Gratitude in the dark.

Gratitude.

As I reflect upon "gratitude," and the times in my life that I have been overwhelmed by gratefulness, what strikes me is how those profound moments--the sacred ones that have really stuck with me, are not these extravagant, mind-blowing moments; but instead, are quiet and simple and often arrive not when I feel that I am in a "comfortable" place in life, but rather when I am in the dark.

One of these moments that I will forever treasure as long as I live is the way that my firstborn looked into my eyes when he was brought up to my chest at his birth. The first words I heard the Doctor say after delivering him was "this baby has a little cleft lip!" Those were shocking, unexpected words to hear, but then there he was--this perfect, beautiful baby boy in my arms, with these piercing big blue eyes with a trusting love that looked straight into my soul. I don't even remember his lip, just those eyes, and the way he stared into me filled my heart to overflowing with gratitude for the privilege to be on the receiving end of something words cannot even give justice to.

I feel that gratitude when my hardworking husband says "I got her," when our baby chirps early in the morning and we are both tired and groggy and not ready to start the day.

I find gratitude when I stop and marvel at the intricate, delicate beauty in the smallest of creatures that Kai drags into the house from the garden--often in my favorite coffee cup or wine glass.

I hear kindness in the voices of my children as they play when I'm still enough to listen. When I look beyond the mess, I can hear the laughter and feel the joy with which they create and imagine and play and it gives me immediate perspective.

I am often filled with gratitude when I watch the sun rise after a long night up with a sick or teething child. When I choose to open my eyes to the vibrant colors that streak across the sky and marvel at the greatness of the God who painted that sky for me, on that morning, I am grateful for another day to see, to rock, to love.

When I get outside for a hike or a run under the warm winter afternoon sunlight and listen to the birdsong singing praises of joy to the author of life and beauty in the midst of any circumstance, I am filled with gratefulness that I really do have everything that I need; and like the birds, have plenty of things to sing about.

Gratitude is often uncovered by a little voice saying "I love you, Mommy" in the middle of a mess or hectic morning.

It is found while singing to a sink full of dishes.

I see it in my weathered, strong, hands that cook, scrub, hold tiny fingers and fold in prayer.

I hear it in the whir of my washer and dryer that does loads and loads and loads of laundry.

And it was embraced by the light of a battery operated bulb, beneath a cave of worn, cozy quilts with warm little bodies reading book after book when many of our everyday luxuries were suddenly stripped away by a violent wind storm. During those cold, dark days I felt warmth in togetherness, I could hear beauty in the quiet, I saw hope in the kindness of others and stumbled upon gratitude in the dark.

On this Thanksgiving eve, I reflect upon that gratitude that comes to us in the dark. On that light that slices through our deep valleys and illuminates the goodness and beauty that are actually right in front of us--just brought into focus by our will, determination and desire to see it.

May your Thanksgiving be filled with reflection for the simple joys that we often rob ourselves of in our own busyness, and may your hope be found in the unseen--like gratitude in the dark.

"It's lonely in timeout. But, it feels better when I come out and get a hug from brother." (Sunny)

I loved this particular quote from Sunny.

She occupies the "calm down" chair more than her siblings, that is for sure; so she knows the feeling of being there well. The "chair" is located out of kid-friendly territory in the corner of our guest bedroom, so it has a remote feel to it--but it has provided adequate "thinking" time to our sweet but fiery and frequently disgruntled preschooler.

What I love most about my strong willed three year old's words is how she says "it feels better" when she gets a "hug from brother." She knows the drill--after having some quality contemplation in the silence of the cold and lonely fourth bedroom, either me or G goes in and gets down on eye level with her to make sure that: 1) she understands why she's there, and 2) she is calm and hopefully, sorry.

Once we have assessed the situation and have determined that she is no longer a physical or emotional hazard to her siblings or cousins or friends, we walk her out of the room and straight to the individual whom she has hurt (usually physical but sometimes emotional). We then encourage her to look the victim in the eyes (that it key) and offer a genuine apology and then a hug. SHE is the one who then hugs her brother or sister--but notice what she said...what makes her feel better is that her brother (or sister) HUGS HER BACK.

