Mommying Grace

Musings on the life redeemed & purpose redefined

A fly-hero and a fixer April 29, 2014

Filed under: Marriage — dayna @ 12:00 am

The scene: our kitchen (now) a couple of years ago.

The set up: I’m rounding out the first trimester of my pregnancy with baby #3 and dealing with nasty, somewhat debilitating, every-afternoon headaches. The only thing that seemed to make them slightly better was being horizontal… and the occasional greasy salty food.

The bacon I had purchased in a rare non-nauseous moment had been languishing in the fridge for days.

Until now that is.

That particular evening I shuffled out of the bedroom after my “horizontal time” to discover that my husband was feeding us all dinner!

Flanked by a silly little girl on either side, I remember sitting at the kitchen table and polishing off the very last bites of the best BLT I have ever eaten.

It was perfection.

There was buttery whole wheat toast (no mayo here thank-you-very-much), crisp salty bacon, beautiful ripe tomato, and a mountain of field greens and baby spinach. I remember it being SO good. And exactly what I was needing wanting. (There’s no food passion like pregnancy food passion, am I right?)

The girls were finished eating and getting more wiggly and giggly by the second. Suddenly, a fat lazy fly had the nerve to start buzzing around the table. There was a brief wave of nausea for me and then slightly hysterical shrieking from the little ladies until…

Zing! Thwap!

Silence.

“He did it! He got it!” The two-year old practically clasped her hands under chin and batted her eyelashes like an old-time movie maiden as she proclaimed “He’s our hero! He’s our hero! Daddy got the fly!!”

I grinned as we all cheered Daddy the BLT maker-fly killer extraordinaire.

After the roar of the crowd died down, our four-year old leaned over to me, eyes wide. She said (with an earnestness I will never forget), “You know Mommy, Daddy is NOT just our fly-hero.”

“No?” I mused.

“No!” He is ALSO a really good fixer.”

Her baby sister emphatically agrees and they begin listing off all the many things “the fixer” had fixed: books, doors, games, toys, remotes, holes in walls… They could (and do) go on and on.

Smiling to myself at his latest titles, I sneak a glance at my husband.

He’s standing over by the stove humbly trying not to bask in the glow of his fatherly prowess.

But we all know who he really is. And two years later, he still is.

Happy birthday to our (fly) hero and a “really good fixer!” We love you.

hero

 

 

 

Easter (the day after) April 28, 2014

Filed under: Faith,History lessons — dayna @ 12:00 am

From 4/9/12:
It was the Monday after Easter. With the kitchen finally cleaned up and the lunch dishes stowed away, the girls and I snuggle into the recliner for pre-nap stories. Midway through a little Curious George, the doorbell rings.

I sigh myself up from the chair as the little girls beat me to the door. They peer through the window shutter before I can object.

Two men, one young and one older, stand at our front door.

Stinking solicitors, I think.

As a rule, we don’t give to or buy anything from the people all too frequently ringing our doorbell.

Confident in the safety of our new locked wrought iron security door, I swing the interior door wide.

We’re warmly greeted. Big surprise. The younger man starts talking, introducing himself and the older man. I wait for him to take a breath so I can politely turn them away.

And then I see the familiar logo on their clipboards and binders. I smile and open the security door to be able to make eye contact. The young man continues haltingly to tell me about the program he is in. I listen to him describe this focused program that I know is unlike any other in its intention and duration. This program that actually works.

Speaking more confidently now, he tells me in one glorious sentence how he is new and how he is becoming free.

Excusing myself, I call out to my  little monkeys to quit throwing rocks in the front yard, then turn back to him and grin and try to nod encouragingly.

He continues and tells me, noticeably humbled at the notion, how other people’s gifts have paid his way and that now he asks for this help for others.

I know it is worthy. A whisper. Give.

Moments later, as I write out a check, I ask them both about where they are in the program. They are mere months in, but miles away from where they were. I press for more details. They share humbly and openly about broken families back home and paths of wreckage becoming prayerfully restored. Somehow in the afternoon sun they seem glow just a little. They exude graceful rescue.

Tell them. Encourage them.

And as I hand over the check I look down a bit and gulp.

I tell them that I too am a life so very changed. That I’m constantly amazed and so unworthy of the way He keeps making something beautiful. They grin and breathe out praise. We’re all family now; talking about a treacherous path made solid and new. Of fresh hope and days brimming with wonder.

We talk a bit more about the goodness and their program and their up-coming transitions.

