they all offer their share of wounds in more flavors than a Baskin Robbins. Realizing that my kid will probably need counselling no matter how good a parent I want to be for her is a humbling thought, but I digress. It was around this time that I was bringing these things to God and it felt weighty, and I mean a physical weight that I was carrying, or trying to carry, by myself. I don't necessarily feel like I have a great ability to hear from God, and I definitely don't just throw the "God told me" phrase around every day, but this was a very strong impression that I feel was truly from a loving Father.

"You don't have to carry those chains anymore."

You don't have to carry that. Why are you worrying and going back there? You were there because of Me. I brought you out and I protected you and I let you grow and I let you feel. The rest is Mine to carry.

You don't have to carry those chains anymore... in fact, you never did.

A couple of weeks later, I took part in an art group where we made collages around the theme of "Ransomed Notes". I thought I'd share mine with you. [large version here.]



I happened to end my collage with a picture of a bird that looks like it's about to take flight. Again, art speaks when we don't know our own hearts. No more chains. Fly.

Friday, January 14, 2011

Of Cobwebs and Cuddle Times

One fairly big transition in my life over the past two years has been the change from a working woman to a stay-at-home mom. There are lots of layers to this change, most of them centering around questions of significance that flows in two directions. There is a segment of my life that believes that staying at home is one of the highest callings for a woman and, thus, women who choose to work while having kids are somehow less. However, there is the competing part of me that has a hard time believing in this high calling when there are Cheerios and blackened bits of banana all over the kitchen floor, a tower of dishes on the counter, and an ever-growing active volcano of laundry. At times it was much more fulfilling to be working as an English teacher to refugees than it has been to chase a baby around the house. Both sides have their chains. Both, at core, are based on myself. You can expect to read more about this.

Having said all of this, I do think it is a priceless gift to be able to stay home with your baby. The responsibility of keeping up a house and investing in our little Eden seems an impossible task most days (and I keep wondering how it will be with TWO little beauties). But our time is short. Just one little year--12 months, one by one--and they are suddenly toddlers and starting to look like little girls and boys, no longer babies. They are getting teeth and saying "no" and then wanting to know "why". And you find yourself looking at them and finding it hard to remember how they used to fit in one arm. And you know that it won't be long... not long at all... before they will be waving that once-chubby arm in a long goodbye.

It is for this reason that this particular poem struck me recently and I can't seem to read it out loud without tearing up a bit.

The cleaning and scrubbing
will wait 'til tomorrow,
for children grow up,
as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs.
Dust go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep.
- Author Unknown

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Well hello there

Ahem. *tap tap*
Is this thing on?

Ok so, I've never been great at re-introductions, and I know I've been gone for a while. I wanted you to know that, though I've been submerged for quite a while, I'm back. I'm finding that my thoughts are bubbling up inside me and I have no better outlet for them than to write. I'm finding that I need deep cavernous amounts of time to let things get lost inside me and wander around. But once they resurface, I'm looking for gold and not just dust.

So here I am. Resurfaced. More to come.