Forgiveness is not something that is said, it is something that is felt. 

Sunny may not completely comprehend the idea of "forgiveness" in her young developing brain, but she certainly identifies that she is receiving something kind from the person she just, moments ago, kicked in the head.

When we get love or forgiveness or a second chance that we feel undeserving of, it feels just like that.

Like your arms reaching out, hesitantly at first, to a dear friend or sister or child or husband that you have hurt, and then the warmth of their arms wrapping right back around you.

When was the last time you felt grace with words?

We receive grace when we feel accepted, received, hugged back. 

And we give grace when we lift our arms and just hold on.

Gratitude with Kai & Sunny: In the midst of the mess.

"It's yucky when Gracie poops in the tub; 

but it feels good to get back into the new, warm, water after it's all clean!" 

(Sunny Boo, 3)

Thankfully, those bathtub accidents aren't a regular occurrence around here; but when they DO happen, it's not just one isolated incident. I mean, I put guilty child onto the toilet to "finish" while I fish the "job" they already did out of the draining tub but said child NEVER "finishes;" which leads me to falsely believe they are done. So, after pulling unspeakable material out of the tub with my bare hands and wipes and whatever else I can desperately think to grab with and scrubbing and bleaching and rinsing, I put my shivering kiddos back into the warm soapy water only FOR IT TO HAPPEN AGAIN.  Fun times.

I think it's been a bit traumatic on the older two, because sometimes there will be a dark colored toy lurking under the bubbles around Gracie and I have a quick freak-out moment which sends both Kai and Sunny flailing out of the tub like their life depended on it. 99% of the time it's just Sunny's little toy horse or this creepy looking giraffe head which I should really just throw away, but when it's not, well, it's just yucky.

BUT, I get a clean tub out of the deal, and after I get the kiddos all situated again I see that I've got my cleaning supplies out so I just go ahead and clean the rest of the bathroom and then the other one, while I'm at it. So, I get clean bathrooms out of the deal. Thanks for that, Gracie.

It's not fun to throw up. 

But, after you do it, you feel a LOT better. 

(Kai, 5)

Kai is our puker. He throws up at the first sign of bodily unrest. I'm actually convinced I could talk him into it. I won't ever try, but I know it would work. Last time he had the stomach flu, his first (and the first is ALWAYS the worst) "spit up" as he calls it, was, of course done leaning over our bed--like, right in that place where my feet hit the carpet when I swing my legs out of bed. Oh, and let me add that this happened the actual moment I drifted into deep sleep after already staying up too late.

So, after he "spit up," he "felt a lot better" and went back to bed and I got to do my favorite clean up job (G was gone out of town for work OF COURSE) by the light of my iPhone at 1:30 in the morning. After scooping the seemingly life-sized puke pile with approximately 30 plastic grocery bags, spraying/soaking and vigorously scrubbing the carpet, I was was pretty wired so I figured why not start some laundry and since I had my special spot/stain spray out, why not go spot clean the couch and then, why not empty the dishwasher and shoot, why not start some crockpot oatmeal for the morning?

I find that I behave that way more often when I'm pregnant, but it was erratic and necessary at the same time. And, of course by the time I finally wound down and crawled back into bed, it was "round 2" on the whole "spit-up" game.

If I was going to write the longest blog post of all time, I'd expand on about 80 of the other "clean up" scenarios that range from a giant glass jar of honey shattered all over the living room floor to a sack of flour that "snowed" all over the whole entire literal house to Gracie ditching her diaper to do her "duty" in every one of our bedrooms.

You know the saying "the quickest way to get a clean house is to have company over last minute?" Well, it also works with sick kids, bath time with a baby, and well, that general toddler tendency toward sensory play.

Bottom line: It is after the biggest mess, that we get the best "clean." 

It's one thing to do daily upkeep every day--but it's another thing to get on your hands and knees and scrub sticky honey off of your baseboards and the never-seen hard wood beneath your hutch and couch and chairs. Once you get going, you see all the other crap that needs cleaned down there and since you are there...