I marvel briefly at the sometimes surreal nature of the suburban dream that I’m now living: a house, a job, a marriage, two little ones, and one more on the way.  It’s bizarre in its normalcy and enormous in good after the muddy darkness from which I was rescued.

They have a future.

As I call in the little girls, we wish each other well. There are blessings and thanks and warm confidence in each others’ prayers.

I close the door and I know that this is Easter. Two walking miracles knocking on my very door.

I give because so many give to me.

Because He gave. Because He came. Because He died. Because He rose.

Because He lives even now.

It’s Easter every single day as He changes lives. As His resurrection makes them brand sparkling new.

dusk towards the light gathering pocket walk sunset

 

 

 

 

 

 

restoration December 26, 2013

Filed under: Faith — dayna @ 11:00 pm

This year, this Christmas season, it was all Isaiah 61. I kept needing to ponder those promises. The ones that sound like a sledgehammer breaking down thick walls …followed by skilled hands fashioning luminous skylights in all the openings.

I thought about the promise of one anointed to preach good news to the poor.

Of one binding up the brokenhearted.

Proclaiming freedom for the captives! And releasing prisoners from deathly darkness.

Marking a year of the Lord’s favor and a day of vengeance for our God.

I thought of comfort offered to those who mourn. Provision for the grieving.

A crown of beauty traded for ashes, oil of gladness for mourning, and a (gossamer) garment of praise instead of a (scratchy) spirit of despair.

I want to put that on!

I thought of people receiving a double portion rather than shame. Faces lifting heavenward to rejoice in an inheritance, rather than heads hanging in disgrace.

A people welcoming in everlasting joy.

I delighted that the one who was wrapped in swaddling clothes is the very one who clothes me with the garments of salvation.

Every single day.

10-23-13 039

 

trading reluctance October 1, 2013

Filed under: Blogging,Faith — dayna @ 3:00 am

Here I am. Just here.

I know that You want me here and I’ve been putting it off for so long. Always balking and nudging my other “to-do’s” to the top of the list.
I know You’re telling me not to overcomplicate things.
That it’s unnecessary for me to try to figure out exactly what You’re going to do. Or attempt to plan it out myself.
Because I would only smudge up something really beautiful. Or make it all about me. And of course, You know it isn’t.

Don’t I know by now that when I do what You ask of me in Your timing, that You run to help me with the rest?
That you smooth out the time-consuming wrinkles in a mind-bending, time-bending way? That the weight gets thrown off and the real race can be run.

When my eyes are on You, the Author, somehow you always perfect the timing and the task.

So here, right now, I will obey.

Yes, I’m pretty sure we’ll need to reach backwards a bit. I think we have some catching up to do…
And I know without a doubt that we’ll be pressing forward. Because you’re the only Way I ever do.
But for now… tonight, I’m thankful that you always deal with me in the present.

Yes, Lord. Establish the work.

 

Near January 2, 2013

Filed under: Milestones,Motherhood — dayna @ 11:55 pm

These pictures were taken a little more than a month ago, and already you’ve changed so much.

Now, I can see your personality emerging with the crinkling of your nose, each gummy smile, and every breathy coo. My sweet son, you’re growing faster than even I could have imagined, and there are so many things about right now that I never want to forget…

The perfect way your bottom fits into the crook of my elbow as we go about our day. I can still balance you, head tucked under my chin, when I need to use both hands in the kitchen or to help a little girl.

The downy softness of your hair, (all that hair!), against my cheek and nose as I nuzzle it like a proud mama-dog.

Your breath still smelling of the purest, freshest air. Heaven’s own air, it seems.

Your tiny fist always clutching my hair, my shirt, or a strap when I draw you close.

That contented shudder-sigh as you settle into the sweet rhthym of a precious feeding session.

And then your milk-drunk collapse across my lap with your warm belly impossibly full.

Or the weight of you on my chest and shoulder as we sway in the recliner- together drifting in and out of sleep.

I can’t get enough of this memorizing of details, of holding you near and breathing you in. Because I know, son, that we will never be physically closer than we are right now. That for the rest of your life, I will be gradually letting you go…

You are two months, my boy, and I love you so, so much.

*Photo credit to (the talented and patient) Pepper Wooters of Zeebug Photography.

 

So here we are… December 19, 2012

Filed under: Faith,Motherhood — dayna @ 12:00 am

It’s not very often these days that I’m relatively alone. My little threesome and I are a wolfpack of sorts. Ok: a messy, chirpy, sparkly wolfpack. But pretty much always together.

