Glimpse of the Holy

One of the privileges of being a mother is that one has an inside line to Spirit. 

Not just the random feelings of spirituality that people experience during euphoric experiences or the faded notes of casual holiness one might experience while singing worship songs during church. 

Occasionally, 

One actually gets to see 

SPIRIT. 

Children are, especially as they are becoming verbal, able to express the language of SPIRIT in its purest form. They aren't yet marred by the constraints of this world, and their souls still remember the language of the ONE who Gave them. . . . (do you hear that?)  

Gave Them

breath

hope

love

spirit

life

GOD

life

spirit

love

hope

breath

I had a GLIMPSE of GOD today. 

Because children still know. 

LOVE the 

I AM.

I was sitting on the floor reading a book to my Graciela (someday, I will tell HER story)

and she looked up at the wall, 

and waved.

waved

I stopped. 

What? Who--What--did she just see?

I asked, "Who were you waving at?"

"Just that thing."

"What thing?" Was it happy?"

"Yes."

"What was it?"

"It was Gjhwanna."

(There are truly no letters to describe this sound. The first 'note' is kind of breathing through a "G" sound. It's the closest I've come.)

"What is Gjhwanna?"

(she looks at me like I am seriously nucking futz and she is about to send an FMLA note to my boss about how crazy I am)

"It's GJHWANNA! You know. Your Angel."

Uh. 

My Angel.

ANGEL. 

(if it's possible for souls to have a rhythm, mine just skipped a beat)

"What's Gjhwanna look like?"

(Shrugs.)

"I don't know. A Angel."

(DER)

Did I know this once? Have I see my angel before? 

Once? Did I know who this being is? And how close I am--every moment--to the much larger, much more focused, much more HOLY, reality?

When I was small?

did i KNOW?

THIS IS HOLY

AND I AM IN  AWE.

GOD WITH US.

selah

Children are for Humility

There is nothing quite so humbling as children. 

The perspective they bring puts the lid on the crock of any delusions of grandeur I may have of myself, typically at the moments in which I am almost convinced that I am ALL THAT. 

Between a massive belch at the church potluck and the tantrum in the salad isle at the grocery store, or the statement in the drink isle to the local grandma that he's tasted beer, it's a wonder I don't just shrivel up before walking out the door in the morning. Yes, Pride is safely tucked away in the B.C. era of my life. 

Some examples, so you may laugh at my good fortune:

       I am riding my bike, with the wind in my hair. I can feel the power in my legs . . . pedal, Pedal, PEDAL. That little just-turned-three blondie calls out to me from her tag-a-long trailer, "Mommy, put my shade down." 

     "Why?" I ask. "It's not very hot today." 

     "Because I don't want to look at your butt!"

     From my middle child: "Mom, when you were little, were you in black and white?" This is also the child who told his teacher that I am as "pretty as a zebra". 

     And from my eldest, in a hot wheels driving "class" with his younger siblings: "Today, class, we are going to learn how to speed without getting caught." 

These short people (who will only be short for a few more years till they are ALL going to be looking down at me from the rafters--thank you, Clay) have given me a depth I never knew existed. They have given me the ability to be in a euphoria that only exists in movies and the simultaneous capacity to be emotionally anhiliated. 

If they grow up to be God-being, people-loving, justice-seeking, beauty-seeing, courageous-asking, happy-living people, I will rejoice. That will be the ultimate success. 

There is a strange paradox in exhaustion. At once, one feels a primal, despairing physical weariness, while also sensing a vast spiritual plain. It's almost as if--instead of thinking, rationalizing and plotting a logical response, we are simply reacting on the most basic instincts.

Let's face it: as spiritual beings, we respond spiritually to our most basic needs. We seek to survive, to protect and to maintain. We aren't planning, praying creatures in those moments. We are simply moving. 

Over the past several weeks (couple of months) I have both felt moments of exhaustion in myself and observed it in others. Primal exhaustion. The kind where your body begs for sleep and your heart aches to not feel ANYTHING. (I have also had some really, really, really rested and rejoicing days. And I am surrounded by amazing people, family and friends who allow me to be real and who keep me grounded. Lest you think I am at the intersection of "Numb" and "Depths of Despair" rather than on the steady incline of "Perspective". 

