Painted pigs and picnics

I entered this weekend bemoaning my fate: laundry, school work (accounting, of all things!), bills, work I didn't finish during regular work week of work. Work. Work...

I wind it down grateful that -- by some miracle -- I remembered that my life is a gift and not all work. That miracle came in the form of an almost-four-year-old needing Mommy's attention. And somehow -- the other half of the miracle -- I let the sand of work worry settle into the bottom of the glass, and filled up my time with big chunks of boy time.

Yesterday we went out for breakfast, me and my boys (the tall one and the short one), then went for a walk in the mall (too cold for outside!). While Kevin perused CDs and DVDs, Sam and I painted a pig at a ceramics shop. We picked out purple, pink, acqua, and black for colors, which could have been quite colorful if the black hadn't gotten into everything. So, it will come out mostly gray once it's fired. A gray pig with "SAM" spelled out on his bum. A masterpiece.

Today we went to church, where Sam learned about sharing and picking up. Love those folks, teaching my son values and good manners! So, we came home and practiced his Sunday School lesson on his room. Sam even helped spray Enddust. Awesome cleanliness. We then rolled out a blanket on his newly cleared and clean floor and had a picnic. We invited all the animals that we had just put away, and we ate Cheerios and Cheezits. So, it didn't stay 100% picked up. But that's ok, too.

So, here I am avoiding accounting with happy reminiscing. Back to the books. But don't forget, life is big enough to accommodate painted pigs as well as spreadsheets.

Breath

Musing on the obvious lately, I saw a question posted on twitter that caught my attention. A fellow tweeter asked, "What is the opposite of breath?"

Most obvious answer: Death. Which got me thinking about the nature of life. Without breath there is no life. I take for granted this constant in and out huffing I do without thinking. But it is this small thing that is everything in keeping the machinery of life working. It is not only the evidence of life but the sustainer of life.

Breath is also another word for spirit (or Spirit). And there is inspiration, which literally means to "fill with life" or "breathe life into."

Body and soul are connected through breath, as is evidenced by those days when I'm so busy or self-absorbed that I forget to breathe deeply. By the end of such a day, I feel a deadening weight, not merely depression, but a loss of spirit, a lessening of life.

Reminds me in an almost too obvious way of the Michael W. Smith song, Breathe:

This is the air I breathe
This is the air I breathe
Your holy presence living in me

This is my daily bread
This is my daily bread
Your very word spoken to me

And I... I'm desperate for you
And I... I'm I'm lost without you


Such simple yet vulnerable lyrics, they touch my heart every time I hear them. Desperate, lost... dead without his holy presence living in me, the one that is my air and bread. Such an awareness of my desperate state, this is what brings me to my knees in worship. And it is what lifts me to my feet to try again (after falling, after forgetting to breathe) to live a life of worship.

This is the air I breathe.

Lessons learned

When I first became a mother, I knew there would be lessons along the way, but I never realized how much I would be learning from my son on a daily basis. Although the lessons go both ways, what I learn from him far outweighs what he learns from me.

This week alone my son taught me the following three things (and these are the things I remember; I'm sure he's taught me others):

1. How to throw two "frisbees" (plastic container covers) at the same time, and the utter coolness thereof.

2. How to spit. (I can't say I mastered this lesson to his satisfaction... probably got a B-)

3. That momma's can't get tired, but it's ok for daddy's to get tired. I'm still working on this one. I am hoping to get clarification on the translation.

And for my part, the only lesson I taught my boy is the fine art of picking a Cheerio up by your tongue. (It is truly magical.)

So, three to one, he's the better teacher by far.

Stewardship

These days I've been thinking a bit about things: buying things, owning things, maintaining things, sorting things, keeping things clean, sharing things, giving things away. It's rather exhausting, this "Thing Maintenance." Seems like so much of life falls into one of these actions associated with things. Perhaps that's all a part of a bigger Thing we generally call "stewardship."

According to the dictionary, a steward is "a person who manages another's property or financial affairs; one who administers anything as the agent of another or others." (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/stewardship) Hmmm... that's illuminating.

So, here's my take. If I'm a good steward in the context of stuff I generally label "mine," I'm actually recognizing that none of it is really mine, just on loan. And even more, if I'm a good steward, I'm keeping up this property belonging to *another* in such a way that it is in even better shape than when it was first loaned to me.

Ah... well, then I better get cleaning house. But I think I'll take a nap first.

Chicken soup for my stomach...

A rainy Saturday requires chicken soup, so it's a good thing I had made up a batch of broth the other day. Today I threw in a few extra unusual (for me) ingredients into my soup, added depth and punch to the flavor: tobasco sauce (a few shakes), handful of sundried tomato, sea salt (2 pinches), and brown rice. That was on top of the usual empty-out-the-veggie bin staples (potatoes, onion, celery, carrot, garlic, etc.). Oh, and yeah, some chicken. Soooo good.

I likely will add a few more bits and bobs before the day is over.

Hungry yet?

Try again

Our son has been very chatty lately, mostly like a parrot, repeating everything we say. (Yikes.)

He has his cute little boy fun sayings, like "awesome" and "oh, man" (said very expressively, and usually when frustrated).

Then there's the annoying when repeated over and over, but still cute, things, like "try again." He uses "try again" to say he wants to do something repeatedly, not just to say he'd like to get better through practice.

It's amazing to me how fixated a three-year-old can get on one thing, such as pushing his plastic toy lawn mower down the hill. "Try again, mama!" for the 50th time, as I watch, quaintly amused but truly bored out of my skull as the blue plastic lawn mower runs into the tree at the foot of the hill and Sam yells out an excited "Yes!" then, "Try again!" Ugh. Please not again. (Hey, it's not all cuddles and warm fuzzies, this motherhood thing, let's be real).

And there's just the nice spontaneous things that are the reward for enduring the 51st lawn mower run. One evening recently, after an especially long and grueling day at the office, Sam seemed to sense my exhaustion. He snuggled up in back of me on the couch, hugged me, played with my ponytail for a few minutes, then said thoughtfully, "Mama, you're pretty special."

Sigh. Try again.

Grateful thoughts

Ten grateful thoughts to close the weekend:

1. Nine months of hard work, five days of quality course delivery, my client is happy, and now I can rest.

2. Fresh cucumbers... yum.

3. Homemade guacamole... yummier!

4. Whiffle ball with my son.

5. Crazy dancing to Bee-bop-a-lu-la with my boys.

6. Church (ideally) is not a gathering place for the perfect, but a rest stop for the weary, a haven for the outcast, a balm for the broken, home for the homeless, family for the orphan... and a challenge for the complacent. Mine is.

7. Blessed are the poor in spirit.

8. Story time!

9. Learning new forms of poetry, immersing myself in words.

10. I am loved. Life is a miracle. (Yes, that is one thought.)