Today, I reflect on how grateful I am for the big messes I've lived through--and I'm not talking about the kind caused by my kiddos. I'm talking straight-up LIFE. I'm talking about the kind that leave you crying in the shower or not wanting to get out of bed because you feel so empty kind of messes (although some of the bad kid-caused messes have that effect as well).

I'm talking about the kind of messes that we make ourselves, or the kind of messes that we get into with others. Some of them come from things like death and sickness and others come from selfish living, messed up priorities, an ungrateful greedy spirit and just plain being far, far from God.

None of my messes have been easy "surface clean" type of jobs. They have all required the deep, sweaty, bleach bottle kind of scrubbing.

But it's in the effort of ridding the dirt and grime and grit from those hard to reach crevices in my soul that makes a way for grace; and it's in the surrender and humility to keep dropping to my knees to do the dirty soul-work that is so easy to avoid that I feel like I'm deeply loved and accepted and, well, clean.

"It hurts when you get an owie..."

"...but THEN you get a "Ninja Turtle" or "Frozen" bandaid! 
Or, maybe even a cool ice pack." 

(Kai, 5)

When we are in pain, we just want relief.

We can't see beyond the bandaid or pain reliever or ice pack.

It's amazing what kind of "healing power" lies in an adhesive bandage bearing Elsa or Michelangelo's face. Other "magical" remedies in our household include the Piggy/Penguin/Froggy faced icepacks in the freezer and kisses from Mommy or Daddy. After one or all of the above responses to a bump or bruise or general overreaction, the injured child is calm, cool, collected and no longer screaming or writhing in pain. It's a miracle.

But often times, after we have treated a wound and the initial pain has subsided, we are left as spectators of the healing--and sometimes, the development of a scar.

A scar that serves as a reminder not only of the pain, but also of the healing.

It's when I'm in the bath tub that I really notice mine.

The two prominent scars on each of my legs--one on my left shin from box jumps to literal failure in my college basketball conditioning class. The other, on my right knee, from a jagged boulder on the banks of the Deschutes river, where I had spent the day riding rapids with my Campus Life group as a teen. I had sea legs and was fatigued from the heat and adrenaline of paddling for my life and slipped on the walk back up to the van (I usually omit that last part and just tell inquirors that I acquired it on a "white water rafting trip"). Looking down at my strong legs and contemplating those scars feels quite similar to flipping through old photo albums. I run my fingers over the scars like an old image, frozen in time, and let my soul drink in the view from the bridge that connects the past to the present.

I don't feel quite the same nostalgia about the scars that line my midsection--stomach and hips. The scars that I wear there tell the story of a belly swollen with life. A belly bursting at the seams that gave way to angry streaks that seem to brag about how my tummy used to be flat with cute little belly button ring on tanned, flawless skin. But you know what's funny? Today, despite the extra baby weight, wider hips and larger sizes, I feel lighter than ever.

And then there's the other scar that changed my life right along with the stretch marks from the little boy it came with. And it happens to be right above the left side of my son's sweet, shy, smile. The scar that is a part of him, but doesn't define him. The scar I prayed and cried over when it was swollen, bloody and stitched up after I brought him home from his cleft lip repair at barely 5 months old.  The scar that joins the delicate pale skin that I taped together in prep for the operation from the time he was six weeks old. The scar that he embraces as part of him, his story. A scar that has shaped his smile and my soul.

"Chicks Dig Scars."

Scars have the power to not only show where you were, but what you have become. 

They tell painful stories, but from their imperfection reflect hope and strength and healing.

Our skin is just a canvas. 

When I lean in and look closely at the marks that stretch across my stomach or the way Kai's smile pulls a little higher on the left, I feel the hand of The Artist at work. 

I feel His scars, and rest in His grip.

{source}

I am thankful for scars, and the stories that they tell. 

I am grateful for the way they shape, stretch, and save.

"It's frustrating when our playroom is so SO messy that I can't find my favorite cars and trains..."

"...but then, I get my sisters to help me pick it all up since it's mostly their mess anyway and it feels so clean and nice in there and I can spot all of my favorite things again!" (Kai Quincy, 5)

It's nice to have your own space.

I think so often we overlook the importance of a "sacred space." Somewhere we have for just us. To sit and be alone. A space to breathe, to read, to imagine, to cry.

