so glad you called

August 18, 2011

“When’s a good time to call?”

Several friends have asked me the same question recently. I suppose my lack of response has answered as well as I could have.

When is a good time to call a mom of little people?

In the morning when she’s getting breakfast on the table and laundry in the wash and daddy off to work?

When she has five spare minutes to sit down and get to some desk work that must-needs be done?

Right before lunch when the baby’s waking and the laundry’s calling and lunch isn’t ready?

When all the children are napping and the house is quiet and she finally has a moment to write?

When she catches a brief moment of rest with her feet up, out in the fresh air and sunshine?

When everyone’s awake and clamoring for a snack and there’s dinner to be made?

At dinner when her husband is home and she finally has another adult to talk to?

In the evening when we never go anywhere anyway because everyone’s tired and ready for baths and mommy’s more ready for bed than anyone?

My friends have figured out that there’s no time that’s always going to be “good” to call.

That’s why they call me when they are thinking of me and then give me the chance to call back later if it’s a really bad time. That’s why they see a Facebook status that makes them worry about me and call me without giving me a chance to tell them over the internet that I’m fine. That’s why they keep me on speed dial and make the call without looking at the clock.

Maybe there’s no good time to call. But we call each other anyway. And leave long, rambling messages if the other’s too busy to pick up. Because we just might be “so glad you called…”

If someone you know is weighing on your mind
And needs a friend on the end of that other line
Don’t hesitate what you say may seem so small
But who knows
They might be glad you called…
So make the call

-lyrics from Matt Kennon‘s “The Call“

smile lines

August 11, 2011

It’s always worst on Sunday mornings. I wait until the last minute to get dressed, letting the little man who still shares our bedroom get as long of a nap as possible before we go to church (where naps are now impossible for him, unlike some of the other people who go there).

I pull the outfit from the closet that I’d been thinking of wearing. It would match the dresses I had picked out for the girls. I slip it on, as the little guy in the playpen wakes up.

I tug, I pull, I turn around. But nothing makes it connect where I want it to. Everything sticks out where it’s not supposed to.

I yank it off. I pull open my drawer, digging around to find option number two.

Rinse. Repeat.

By the time my husband comes in to investigate crying baby and quiet wife, he finds the still unmade bed littered with discarded outfits, the closet open, the bottom dresser drawer overflowing with the shirts bearing evidence of an extensive rifling.

He knows better than to say anything. He holds the baby while I race to the bathroom to put on my makeup, impatiently brushing past the little girls who want me to admire their pretty dresses.

It’s not that I am satisfied with the way I look in the outfit I have on—it’s just that we’re already late.

I try to keep the tears from coming and ruining my makeup, as I have the familiar conversation with myself on the way to church.

You should choose your outfits the night before. But I never know what the weather will be like—or what I’ll feel like wearing! You’ve got to remember you’re a nursing mother of a young baby. But I want to be pretty for my husband! Then you’ve got to stop eating so many cookies. But my husband likes to have goodies around to eat. Then you need to start exercising. When?

I heave a big sigh. About that time, his hand slips off the steering wheel and reaches over to grab mine.

“I love you,” he whispers, squeezing my hand.

I try to smile back.

I know he loves me no matter how I look. But I want to look nice for him. He might prefer you looking happy to looking skinny. Thanks, conscience.

And we get to church and I paste on a smile and it becomes a real one as I walk into the love and warmth of our church family.

A church family filled with wrinkled, stretched-out, post-menopausal, graying, old ladies. Some of the most beautiful ladies I’ve ever known.

Husbands’ arms around them (those whose husbands aren’t already in Heaven), laugh lines around their eyes, contentment shaping their faces. Their children are getting cancer, their friends are going home to Heaven at an increasing rate. But they are the light of the nursing home, the ones with the most praises to share on Sunday mornings.

I look around and realize that even though my daughters will probably fit that shirt I wore the day we started courting before I will again, it’s not really size that matters.

He always said he loved my smile, so maybe I should work more at putting it on instead of those jeans.

Maybe beauty has a lot less to do with size than with attitude.

I look over at him holding the crayons for those children who helped make my body look like this. And I forget my clothes and my shape as I smile at the love in his eyes.

The weight will come off in its own sweet time. Meanwhile, there are three little people learning their definition of beauty from me.

I’m working on those smile lines already.

IMG_5101-1

Filed Under: Motherhood Tagged With: Favorite Posts, Of Mirrors & Wardrobes 22 Comments

still

July 29, 2011

Still.

“Be still.”

“Peace, be still.”

“Be still and know that I am God.”

Still? When am I still?

My hands are busy holding, doing. My mind is busy thinking, planning. My ears are busy listening, trying not to hear.

But He commands me, just as He commanded the waves that day—“be still.”

I step outside. The wind that He bid be still is whispering. The earth that He made is literally singing forth His praise.

Somehow, out here, with the sun at my back and the wind in my face, it’s easier to be still. Easier to listen. Easier to hear.

Maybe the expanse of sky is less distracting than the expanse of dirty dishes. Maybe there’s less that’s just stuff and more that points to the all-wise Creator.

Maybe I’m just a farmer’s wife, a country girl, who feels closer to her Maker when walking the dust He formed man from.

But when I need to be still, I step outside where nothing is still and yet everything still points to Him.

Sunset Sky

Filed Under: Random Tagged With: Favorite Posts, Five-Minute Friday 5 Comments

full

July 22, 2011

My days are full. Dishes, laundry, diapers, cooking, cleaning.

My arms are full. Kisses, snuggles, coos, giggles, hugs.

My life is full. Love, laughter, family, faith.

Yes, my cup isn’t just half-full—it’s full.

Full to the overflowing. With good gifts.

Thank You, Lord, for the full days, full arms, full life you’ve given me. May I never take it for granted. “Better full than empty…”

Five-Minute Friday Prompt: Full

Filed Under: Motherhood Tagged With: Favorite Posts, Five-Minute Friday 3 Comments

summer and turtles

July 7, 2011

Everything I love about summer is everything that makes me long for autumn days turning to winter.

The long sunny days. The warm nights. The crickets chirping peacefully in the evenings after the little ones have gone to bed.

But the long hours of daylight mean so much work to be done in our short summer season. And the warm evenings are ones in which I sit outside, my fingers tapping away at the keyboard while my eyes scan the fields for my farmer husband, coming home from long hours of work.

Growing things. The smell of fresh-cut alfalfa hay. Tractor rides. Abundant garden produce.

But it’s too hot to cook or to can. The tractor rides mean he’s working day and night to get it all done. And each cutting of hay has us watching the clouds and praying away the rain as the pressure mounts to get it all baled in time.

Sometimes it seems the summer days fly by and it’s already dusk and we didn’t get it all done. Sometimes they are hot and sticky and endless and crawl as slowly as the turtle from the irrigation pond that the girls’ daddy brought home to show them.

Like they say of the days of motherhood, ‘tis true of summer as well: the days are long but the months are short. And soon, it will be wintertime again, with two feet of snow and ice cold and we’ll be looking forward anew to all the warmth and busyness of summer.

So I sit and I slow and I appreciate the seasons. Because even the turtle seems to pass by too quickly for those who truly appreciate it.