While I could be philosophical and boring, I would rather share some of the quotes and comments that have spoken to me and kept my spiritual perspective intact: (disclaimer: I will attempt to give credit where it is due, but in some instances just latched on to the language instead of who wrote it. If there are corrections, please post them in comments.)

• "Jesus liked messy. He tended to run toward it. We think of the disciples he chose to do ministry with, the stories of the misfits and the outcasts he loved so well. He gravitated toward people that didn't have their crap together."  -Jamie the Very Worst Missionary www.theveryworstmissionary.com
• "Limp, anemic sentiments will not stand in the face of a world that is not as it should be." -From One Degree to Another www.natepyle.com
• "Today while the blossoms still cling to the vine, I'll taste your strawberries; I'll drink your sweet wine. A million tomorrows shall all pass away 'ere I forget all the joy that is mine today." -This was on Lydia West's FB wall. I don't know who the original author is. 
• "God doesn't sit anywhere with a big wand moving mountains and directing job interviews and making my hair turn out decent today.  God instead sits in our spirits and we move, God moves, ideas move, hopes move......." -My very own wise sister-wife cousin, Tonya. You can view her blog here.
• “I must learn to love the fool in me – the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries.  It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled, masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility, and dignity but for my fool.” -Theodore I. Rubin, MD. Also found and posted by my cousin in a guest post on another favorite blog, www.femonite.com.

There are a lot of really painful, tragic stories around me every day. There is an equal portion of triumph, even in the broken faces of those who choose to keep moving, just to be moving. 

I choose to see them, really see them, and respond. I refuse to put my head in the sand and ignore the Namaste of those around me just because it is uncomfortable to look at them, just because I don't think I have the emotional energy. Even on the days I am tapped-out and am only moving with them. 

Accomplishments List

School starts next week. I have mixed feelings, mostly because I dread the thought of homework and getting tasks assigned by other people done within their time frame as much as my children might if they weren't SO EXCITED about learning and seeing their friends again. 

So, to calm myself, I've made a list of things I accomplished this summer:

1. Enjoyed three glasses of wine a week. Minimum. 
2. Spent time with family and friends doing random enjoyable things, usually involving food.
3. Got one speeding ticket. (I'm telling you--that stretch of highway between Raton & Las Vegas, NM is just BEGGING me to pin it.)
4. Family bike outings. I think we managed three.
5. Completed one course towards my Masters.
6. Started a lung cancer screening program at the hospital where I work. (With the help of many, many, many other people.) And managed, somehow, to not work more than 50 hours a week.
7. GARDEN
8. Managed to get through summer, because of Camp Grandma, Camp Cousins and Camp Bike Shop, only needing to put my children in a sub-par summer day program for three weeks out of the summer.
9. Managed to not forget anyone's birthday. So far. 
10. Went to the Sand Dunes . . . once.

( . . . sigh . . .)

So, here's a half-hearted toast to summers' end, and to high expectations for next summer.

My Name Is Lisa, and I Have a Problem.

There are two items I need to check off of my Bucket List, one immediately: 

1) Last night, I had a precious 40 minutes of free time, and I chose to stop at a nearby shoe store, which shall remain almost anonymous, Famous for its Footwear clearance rack. 

I found a much needed pair of comfy, sleek, dressy loafers to replace the ones that I threw in the trash at the checkout counter in at least three pieces. I also found a pair of shiny, apple-red, perfect height, classic pumps. In my size. On clearance. Buy-one-get-one-half-off clearance. 

Upon arriving home, I realized I have no fewer than three pairs of shiny, apple-red, perfect height, various pumps. In my size. Purchased on clearance. 

Apparently, I have an addiction. Cue Mission Impossible: Navy. I consulted Kate, who responded with something highly encouraging like, "That is a perfect metaphor for what a confident, empowered woman you are." Which made me feel wonderful and really would be a desirable metaphor if I could actually walk in shiny, apple-red, perfect height, classic pumps without looking like I'm trying not to fall over. 

The second item is much, much, much more serious.

MUCH. 

