Weariness

Grandma Shafer gave birth to my one phobia by telling how she fell asleep on a couch in the basement and woke up to find a mouse entangled in her Aqua Netted hair.

Sometimes, it's not big things what take me down but a whole host of little things. Mouse things. Spying the gray cat ripping the head off a mouse just to the left of the sidewalk. Discovering enough mouse poop and shredded Food Lion bags under the kitchen sink that I call for the Shop-Vac.

It's the mysterious, stubborn stench in about one square foot of our living-room carpet.

It's a wet cough in the youngest and many, many wet days.

It's peanut-butter smeared across windows I Windexed, finally, just a week ago.

It's breaking up more than ten girl fights in one day; it's, over and over, attending to deep bite marks on (in?) one girl while spanking another and putting her in time-out.

It's toddler defiance and the sort of twelve-year-old absentmindedness that has one forgetting which bus to ride, to which parent's house, on the first day of school...causing a moment of panic in the mama who watches, by the roadside, the yellow bus whoosh by without even the slightest pause.

It's the longing for a marriage free of mundanity (because I've had that marriage, and it ended just over eight years ago) and the fear that accompanies a few days of mere coexistence...especially while he, freshly adventurous, loses weight rapidly and I transform into an exhausted, sick, swollen, version of myself.

It's wanting to take the little ones to the zoo but throwing up violently all morning, causing my beloved to be late for work. It's having--even after a breakfast of nothing but eggs and water--no legs with which to stand in the house for long periods of time, let alone walk the zoo.

It's my fellow Christians' endless politicking on facebook.

It's Grandma B.'s moving from assisted living into a nursing home and close friends' parents' dying suddenly while another close friend plays a waiting game with which I couldn't have empathized prior to January.

It's the weight of that same, old unanswered prayer.

And I know you know what I mean, even though your circumstances have been your own. Weariness. I feel guilty for feeling it and guiltier for writing it because--even as I snivel--I know: I am blessed beyond measure. Also, there are so many with greater problems, some of them in my own circle of family and friends.

I start crying and can't stop. "Do you even know why you're crying?" my beloved asks, and it's easier to shake my head than to explain: everything feels wrong, and nothing feels right. "You need help," he says, and I know I do, too, but not the kind of help he thinks. I cry and pray myself to sleep, and the next morning?

I start hearing voices in my head.

I hear the voices of the Millbranch choir. I hear George Byrd's voice, and Gary Byrd's. I hear Trish Washam's. I hear Cheryl Hutchinson's and Nadine Jeffers's, and they're singing a hymn I love but haven't heard for many, many years:

Come unto Me, I will give you rest;
Take My yoke upon you, hear Me and be blest;
I am meek and lowly, come and trust My might;
Come, My yoke is easy, and My burden’s light.

 
And sometimes, I think, all we can do is fight to get there, whatever that means: putting one heavy foot in front of the other, crawling on hands and knees, dragging ourselves through hot, steaming piles of crap-ola. Because the lyrics, the verses (Matthew 11:28-30), say: "Come unto me," not: "Sit on your hind ends and wait." There's a little more work to do, yet. Just a little more work. Just a little more to do.

The Joy of a Boy

"You're never going to believe what happened," Cade said, over the phone. "All of a sudden, there was this loud crash, and--come to find out--the rod in Dad's closet had fallen down."

"Had he been swinging on it?" I asked Cade.

"No."

"Had Tabitha [Cade's stepmom] been swinging on it?"

"No," Cade said. "We were all sitting together, downstairs, when it fell."

A little while later, Jim, the girls, and I picked up Cade. "What's your dad doing?" I asked. "Trying to fix the rod in his closet?"

"No," Cade said, "it came completely out of the wall."

"Was your dad swinging on it, when it fell?" Clementine asked.

"No," Cade said.

"Well, was Tabitha swinging on it?" Clementine asked. We all cracked up.

