rain snapshot

I am leaving school after a parent meeting. There’s an evening list waiting for me and I am not excited. Also, it’s pouring; I need to brace myself before I head out in the rain. Deep breath and… go. I run into the parking lot, splashing in my dress shoes, trying to decide if my body can handle a full out sprint back to the parsonage. I take a shortcut through the grass, and dodge a mud puddle. My back is sopping wet and my dress shoes are a mess, but the water feels good running down my face. The rain comes down with a dull roar; and I hear screaming and laughing-- wait, what? Who in their right mind would be out here in this downpour? The gate opens before I get to it and I see the kids, led by their Responsible Big Sister, being led out of the yard to the park! Some are in their swimsuits; all are shrieking.

“What a great idea!” I holler. I throw my purse in the house and join them. Pete and I bounce on the trampoline, slip on “banana peels,” and watch the water splash with every jump. I am the crazy lady in her work clothes, seizing the day with her kids in the rain.

Meanwhile, one stays inside with his dog and says we are all crazy. He shakes his head at us- but, with a small smile. Just like his daddy.

quote

"If life is a story, how then shall we live?
It isn’t complicated (just hard).

Take up your life and follow Him. Face trouble. Pursue it. Climb it. Smile at its roar like a tree planted by cool water even when your branches groan, when your golden leaves are stripped and the frost bites deep, even when your grip on this earth is torn loose and you fall among mourning saplings.


Shall we die for ourselves or die for others?
For most of us, the question is rarely posed in our final mortal moment (although there is glory when it is.)  Death is the finish line of the preliminary race. Shall we cross the finish line for ourselves or others?  The choice isn’t waiting for us down the track. The choice is now.


Death is now. The choice is here.


Lay your life down. Your heartbeats cannot be hoarded. Your reservoir of breaths is draining away. You have hands, blister them while you can.  You have bones, make them strain--they can carry nothing in the grave. You have lungs, let them spill with laughter.  With an average life expectancy of 78.2 years in the US (subtracting eight hours a day for sleep), i have around 250,000 conscious hours remaining to me in which I could be smiling or scowling, rejoicing in my life, in this race, in this story, or moaning and complaining about my troubles. I can be giving my fingers, my back, my mind, my words, my breath to my wife and my children and my neighbors, or I can grasp after the vapor and the vanity for myself, dragging my feet, afraid to die and therefore afraid to live. And, like Adam, I will still die in the end.


Living is the same thing as dying. Living well is the same thing as dying for others."

---
"How much of the vineyard can we burn first? How fast can we run? How deeply can we laugh? Can we ever give more than we receive? How much gratitude can we show? How many of the least of these can we touch along the way? How many seeds will we get into the ground before we ourselves are planted?"

N. D. Wilson, Death By Living

I just read this book for the third time and it won't be the last. If you need help directing your eyes and your love up to our gracious giver God and outward to those He sends you, read this book.

Read my full review here.

snapshot

Yesterday the little two got out the train while I folded the laundry. They tried but couldn’t quite set it up; I pulled myself away from the tasks and connected tracks for a bit, even making a hill and a path under the bridge… and my little boys said “Mom you are SO smart!” and they looked at me with new eyes. I went back to the laundry and listened to them play; transported back to the little stay-at-home days when their prattle was the background noise to all my tasks.

Later, I picked up a book and they snuggled down next to me, one on each side. The story began, and then I had to take the noisy gun away; another page and “where did you even get that balloon? If you want to play, go play, but we’re reading in this room right now.”  Another page, and they finally calmed, transported by the story.  We lingered over the words and the pictures, and took our time inside the magic of the story. Like a beacon, the story pulled in another sibling, and then even the oldest found her place on the edge of the bed and was transfixed.

Note to self: Don't. Miss. These. Moments.

roots

We took a trip down the Platt River with the Rozegnals. (My dad's siblings and family)

That seems like such a small statement for such an event. We were part of an epically complicated logistical puzzle that culminated in a gigantic raft-a-palooza down the Platte River with 28 garrulous Rozegnals and their adoptees, squirt guns, and two barge floats.  We experienced uncounted looks from strangers who passed by our loud barge-party, resembling the looks I receive in the grocery store when I shop with ALL my kids in tow.  Adults mounted and dismounted the floats most ungracefully, while the kids were on and off, swimming and pulling and towing and even flipping their Nana over completely. (This writer will neither confirm nor deny the mom-inspired nature of these shenanigans.)  The Great Aunts tried to learn my children’s names and had an especially hard time with the boys; this was made more difficult by Seth who pretended to be Marcus for a large part of the trip. He was punished by the river later; a leech latched onto his toe.

After two hours, the Platte River spilled us out on the beach; the sparkling water of Lake Michigan tossed about every color of blue in its cool waves; in the distance, dunes (Sleeping Bears), and at our feet, the softest sand on the planet.  We opened heavy coolers and feasted together right there by the water.  The cold water of the lake made the channel feel like a hot tub; the girls played, then relaxed, then played again. The boys learned to kayak; the littlest one got carried away by the wind and hit a stranger with his paddle at least twice. Aunt Lisa began her sandcastle art; soon she had helpers so committed they asked me if we could stay on the beach forever. My active uncles played ball and squirt guns and talked marathons and mountain biking with the boys. And then, we all ate some more while the wind blew and our skin grew pink.

See these people, kids?  I come from these, and they are a piece of home to me; just like the sands of Lake Michigan. Watching you relate to them and watching them delight in you, I thank God for the gift of family.