When I think back to my childhood, so many memories of my "sacred space" were outdoors. I was always finding some grassy spot outside and making it my "reading nook," or my space to escape my siblings and sometimes, my parents.

It was important to us that the kids had somewhere that was their space--not just their room, but a special play spot--with the sole purpose for their imaginations and creativity to run wild. I think this day in age, imaginary play has somewhat escaped our children--it has slipped through their fingers while they stare at screens; while they "watch" play. It's not the same. They need to construct cities out of blocks and build blanket tents and play "school" with their stuffed animals. Unstructured play is VITAL for growing little minds--and so many of us have just gotten so, well, busy. Everything is "planned" and structured and if it's not then there is the iPad or Mommy's iPhone to keep them "quiet."

I say, let them be loud. But give them a space to do it. 

And you know what? Adults need this as well.

Mommy needs a "space" that is hers--that is quiet and comfortable and that calls me to do what makes my heart come to life. I denied myself that space for so long, you guys. I gave my kids a playroom--I let their little minds be beckoned to a safe, creative space, but failed to allow myself the same. I would "set up shop" on the couch or clear off a spot on the sticky kitchen table or sometimes even my bed. But I can't think clearly in that space. I can't let the words that I read sink in when there is clutter all around me and my pile of notebooks and Bible and books and laptop are falling every which way.

I can't write my heart when I'm crowded.

And then one day I found myself rummaging around in our guest bedroom and needed some more light so I threw the curtains open and just stood and admired the view. It was like I was seeing out that window for the first time. And I thought, WHY is my desk not here? And then I thought WHY am I not using this space that is literally only utilized a couple of weekends a month when we have company?

And then, this happened:

And it's my new favorite spot in the whole house. It will have a hard time beating out my "sun room" this spring/summer, but for now, it's just what I need.

It's where I go to read my Bible, to pray, to write, to read, to think. And I need to be there at least once a day--just like my kiddos need to spend time, each day, in their "rocket ship" or "sail boat" or "teepee."

Don't deny yourself "your" space. That special place that is INTENTIONALLY constructed for you and for your "art," whatever it may be--maybe it's crafting or sewing or painting or baking. Don't let life and structure keep you from doing that which makes your soul say, "YES."

Today, Kai and I say "thank you" to the spaces that fill us. 

"Sometimes, when you have a hard day, it's good to eat some bubblegum ice cream. And then, you are happy!" ~Sunny Boo (3)

Let's face it. In our family, we are thankful for ice-cream. 

If I could only have one dessert for the rest of my life it would hands-down be ice-cream, and I'm happy to see that my love of the good stuff has been passed down to my children. 

Here's the thing about ice-cream though: It's certainly not as fulfilling to indulge in my favorite treat when i'm standing over the carton at my kitchen counter trying to scoop quietly so no one else hears me and wants some or makes some comment about how it's only 9:30 in the morning...(G).

It tastes the best when it's enjoyed around a table with people. When the cold, sweet, creamy, drippy waffle cone is complimented with laughter and little voices and pauses to listen to the birds or the way the breeze is whistling through the tall pines (one of my new favorite sounds!). 

I think that is the "healing" power that Sunny has experienced. 

It's not the sugar. It's not the way those candy bubblegum bites dissolve in your mouth or the beautifully intricate way those ribbons of caramel weave in and out of brownie and sweet cream. 

It's the walk, together, to that ice cream parlor. It's the sacred time spent sitting, smiling, staring at the different way we all "wear" our drippy treat. It's admiring the simplicity of a moment spent around a table with each other, pausing from our busy schedule or normal routine to just be together and take a deep breath. To slow down and savor each lick, each bite, each voice, each sticky face. 

The best medicine for a hard day is togetherness: a moment carved out of an otherwise ordinary afternoon or evening to look away from our flashing screens, away from our "to do" lists, away from the clock, and at each other. 

The ice cream is optional but most definitely recommended. 

"It's sad when your Daddy has to be gone for along time for work..."

"...but then your Mommy snuggles you extra tight 

and it feels like your Daddy is there too." 

--Kai Quincy (5)

We are living channels of love. 