Sometimes, to be joyful is to open my eyes (and ears). I'm thankful to have my boy back after his spending a week in East Tennessee, with my parents. I'm thankful for Cade's dad Jason, who not only attended Cade's seventh-grade orientation, alone, to pick up Cade's schedule, but also did a fair amount of driving to pick up Cade from my mom.

"I've been around a lot of kids in my lifetime," my Mom remarked, "but I've never been around a kid  as easy to please as Cade." She went on to tell how she'd taken him to the fair and offered to buy him tickets for the rides; he wanted to ride only one.

I overheard Cade turning down new tennis shoes from Jim, and Jason said Cade turned down new clothes from Tab. He did ask me for some new underwear, offering quietly that he doesn't care for the style of his cousin's hand-me-downs; he likes well enough the hand-me-down pants and shirts. So I bought him some new underwear, also some school supplies (mostly from the Dollar Tree). We sharpened his old #2 pencils and rounded up lots of other things he already had: a hole punch, colored pencils, black pens, highlighters, glue sticks, scissors, a hand-held pencil sharpener, a pocket dictionary. He thanked me for my help (I think--after last year--he was just glad to have everything on the list. I laughed until I cried, tonight, reading about last year.); packed his own lunch; set his alarm; and crawled into bed.

"Goodnight, Blueberry," he said, referring to the absurdly round tummy under my blue tank top. (Jim had cracked himself up, earlier, with some sort of Willy Wonka, juicer reference.)  I love how Cade  slides his twelve-year-old hand across my belly every so often. I just love having him near. He reminds me that kids grow out of biting and hair-pulling, that they don't always dump their plates on purpose; fight going to bed; or pull all of the Clorox wipes out of the container, just because.

Today, Cade said, "Mom, I read The Five People You Meet in Heaven. I read it in one night."

"I haven't read it, yet," I said. "Did it make you cry?"

"No," he said. "I think it was supposed to, but it didn't."

"So who are the five people you're going to meet in heaven?" I asked.

"I don't think heaven is going to be anything like in the book," he said. "But it was still interesting."

I'm crazy about my big kid.

Overdosing on the Church

I've discovered: if I'm not careful, I can overdose on the church. It's scary to think it and scarier to admit it, but I'm learning: as long as I don't speak in anger, the Lord uses me best when I speak my scary truths.

Most everyone I know and read--especially on facebook and in the blogosphere--claims to be a Christian. So many of them clamor on about different things, thinking their religious actions and affiliations, even their political views, make them stand out as the real deal. I rarely find myself confused about where I stand on any given issue, just annoyed. I asked myself why the annoyance until I determined: people have agendas. They aren't just blathering on; they're trying, all the time, to convince others--me!--to climb up on their bandwagons.

I wish I were referring to Christians' earnest efforts to win souls, but their words add up to something much darker and more complex. In fact, their cumulative, persuasive efforts form a shouting match in my brain. I feel like my very own Jesus is being crammed down my very own throat, and from several angles all at once.

I start to wonder if there's something wrong with me because I don't appreciate so-and-so's eight scripture "status updates" per hour. What if my efforts in the name of the Lord, I wonder, aren't enough? What if I'm not focused enough? What if I'm not righteous enough?

Then I start feeling judged for behaving or thinking differently than other Christians.

When that happens, it becomes critical that I put on the brakes. I'm overdosing on the church. God may well be calling so-and-so to the foreign mission field, the haunts of the homeless, the abortion clinic, the drive-thru on Chick-fil-A Appreciation Day. He may well be calling such-and-such to stand on a street corner or march in a small-town parade and howl for souls. It's not really my business until it's my business, and, right now, it isn't. I need to concern myself with those things the Lord has called me to do.

I'm a small fish in a big sea, and that's alright. Maybe my ministry will grow as my faith grows, or as I become kinder, wiser. In the meantime, know this: I really, really love Jesus, and He loves me. We have a relationship, and it's like any other in that it has its ups and downs. I've learned: inside and in spite of my relationship with the Lord, nothing--nothing!--is safe or guaranteed beyond my very soul. It hurts, sometimes, when things don't go the way I'd like. I grieve; I rage; I break into countless pieces, in countless ways. But over and over again, I find: when I lift my head and wipe my wild eyes, He--having never left--is with me, still.

