Gonnigan to Hannigan & Back Again, with Delight

On Monday, I took Charleigh to her pediatrician, whose diagnosis was croup and ear infection. So we've spent most of the week at home, which does not a happy Gonnigan make.

Neither does a child's biting someone; lying to her mom; pulling hair; standing on the kitchen table; scaling the steps; throwing toys; sucking on a light bulb; pulling an upholstery tack out of furniture; sticking her finger into the blue water in the toilet brush holder and licking said finger; smacking her mom; pulling weather stripping out of a window; breaking a tv; or regressing in terms of "making stinky" on the potty.

And one of the wee sisters did each of these things, this week. I'm chalking part of it up to Charleigh's being hopped up on steroids. Yes, we further childproofed against that monkey. Yes, we disciplined one or both sisters when appropriate.

I had great moments. I had, also, some straight-up Miss Hannigan moments. Not so much the drunk ones as the yelling ones. Gonnigan to Hannigan can occur in a flash; trust me.

Last night, Jim met us in town for dinner. Then we switched vehicles, and he headed home, taking Thing 1 and Thing 2 with him. 

I had the nicest little break. Everywhere I went, bargains jumped off the racks and shelves. At Good Will, I bought the most beautiful piece of fabric for $2. At Sears, I bought the perfect sweater for half price. At Barnes and Noble (where I had a 25% coupon), I stood at the shelf looking for one thing when my eye caught another: a book I'd almost purchased from Amazon at one point. I pulled it off the shelf, read the back, and thought: this man's words would probably really help me. So I bought the book. At Kroger, I discovered and bought Metromint, which I hadn't enjoyed since Jim had a case delivered, last Christmas.

I was putting my groceries in the back of Jim's minivan when my friend Beth pulled up behind me. Think of it: late last night, on my first blogiversary, the very person who inspired me to blog appeared in the Kroger parking lot. We had the best conversation, and I shared some things I can almost never share face-to-face...or at all...with someone I love: someone who loves me, someone who shines out Jesus.

Later, at home, I unstapled and unfolded the fabric I'd bought at Good Will, and Jim helped me hold it up to a window in the dining room. As it turns out, there's just enough for an appropriately-gathered valance for each of the four windows in that room.

I share the details of my break in order to say this: I could talk about luck, good fortune, coincidence, serendipity, or fortuitousness. I could. But, instead, I want to say: I credit all of it to a Heavenly Father who wants to delight me...and who wants to delight you, just the same.

I believe He cares about my wanting to--on a dime--wear a rainbow-colored sweater and dress my dining-room windows in lime green with a vintage, floral pattern. I believe He cares about my weary mommy moments: about my frustration with my children, about my frustration with myself. I believe He hears me crying out in prayer meeting, also as I cook spaghetti and scrub scrambled eggs out of a (supposedly?) nonstick skillet. I believe He sees me climbing into my husband's lap and waking our older daughter at midnight to weep apologies for yelling. I believe He honors my longing to know Him, to learn of Him, and to weave words that Honor Him.

Can you see Him, waving His arms like a conductor, commanding--with His hands--angels and men? Can you see all of life--including your life, mine--as part of a symphony? The upbeats, the down-, the timing, the volume?

He cues the Metromint. He cues Beth Stoddard, Pastor of Creative Arts: sends her driving through the grocery-store parking lot.

He wants to delight us; He does. I'm delighted. Are you?

Blogiversary: Why Smooth Stones

Cade's and Clementine's hands: I love the unintentional, heart shape.

 
Today is my one-year blogiversary. When I hit publish on this post, it will be my 222nd published post (not counting the one I published and deleted). I've paid Blog2Print for 3 books at this point; they're 111, 125, and 143 pages long, respectively.

I reckon I had a lot to say.

I wrote about my reasons for blogging when I hit Post #200. I had planned to video myself, today, but I look particularly awful, and I'm not in the mood to do anything about it.

But I thought I might share with you my reasons for the blog title Smooth Stones.