2) I would not describe my upbringing as "conservative", rather "aware". We were often encouraged to view another perspective, and consider how our appearance, actions or words might be taken in untended ways. However, the community we lived in could be described as "conservative". As in, smoking, drinking and dancing were really excellent ways to cozy up to the devil himself. 

But. 

I've always wanted to dance. Even though I run in to the wall if I turn around too fast, and I fell down the stairs last year and ended up with a rod and six screws in my hand, and my oldest, as a toddler, cried every time I tried to have a little rhythm. I've always wanted to know how it feels to know enough to let the music move me. 

So. I bought five sessions of dance lessons. And not ballroom, tap or even contemporary dance lessons. Hip-Hop dance lessons. 

Perhaps they'll cover walking in red pumps in the first class. 

Spoiler Alert

I am getting a new brother!

Well, technically, brother-in-law, but who is counting hyphens? My baby sister is engaged, and Clay took engagement photos. 

And, because I'm the big sister, and I have a blog, and I can, you get a sneak preview here.

After sorting through 468 frames (I am not kidding), these are my top five:

Happy Happy Happy.

Congrats Andrea & Dietrich!

Dear Kate

You know those newspaper columns people can write their questions in to and get the Wisdom of the Ages to answer? I have precious few people I turn to when I am really vulnerable and need real, honest, down-to-earth, genuine, equally vulnerable advice. Let's say one of these people's name is Kate.

I have one blessed week off before my next masters level course begins.

What shall I do with ALL THIS FREE TIME? Besides laundry. I'm NOT (foot-stamping, stiff-elbowed, squinty-eyed, pout-face NOT) doing extra laundry. 

Never mind that I continue to hold a full-time job, have three small children who are suddenly not within the confines of the school-year routine, a self-employed rockstar spouse who cooks and cleans and knows when to bring me a glass of wine (I must have a subconscious eye-twitch or something), and am fitting in a masters degree between potty-training and power point. 

Seriously. Like standing at the top of the mountain you just schlepped a picnic basket to the top of, I turn around and look at my life and can't help but think:

WTF.

HOW can I possibly retain my sanity and creativity and peace in the midst of all this? 

I don't know, and I'm pretty sure I'm not doing a spectacular job of it. 

Just to spite myself, I just turned in my final paper with one typo. One word mis-spelled, just to remind myself that it's ok to not be perfect. 

But I digress. 

Dear Kate, 

I have a dichotomous relationship with summer. I love summer. I love being outside and hearing the ice-cream truck, and the smell of dirt and rain and cut grass. I love little feet and knees that have a green hue and sand between my toes. 

But I hate. HATE. having to figure out where the kids are going to be. I just signed the boys up for two weeks of YMCA day camp (the cheapest thing around) and it is going to cost over $400 for two weeks. In addition to the $358 for Gracie to be in full-time day care. That ends up being approximately $1516 a month in order for me to work full-time. I could freaking buy a CAR at the end of EVERY SUMMER for that!!! 

Surely, there is a better way. 

Yours,

HonestlyJustJealousThatICan'tBeHomePlayingInTheDirtAllSummerIsThisReallyWorthIt

Mother's Day

It is not infrequently that I am asked a variation of the question, "How do you do all of that?"

Work . . .

School . . .

Family . . . 

House Maintenance . . .

Manage Finances . . . 

Vacation . . .

Blog . . .

Watch 'Top Gear' (the BBC version, of course) . . .

Maintain Friendships . . .

Maintain Marriage (I am very fortunate that Clay makes this easy and more joyful than it is for many) . . . 

Read . . . a lot . . .

Laundry . . . laundry . . . laundry . . . laundry . . . laundry . . . and toilets . . . 

Pray . . . 

The list is long. 

And the question makes me question my chaotic schedule and motives every. single. time. 

What am I chasing? For whom am I working? Why am I so busy? Does it matter? What matters? Who matters? 

I am reminded daily of the frailty of life. I am reminded moment to moment of time passing. I know, to my core, that MOST of what we pursue and do and are in this life, if we follow the culture and ways around us, DOES NOT COUNT. 

So WHY am I so driven?