Sometimes, a hug, a listening ear, a phone call, a letter, an apology, a smile, or just showing up can usher in something the recipient is desperate for.

I haven't been very public with this, but I had a miscarriage between Kai and Sunny. 

I lost the baby at around six weeks and I remember getting angry about the fact that I even knew I had been pregnant--that I'd ever had a "hunch" to even take that test. It felt like a cruel joke someone had played on me.

I will never forget sitting in my car in the parking lot of the ER, knowing in my heart that the baby was gone and dreading the impending confirmation. I texted the few family members and friends who had known about the pregnancy while I sat there, asking them to pray.

G was away for work--hours away--and was unreachable by phone at the time and I had dropped Kai off with my parents. I guess I just wanted to go in and get confirmation of the loss and get on with it. Something like that.

But then, just as I took my seat in the waiting room, around the corner peeks the familiar face of a dear friend. I hadn't asked her to be there with me, she was just responding out of love to my blast prayer request text and knew from her own loss what I might be going through.

We didn't say much, but sat together that summer day as the doctor informed me that there was no baby. I just remember hearing the word "empty" and feeling it literally echo off of the walls in that cold room; and how I'd never felt more hollowed out and lifeless as I had at that moment.

I remember her holding my hand, and walking with me out of the hospital into the seemingly reverent sunlight, and how she hugged me extra tight as we stopped in front of our cars.

I remember that right there in that hospital parking lot, in the midst of the sadness and confusion and anger, God showed up beneath that warm sunshine as I stood, desperate, in the arms of my friend.

When we love each other through the pain of a daddy who has to be away for a long time for work or through the mourning of a child who went to heaven before we did with that tight-embrace, show-up-anyway extravagant kind of love, GOD SHOWS UP.

And from our ashes, comes beauty. {Isaiah 61:3}

Today, Kai and I are thankful for those "extra tight" hugs.

"It's scary on your first day of school; but then your new teacher gives you a hug and calls you "Super Kai." ~Kai (5)

Gratitude surfaces in the midst of fear, and often it's in the form of a quick, simple, but genuine hug or a smile.

Like on the first day of school, when you are in a whole new place in a sea of a bunch of new faces and your Mommy gives you a goodbye kiss and you are scared. And shy.

But then your teacher kneels down and looks you in the eyes with a kind smile and gently pulls you in for a tight hug just long enough to whisper in your ear "I'm SO glad YOU are in our class this year!"

At that moment, my timid son's hazel eyes looked up and met mine with a little nod signaling my permission to turn around and walk down the steps, out of sight, to the car.

I'm so thankful for those "teachers" in my life that come in the forms of moms and sisters and mentors and friends. The ones who pull me in for those hugs and kneel down to look me in the eye and ask me the hard questions and love me anyway. They are the cheerleaders who affirm and encourage and speak life with the kind of love that says "I'm SO glad you are YOU."

There are going to be days when you don't feel like gluing tissue paper squares to your stained glass apple and your "apple window" has the bare minimum effort requirement of five small squares. But that's ok. Your teacher proudly hangs it up anyway.

There are days when you feel tired and like you aren't very good at counting or coloring or, um, housework and cooking. But your cheerleaders see you and say it's ok. You are so special and so beautifully unique and are SO super good and many other things! 

I don't think we put enough stock in how some of the most simple things we do can have such a giant impact on another. I know we don't tell each other enough how much we appreciate those small gestures--like encouraging notes sent in the mail or flowers on the doorstep or offers for help with yard work or children or french braiding lessons or that one person who came and talked to you when you walked into a new place and didn't know a soul.

Or a teacher, greeting you each morning with a beaming smile and high-five for her special "Super Kai."

WE have the power to be that light--and today, Kai and I are thankful for the people in our lives that illuminate our dark spaces.

"It's scary when I get stuck behind the couch..."

"...but it feels good to wiggle out and be free!" ~Sunny (3)

Thankful, we are, to wiggle out.

To become free of that which crowds us, traps us, suffocates us.

I have often felt "stuck" behind the crowding "couch" situations of life.