During my years at Maryville College (Fall '92-Spring '96), I worked in the school library. One day, while working, I came across a book called Cries of the Spirit: a Celebration of Women's Spirituality, edited by Marilyn Sewell. (I own this book, today, and if I were required to give up all the books in my library except what I could carry, I assure you: this book would remain mine. I can't recommend it highly enough for any woman with a love for poetry and an interest in spiritual matters.)

Inside Cries of the Spirit is a poem by Alta with no name, only the number "7.3." It has a beautiful format that I can't seem to recapture here (I've tried!), but the words are as follows:

love is believable. keep that as a smooth stone, for sometimes you will be the only one to love. for sometimes, you will be hated, & all the love within reach will have to be your own, & what you can tap from the spirits who fly to be with us at those moments, & lend us their wings. who land on the lamps to give us comfort & courage, when we think we have nothing to say. when we have nothing to say, perhaps it is time to listen. to take dictation from the saints of the past, without judgement can one say that, “saints,” without judgement, can one love, can one seek out people who make one feel good. without judgement, can one survive, buying food. without judgement. casting our pearls.

love is free sometimes, & costly othertimes. we may only have each other. our true touch. we may only have. 

To this day, I think few words more beautiful have ever been written. I memorized this poem in the early or mid '90's, and I've carried it with me every day, like a smooth stone. In dark moments, I have repeated to myself, over and over: "love is believable. keep that as a smooth stone."

While at Maryville College, I could find nothing else (except for a couple other poems in the same book) by Alta in the library and nothing about her on the Internet. Since then, I've read more of her work and learned a few things about her, but--when I was a student at Maryville College--I had no tools of interpretation beyond my own imagination.

My initial interpretation (which remains my favorite) of the first line of Alta's "7:3" went like this: God is love (I John 4:16). If love is believable, so is God. And David the shepherd boy felled a nearly ten-foot-tall giant with a smooth stone (I Samuel 17). So a smooth stone is a weapon. My belief that love is believable...that God is believable...is a weapon I'm to keep. David's opponent was decked out in armor; David wore no armor but the "whole armor of God." But he carried his smooth stones.

I chose the blog title Smooth Stones because it reflects my heartfelt desire to write down things that matter for my children. I want them to have a record of my love for them. It's a believable love: something on which they can count. I didn't know--when I started blogging, exactly one year ago--that I'd write so much about being a child of the King, but I should've known, because so much of what matters...so much of what I want my children to understand...revolves around my profound love for Christ Jesus. He breathes meaning and beauty into my life. All my happiness...all my peace...stems from my relationship with Him.

And I know: if my children determine that God is believable, they will have the only Weapon they will ever need.

Confirmation

from Pinterest


I reached out, today, to a man of God and trusted friend. I was feeling a little overwhelmed, and Rob came to mind; I knew he'd have sound words of advice, also that I'd feel better in knowing he was praying for me during this season of my life.

Rob listened as I told him about the Sunday school class I've started teaching and the book I've started writing. He listened, too, as I told him about two friends to whom I've been ministering in hopes that they will accept Christ.

I shared with Rob how God led me, recently, to I Corinthians 2:9-16, how--for the first time--I realized: I'd been placing entirely too much confidence in my ability to understand things of God. I understand only what the Holy Spirit teaches me. God teaches me about God.

And, actually (as I sit here writing with my Bible open on my lap), I think the mystery even more profound than I communicated to Rob. I think, suddenly, that I never understand things of God: that my "mind of Christ" (I Corinthians 2:16) understands things of God...that simply, profoundly, God understands things of God.

I want so desperately, I told Rob, for Jesus to move into my friends' hearts. But I can't teach them things of God; God has to teach them things of God, and He's not living in their hearts in the form of the Holy Spirit.

Rob proceeded to talk with me about the Parable of the Sower: about how we sow seeds (the Word of God) and only some of it falls on good ground. The ground, Rob explained, has to be broken...i.e., the hearer has to be willing to receive God. And, he said, people aren't drawn to God by how much we know, but by how much we care for them. Rob encouraged me to pray for my friends, also to continue demonstrating how much I care for them.