Ultimately, I believe to my core that the final purpose of my life is to establish a lasting relationship with my children and those around me that is nothing more than an extension of God's love for us. And, while I am just about as far from perfect as one can get, I am aware of the implications of that in every move. 

It has the potential to be excruciatingly intimidating. To the point of crawling in a hole with a sour attitude and extra bottle of Jack, just in case. 

But. 

Just when I think it is simply NOT POSSIBLE, I hear things like this:

"Mom, wouldn't it be cool if we could breathe under water through our ears?"

"Mom, is God the same color as a rainbow?"

"Mom. Did you know that 'gangnam' backwards spells 'man-boob?!?'

"Mom, you are the best mom. Except when you are sort of tired."

"Mom, can we go to Target? It's my favorite."

"Mom, when you were little, were you in black & white?"

"Mom, can you have a sleepover with me?"

"Mommy, my honey, dis, you like purple? Awwww, you so sweet, Mommy!"

"We're not playing church, Mom. We're playing 'Grandpa Talking.'" 

"I can tell this is a church song. I can feel it in my circle." 

"Mom, did you know that Seth is in the Bible? My cousin! In the Bible!"

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart, strongness, and parts." 

"It's ok, Mom, even Jesus had a bad day once when he was crucified."

(Sigh.)

So. I don't do it all. I do. And pray--more than anything--that my kids know God because I share my busy life and imperfect self with them. If I can raise my children to be wise, discerning, spiritual people who can easily live without me--but don't want to--I will consider my life successful. 

Happy, Happy Mother's Day. 

Easter Overdues

So, these pictures took a lot more than three days to resurrect out of their digital SD card tomb. But that makes them all the sweeter. 

The weekend before Easter, we drove to the little hamlet of Hesston, KS to blend our souls with cousins. For five glorious days and nights, we busied ourselves with coffee, routine, unstructured idle parenting. And enjoyed a live-in bartender and Euker tournaments every night.

 (Before we left, my wise and not-so-tactful mother reminded me that "after three days, company starts to smell like dead fish.")

This is a caption waiting to happen.  The longer you look, the funnier it gets. 

Their was an easter egg treasure hunt, complete with easter baskets. 

This might be one of the Courtney Loves. Or maybe Lulu . . .  Liam was trying to see where the eggs come out. 

I believe this is prior to the Great Dye Spill of 2013

Dance, Evelyn Rain, till you wash the world clean with your powerful soul. 

We drove to the happ'nin' city of Hutchinson. In case you are wondering, the Cosmosphere is as good as--if not better than--the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum. In addition to just as many awe-inspiring displays, there was a whole section on female astronauts and only a few items off-limits to touching and climbing on. With six (count them--six) little people in tow, touchable displays were incredible. It was also a bonus that one didn't actually have to walk through the gift shop in order to exit the building.

Posing in front of Apollo 13. Houston, we actually don't have a problem--everyone is smiling. 

The Endeavor. Really! We could even TOUCH it!!! 

The last night, Tyler & Eva spend at least two hours in the sub-freezing garage building a robot out of scraps. There was a welcoming ceremony and commencement exercises complete with sparklers left over from last July. 

Testing the world's first-ever "Cookie-Bot". 

And I was assured we never once smelled like fish. 

Well With My Soul

There are a few places I've been that I return to knowing my soul will find 

HOME.

Home in the timeless sense, that connectedness with the spirits around me who have come before and will come after and BE part of the landscape.

The first time I went to Sand Dunes National Park & Preserve I was 3. I remember it. Even then, I felt like the sand. Shifting, moving, restless permanence. It's a paradox of the soul.

How thankful I am to be able to take my kids there with me, and let them thrive in the expanse with absolutely no agenda except the one they decide. 

When we left, Gracie said, "Bye Sand Dunes! We had really fun!"

Even she knows they are alive. 

Ode to the Overachiever

This is an ode to projects
I'll never get done,
the things I've started
for gifts or for fun.

I have good intentions.
Really, I do.
For remembering birthdays
and calling you.

And for excercise, dusting,
cooking from scratch,
for sewing on buttons
and patching those pants.

There are blankets to make
and cookies to bake
and cards to send
and outfits to mend.