A few weeks ago though, it was only the babe and me in the minivan. I’m driving to shake my postpartum self at a “Zumba-thon” to raise funds and support for a former co-worker fighting the battle of his life. And I’m wondering (almost aloud), if each of my family members knows just exactly how I feel about them…

On the rare occasion that I am semi-alone, I almost always find myself with the same urgency. Feeling a gnawing that my daughters may be unaware of what it is that I adore about them right now. That my husband might not know exactly why he is still the man I choose to be in love with until my dying day. That this little baby wouldn’t know that I already see glimpses of his personality and cherish him well beyond his weeks.

And my thoughts wander to my friend Heather who lost her mother at a very young age and to my friend Amanda whose mom passed away when she was a teen. Were these women (who are now incredible mothers themselves) certain with every bit of their soul just how glorious their mothers already knew they were?

I want my crew to know. To know that I see them. And that they are spectacular.

And I ask: if something happened right now, would my life, my words, resonate with them in a loving way? Would they know exactly what they mean to me? How special they are?

I wretch out a nauseous gut cry as I mentally answer. Of course, they couldn’t! Not with the way I act most of the time these days. With all the snapping and the shortness and the griping. With the tired sighs and continuous correcting.

Yes, I do need to behave better. But I also know I need to write it down. To write to them. Perhaps a letter to each, I think. I resolve on the drive.

And then that Friday happens.

Suddenly we’re all reeling. Mouths gaping at the evil. Breath taken at the heroism. Hearts breaking at the emptiness…

The next day I go to a small local production of the Nutcracker with my kids. I catch myself quietly sobbing at the precious multitude of gumdrops and baby mice. Because across the country, there is undoubtedly a production of the Nutcracker that is missing some gumdrops. Or baby mice. Or ginger children.

I know many of my mama friends are feeling it too. The weight of the privilege of this time with our ones. And we’re all hugging our kindergarteners and 1st graders especially tight.

Later that night, my husband and I are watching news coverage and speaking in hushed tones. We’re shaking our heads and looking at each other wide-eyed.

“Can you imagine?” he says. “Coming home without her…?” His voice trails off as I squeeze my eyes shut hard and hang my head.

And I gulp because I do. Imagine it. More often than any healthy person should. Occupational hazard, I guess. Sadly, I know many of my co-workers and I do occasionally imagine the scape of our homes without our little ones. Right now we’re all picturing life without these insightful, creative, goofy school age kids. I feel sick when I imagine the very sound of my home without her constant singing and narrating all-the-time…

Or I shudder at the possibility of even having to talk honestly to my sensitive girl about what she witnessed happen to her friends, or to her teacher.

Then I tell my husband about the preacher from Colorado that I saw being interviewed on television earlier. The one that was really telling it. Talking about a fallen world and evil and how God is still with us, in and through it all.

And suddenly we’re having church up in our living room. We’re talking of mourning and comfort. We’re looking up verses like 2 Corinthians 1:3-5. We’re wondering how to best be the very hands of God and offer some peace in the midst of crisis and disaster.

Then the baby really gets going. And so I’m up pacing with him.

But still there is that gnawing, that urging, that knowing that I’m supposed to be living a life obedient. Supposed to write some stuff down. Supposed to be prepared.

As the babe and I shuffle, I’m humming the tune “Better than a Hallejuh” and thinking of those precious lyrics: “God loves a lullaby in a mother’s tears in the dead of night better than a hallelujah sometimes… We pour out our miseries. God just hears a melody. Beautiful, the mess we are. The honest cries of breaking hearts are better than a hallelujah.”

I’m praying as I stride thinking “Please Lord, don’t let me forget. Help me to say what you would have me say.”

Because it’s really hard to write when you pace the tile floors, shoulder covered in spit up, and arms full of colicky baby.

But I’m thankful… because my arms are so full.

 

fabulous four March 4, 2012

Filed under: Milestones,Stuff — dayna @ 11:55 pm

The other morning my four-year-old took me by the hand and pulled me into her room. She wanted to show me what she would be wearing to play in our backyard that day. Here’s what I saw:

A little later, she actually rocked the outfit. The only thing I can take credit for is the clumsy ponytail.

Her attire held up quite nicely to all of the day’s activities. The Jolie-esque lips are courtesy of a concrete faceplant the day before. The girl is tougher than she looks.

I only hope she is tough enough to allow nothing in this world (including her mother) to diminish that creativity and confidence.

 

 
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