I hung up the phone and sat down with my Bible to prepare my Sunday school lesson on fear. In mid-September, I'd identified Mark 4:36-41 as the passage for this Sunday: the story of the disciples' fear on the day Jesus fell asleep in a ship, during a storm.

I've tried to be sure--in teaching this topical study on emotions--that I understand the context of the passages we examine in class. Tonight, I started reading at the beginning of Mark 4.

And at the beginning of Mark 4? The Parable of the Sower.

What a sweet confirmation.

God and His Zoo Pancakes

Sometimes I ask for a lollipop, and God shakes His great, shaggy head and whispers: "No. A lollipop is not what I have in mind for you, right now."

I look plaintively at Him and ask: "Why? I really want a lollipop."

God looks back at me. He furrows His brow. He could talk to me about a cavity in my mandibular third molar: how the sugar in a chocolate Tootsie Pop would grow the hole. He could talk to me about my health, in general: how a Tootsie Pop would hurt, not help, it. He could explain that He has a different (finer) plan for me: that He wants to fill my belly with something better for my body.

But God has lots of kids, and tons of the others are talking to Him, too, so He tells me, simply: "Because I said, 'No.' Just give me a minute, ok? Trust me."

I stomp my foot and yell: "I don't WANT to give you a minute! I don't WANT to trust you! I want a lollipop!"

And God booms out: "NO! I SAID NO LOLLIPOP!"

I burst into tears and withdraw, pouting, to another room.

Later, God calls my name sweetly and says: "Come and see what I have for you."

I peek around the doorframe and into God's kitchen. "What is it?" I want to know.

He raises His wild, gray eyebrows and says: "I made you pancakes."

I shake my head, insisting: "I don't WANT pancakes!"

"But they look like zoo animals," He says, and I can't resist. I run to God's table and eat up His giraffe- and monkey-shaped, whole-wheat pancakes. He's coated them in Parkay, sugar-free syrup, and light whipped cream, and they taste amazing. I eat them up every bit, and then I lick the plate.

God smiles at me and says: "See? I love you! I know what's best for you!"

And, tilting my head to the side, I smile back and ask: "Can I have a lollipop, now?"

Photo by Rachel Huff

Shifting Seasons

There comes a day, every autumn, when I remember Grandma Shafer's favorite poem: "Come, Little Leaves." I can't recall her reciting it beyond the portion I included on my photo, above, and, in fact, I didn't know of the rest until I googled, this morning.

I want to teach the poem (or at least the first part of it) to Clementine, and I think she's ready: she loves rhymes.

She also loves prayers. This morning, over breakfast, she prayed: "Thank you, God, for the food. Thank you for the grass and the sun. Amen."

I was feeling overly encouraged regarding her spiritual progress. Thank goodness for the reality check of her spitting a hunk of buttered toast at me.

While I'm writing about Clementine, I want to record the fact that she asks, several times a day, to brush her "tooth"...as if she has only one. This makes me laugh because of the many unfortunate stereotypes regarding East Tennessee (which I do consider home) and teeth.

Clementine also struggles, a little, with certain pronouns. She uses "mines," regularly, in place of "mine," as in: "Give it back! That's mines!" I correct her neither for this nor for using "shes" in place of "her," as in: "Mom! Charleigh has butter all over shes face!"

Clementine's growing so quickly that I'm enjoying the few little things she says in her own, Clementine way. She's started giving up "forsey" for "horsey," which I find bittersweet.

So the seasons shift inside the home and out, but I'm breathing a word of praise for the beauty inherent in the changes.

What I've Learned

I never know what I think about something until I read what I've written on it.

-William Faulkner 

My Newest ATC

A week after its passing, I hadn't been quite able to name it or figure out from whence (or W/whom) it came...until I tried to write about it.

I was writing to tell you: it had felt like in-over-my-head sandwiched between two slices of anxiety slathered with sin, impending gotchas, and consequences. I'd been edgy like a teenager about to get busted...unfortunate, because I hadn't known what I'd done wrong.