Sometimes, I dream
that my windows and sills;
were polished beneath
fancy curtains with frills;

I'd certainly like
to have the laundry all pressed,
and the children scrubbed clean
and perfectly dressed.

I've an idea for that button
and red ball of twine;
that lens cap might come in handy sometime.

If there's something you need
there's a good chance its here
in the projects I'm planning to work on next year.

I've got such good ideas!
I'd be happy to share
but I know I'll be late to--
well, everywhere.

Before getting my work done,
between loads of laundry,
I just play with my kids
and solve their latest quandry.

I give kisses to toads
and pretend to love spiders,
make peace after fighting,
to make them politer.

So perhaps this ode
to projects only done in my head
is really to what matters most,
instead.

Fate's "Almost"

"Normal Day, let me be aware of the treasure you are.  
Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart.
Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow."    - Mary Jean Iron

Today, we almost lost a colleague.

'Almost'

Had he not been sitting where he was, with whom he was, in the building where he was . . . . 

'Almost'

He--and the rest of us--are extremely lucky. Or at least greatly indebted to the tricks of fate that let him be who, when, where. GEEZ. My heart is still thumping. His almost stopped. 

'Almost'

Quantum theory describes a parallel for every 'almost'. In the simplest descriptions, it states that every time an outcome could've been different, a split in atomic time happens and that outcome DOES happen in parallel to what is actually experienced; and--in theory--the outcomes of a thousand downstream effects change in an instant. 

It's a curious theory, and one that seems to be able to be proven on an mathematic, atomic level, but not on a relational level. If you really feel ambitious, check out the definition on Wikipedia. There is enough blue hyperlink there to keep you busy for a very, very long time. (hint: Don't try it after a glass of wine. You will go cross-eyed. Trust me.)

Sometimes, it is the 'almost' that defines us more than what 'is'. The thought of what might be, or what could have been, galvanizes our focus to our purpose and priority in a way nothing else can. 

You've seen it in the tragic experiences of others, and you've thought it, a thousand times:

"What if . . . , What if . . . ."

There are a bazillion things that pull us from the edge of that quantum question back to actual experience, and reason, and logic, and commitment, and obligation, and . . . and . . .and  . . . and . . . 

Quantum theory has already spoken. You are already doing what your heart really wants, in some parallel. 

Listen to the "what if". Don't wait for that "rare and perfect tomorrow". The "what if" is the "almost" that is calling you back to your heart. 

Lucky Rocketship Underpants, et al

There is a Calvin & Hobbes cartoon that follows Calvin through a day where nothing goes his way, but he is oblivious to the chaos because he is in Superhero Mode. Only because he is wearing his Lucky Rocketship Underpants.

There are days when I can sense I am going to need Lucky Rocketship Underpants, when Alexander's Terrible Horribe No-Good Very Bad Day is going to sit in my back pocket from the get-go.

Today started last night, knowing today would be one of THOSE days. Unfortunately, I don't have Lucky Rocketship Unders.

I DO, however, have Lucky Herioine Shoes. These are Superhero shoes, the kind that say I'm smart and sassy and tall enough to reach the top shelf. These are comfortable enough I can chase the villains all day and look good doing it. These say, "Why, yes, Mr. CEO. That WAS my idea and original presentation. When can I share this with the rest of the C-Suite team?"

And. They sparkle in the sun. What more could a working girl want?

Crashing into Reality

At church this morning, one of my good friends commented on how, even with my busy schedule and frenetic pace, I always "have it together". I was, honestly, floored. I can count on one hand the number of days in the past year I have felt "together". Either I underestimate my ability, or I am really good at faking it. Probably both. 

This week at work, I found out the facility I work for had finalized a contract with THE thoracic surgeon in town, which means our program will be exploding (in a good way) and I get a front row seat in the peanut gallery. My opinion has been sought out on a number of levels. Even when on the spot and not expecting it, I can usually manage something resembling intelligent conversation. At least anytime after 8 am. Before then, it's a crap shoot.

When I ran into a fellow RN a few weeks ago who was having trouble getting a catheter in a patient, I offered my assistance (I am the Foley QUEEN). After nearly four years of not practicing, I still threw the line in on the first try. 