Stuck in the cycle of life and the never-ending mundane dishes and laundry and bills and messes. Stuck in relationships that seem to no longer flourish. Stuck at a table with family or friends when there is an argument or huge elephant in the room that is begging to be brought into life but that no one is brave enough to address. Stuck in a job that didn't feed my soul. Stuck in a college major with no real vision for life-work. Stuck in a lonely space with people all around me...

Where does gratitude come from in these "stuck" spaces? Does it come at the end of the chapter, when you have cried and sulked and prayed and screamed and clawed your way to be, at last, "unstuck?"

No.

I have learned, from my "stuckness" that we don't have to wait for that "happy ending" to feel gratitude.

It comes most powerfully in the moments when you feel SO jammed against that wall that you feel like you can't breathe...and you utter a desperate prayer and you suddenly feel not so alone behind that couch. You relax a bit, take a deep breath, feel your insides calm and your soul melt into peace as if someone is whispering "I love you, I've got you" into the depths of your stuck, broken, spirit.

It comes in the form of the random but much needed kind words of a stranger, an unexpected hug and "I love you" from a busy toddler, or warm sunlight streaming in illuminating the precious faces of your sleeping babies. It comes to us in the midst of our stuck situation, whatever it may be.

And we learn, one "stuck" day at a time, to take it slow. To not worry about tomorrow, but to turn our eyes and hearts to heaven for today, and open our clenched fists to receive those small gifts and to just. keep. reaching.

It's in the reach, from our stuck places, that we receive.

Don't stop reaching.

One day, you will find yourself free of that which held you captive, and you will reflect on your time spent "stuck" and realize you were never alone behind that cold couch.

And you will marvel, with tears of joy and awe, at how while you were wedged into that tiny space between the couch and the wall, you traveled so very far. 

. . . 

So today, I am grateful for the many couches in my life that I have been "stuck" behind, and the freedom that comes not just in the release, but in the "wiggling."

Where the spirit of the Lord is

there is freedom.

2 Corinthians 3:17

Lessons in Gratitude from Kai & Sunny: Introduction

Today is November 1st.

The day that many set out to be extra honed-in on thankfulness and blessings and gratitude for a month in honor of the Thanksgiving holiday. Some find this annoying and redundant in it's repetitiveness on social media feeds but I, personally, LOVE IT. I think there is something so very powerful about being intentionally grateful--especially on those days when you really have to dig for it. How uplifting is it to read all the "I'm thankful for" posts every day and realize that, "hey, I'm really thankful for that too!" If November wasn't such a dreary, chilly month (NW style) I would wish for it to be November year round...

In the past, I have done the daily Facebook "gratitude" post but this year, I'm gonna switch it up a bit.
 
Lately it seems I have been having more and more conversations with my preschool-aged kiddos about how good comes from "bad." About how happy comes from sad and beauty from the ugly. I know it seems like something that has more depth than a three or five year old mind can comprehend, but, you guys, they get it. The don't always get it when it's their own life (I still struggle with finding good in some of the hard days) but they get the concept. I don't give them enough credit.

So, what we have done for this month is come up with a "bad" thing for each day of November up until Thanksgiving. Sounds fun, right?! I can only imagine your anticipation for the daily post.

But wait, there's more.

Together, as a collaborative blogging team, we (me, Kai & Sunny) have brainstormed the "good" that shows up after--and sometimes during, the "bad."

Because throughout the month of November we are so very good at being thankful for all the good and all the beautiful and all the happy. But we often overlook the trials and tears and sometimes raw heartache that transforms us. We forget those hard parts, they are often too painful to revisit.

But we miss something when we shove those moments deep into our archives. We miss the story. We miss the journey. We miss how our Great Author walked with us--or is there walking WITH us through the dark valley and is guiding or has guided us to the light. Back into His light. 

Over the next several days you will have not only my stories and words, but also the preschool version of the daily dark that scares and frustrates and hurts--and how it gives way to light.

Even when it's something like a puddle under your favorite swing or your ice-cream cone on the sidewalk.

Through the heartfelt mercies of our God,

    God’s Sunrise will break in upon us,

Shining on those in the darkness,

    those sitting in the shadow of death,

Then showing us the way, one foot at a time,

    down the path of peace. 

 Luke 1: 78-79 (MSG)