I'd stepped away from some of the noise and tried to determine from whom I should seek forgiveness. One person had come to mind, and I'd sent an e-mail.

I'd prayed, requested prayer, and read my Bible. I'd made careful (and sound, I think) decisions about to which human voices I should listen, and I'd listened hard.

The bad feeling had persisted, anyway (and for days), until I'd knelt in front of my couch and begged God: "If the bad feeling is coming from You, Father, please make it go away, or reveal to me what I can do to make things better. If the bad feeling is coming from the enemy, please make him get behind me."

After my prayer, I'd felt pretty much like my old self but still hadn't understood what I'd experienced, and I was writing to convince you: while I'm prone to feeling deeply, I'm nearly always in touch with the source of my emotions. To feel troubled and not know why? Not so much like me.

I was writing about a planning period in the middle of the year I taught sixth grade. This lovely, retired teacher (the New Teachers' Mentor, or some such) had come in and asked how I was doing; I'd burst into tears; and she'd recommended prescription medication. Weeping, I'd looked at her and said: "I don't need medication; I need a new job."

It's very Brandee to understand why I feel the way I do and to own both my emotions and the source of them.

But as I was writing this to you, I remembered having--about 12.5 years ago--an experience very similar to this recent one. I'd been completely overwhelmed and anxious then, too.

I'd just learned I was pregnant. I'd planned my pregnancy and wanted my baby, but I'd felt completely unworthy of the gift of him, also very insecure. I hadn't felt ill-equipped, per se; I'd known I could mother him. I just hadn't known if I could mother him as well as my heart wanted. The responsibility had felt crushing, and I'd felt half crazy with self-doubt and even--to a certain extent--self-loathing.

My ex-husband hadn't known what to do with me, so he'd flown me to my brother and sister-in-law in Hawaii: an incredible gift, but watching these beloved young people parent, beautifully, my older nephew (not quite a year old, at the time) had compounded my problems to a certain extent. I just hadn't known if I could prove myself worthy of my baby.

Since I didn't struggle in this way with either of my other pregnancies, it had been a long time since I'd thought back to my early pregnancy with Cade. I've learned so much since then. I've learned that, indeed, I can very rarely mother anybody as well as my heart wants, but it's ok: I have my great moments, and God redeems the rest. He's given me children for reasons that, probably, have as much to do with my weaknesses as with my strengths. I grow and progress slowly, right along with my babies. And it's alright.

The source of my recent misery was neither God nor the enemy. That trouble--I understand, suddenly--bubbled out of me, alone. And the reason for it? I'm pregnant with a book, and I've never been pregnant with a book, before. I feel unworthy of the God-given gift of it and frightened by the God-given responsibility of it. I don't doubt my ability to write my friends' story; I doubt my ability to write it as well as my heart wants.

I'm just going to have to trust: I will have my great moments, and God will redeem the rest. He's given me this project for reasons that, probably, have as much to do with my weaknesses as with my strengths, and He plans to grow me.

I will read aloud to my friends, tomorrow, Chapter One. And they will tell me what I need to know in order to write Chapter Two.

Halloween 2011

Erin, Dave, and Mira drove all the way from Chicago and arrived Thursday evening. We chose pumpkins at Chesterfield Berry Farm; carved said pumpkins with the help of Erin's brother Cy (who lives in Indy but works nearby); attended church and Rachel's family's fall festival; visited the zoo; and trick-or-treated. Throw in lots of excellent food and some gaming on the PS3, and you have the big picture...with the help of the big picture, above.

Charleigh Evangeline decided to take off walking on halloween...for Erin and Dave, while I was in the bathroom. Doesn't that just figure? She waited until that exact moment for spite; she'd been overhearing me say, for months, that I wanted her to walk by halloween, and she thought to herself: "I'll show that mama!"

Our friends left this morning. I cried. Then I distracted myself by shopping halloween clearance. Next year, a child named after a fruit will dress up like a character named after a different fruit. Can you figure it out? Hint: pink wig.

Happy November! And Happy, Happy Birthday to my beautiful mommy!