So, when my li'l Miss Gracie hurt her arm tonight and I was pretty sure she had fractured it, I marched right in to urgent care with confidence that I was in the right place. I am a nurse, after all. 

Just when I thought I could add another day to my "together" list. HA!

She was honest-to-God crying and holding her arm after falling. She wouldn't let me touch it and didn't seem like she could bend her elbow, rotate her wrist or hold anything without pain. 

We checked in and sat amidst all the infected masses for nearly an hour (I swear my next suggestion to our urgent care clinics is to please have a 'sick' waiting area and a 'hurt' waiting area). She was content--I wasn't messing with her and she was watching Sponge Bob. ("Bunge-Spob" as she calls it. Sorry, Justin Bieber. You got nothin' in comparison.) 

We went back to triage and she let the tech check her vitals without so much as an "I am the most pathetic thing ever" frown. As we sat back down, I reached around her and felt an ever-so-slight click in her arm. She fussed a minute and settled down again. 

Then Dr. Campbell came in. She looked at him, held out her arm and showed him where it was hurting. He started to mess with her arm. No flinching, no fussing, no frowning--nothing. I was starting to feel awkward and like a dufus helicopter parent. 

She looked him dead in the face and said, "Mommy fix it. You not fix it, Mommy fix it all better. I poopy wet. You poopy?" Then singing, operatic style standing on the chair conducting with both arms, "Poopy-poopy poopy-poopy wet wet poooooooo-pyyyyyy wet!" 

Uhhhhhnnnggg. 

There is nothing like a small child to bring one's pride crashing right back down to a more manageable level. Thank you Gracie. Sorry, Dr. Campbell. 

Mayhem

Not really, but it is a really cool word. Mayhem. And one that describes how my desk looked when I left work every day this week. I hope I don't die this weekend, because no one--NO ONE--will be able to come in to my office and have a freaking clue what I was doing with any of it. 

But, that's life.

I have decided to go back to school for my masters degree in Strategic Healthcare Leadership & Management. Which is a fancy and overblown way to say, "I like looking at processes to improve our fractured healthcare system and move to more streamlined and cost-effective processes that actually are acessible to average human beings and that won't leave everyone completely bankrupt every time we have to ask a health provider a simple question because getting advice from WebMD is like asking my two-year-old to manage my finances and will a HUMAN BEING PLEASE ANSWER THE PHONE I'VE BEEN ON HOLD FOR TWO HOURS! And don't you DARE transfer me again." 

Ah. I feel better. 

So, I'm doing this online course about communication in healthcare. (Perhaps I should enroll every insurance company on the face of the planet in the next term. I'd be doing the Universe a favor.) The topic of discussion this week is "Health Care Literacy", and where the responsibility of teaching health literacy lies. It is an interesting discussion, with some really good stories. 

However. 

Because the course is online and I've never met anyone in person, I must be mindful and professional of what I'm typing. Which means that you, dear reader, get to find out what I'm really thinking. 

So the question, then, becomes thus: Who is responsible for teaching common sense? As in, if you are allergic to peanuts, don't eat peanut butter. And not all white round pills are the same medicine. And perhaps the actual correct dose isn't, in fact, the entire bottle. And just because your ex-boyfriend's step-mom's neighbor's dog's groomer kicked that nasty bug in North Dakota by eating raw duck egg in yellow snow last winter, you probably should still get a second opinion. From, say, someone who is qualified to carry a stethoscope and stab your ass with a needle. And who knows what a Sphygmomanometer is. (That's a different font because I had to look up how to spell it. But I know what it is and how to do paradoxical pulses with it. See, I gave you a clue. It's a noun. You get bonus points if you know how to pronounce it.)

To be fair, it's an incredibly complicated issue. Health care in this nation is complicated beyond recognition. It's almost as complicated a brain surgery or rocket science, and it's waaayy harder than cursive. 

So, who's responsibility is it? And what do you think is the FIRST step? 

(I will delete any comments deemed offensive or inappropriate all by my bad self, so don't be too obnoxious. You are, however, allowed to be sarcastic.) I saw a quote on FB yesterday that said, "If I eliminate sarcasm as a form of communication, interpretive dance is all I have left." Perhaps that applies to me in this post.