Sometimes I overdose on the church, but I can never quite get enough of Jesus.

Santa's Land in Cherokee, North Carolina

The girls had such an amazing time at Idlewild, earlier this summer, that I've been looking into other kiddie parks within a reasonable driving distance. (This has been my primary resource.) I read about Santa's Land Family Theme Park & Zoo in Cherokee, North Carolina and, with very little effort, talked my good sport of a husband into checking it out as part of our trip south to visit the parents.

Interestingly, I lived two-three hours away from Santa's Land from the time I was eleven until I graduated from college, but, until recently, I'd never heard of it. Likewise, Jim lived about two hours away until adulthood, but he'd never heard of it. In the process of trying to nail down when the park was built (I think I read 1966.), I learned, since visiting: the park is on PETA's radar because of its black-bear enclosures. Don't judge, but I didn't pay much attention to the bears. We have zoo memberships here in Richmond, and I was totally sucked in by all things vintage and tacky.

My eyes could scarce take it all in.

Even the trashcans amazed and delighted:

This friendly elf made the girls rings out of "deershoe" nails:

Clementine fed some deer:

And loved on Santa (Charleigh waved and expressed love from across the room, which was huge for her, so each girl was given a Certificate of Good Conduct):

 The girls rode rides:

We watched a magic show in the Jingle Bell Theater. Clementine was actually called on stage to be a helper!

Santa's Land is, obviously, a park for little kids or lovers of kitsch. It does offer a ferris wheel and one roller coaster, neither of which we rode. We didn't take the opportunity for a paddle boat ride, either, fearing that our water bug would jump overboard.

We saw a total of, maybe, ten kids all day. We never waited in line. And we loved that the park was interspersed with playground areas that gave the adults an opportunity to rest...or play, themselves!

Jim's Sweet Mom

Charleigh Turns 2

Charleigh woke up, this morning of her second birthday, crying: "I'm sick. My throat hurts," and she was running a little fever. I messaged the other mommies and told them best not to come over, but it's all good; we've been celebrating her birthday for over a week.

A week ago Tuesday, she celebrated with her besties at the Children's Museum of Richmond and Johnny Rockets.

Sunday, in Knoxville, Tennessee, she blew out candles at Mamaw's (Jim's mom's) with her uncle Terry (Jim's brother), who shares her birthday.

Later that same day, she had a second birthday cake in Scott County, Tennessee, at Nana's and Papaw's (my parents').

Incredible Cake by Our Friend Lisa Russ

In Her Birthday Outfit from My Parents

On Monday, she took a trip to Santa's Land in Cherokee, North Carolina. (More on this, later.)

With Mamaw

And her daddy says there will be ice cream, tonight, also the Snow White baby doll she asks for every time we go to Target.

Charleigh, we're so thankful that God sent you to our family. We had no idea just how much we needed a red-headed ninja. You squeeze us hard and bite your sister hard, but we don't have to talk about that second thing. You shower us with kisses and sing at the top of your lungs, and let's just say your future in church choir is iffy at best, but we don't have to talk about that, either. You're defiant and mischievous and fiesty, but I get you, Girl, and I love how you're afraid of neither the highest slide nor a good spankin' for climbing out of bed six times in one night. You're a water bug and a cuddle bug, and I can't wait to see just what the Lord has in store for you.

Bigger Rooms

Andrew Wyeth's Big Room, 1948

I feel crowded. The good news? My rooms seem bigger when I put less in them.

Less clutter. Fewer activities. Less sugar. And caffeine. Fewer late nights. Fewer of my own words. Fewer of other people's words and ideas. Fewer phone calls, e-mails, and texts. Less Internet and television.

Less. Fewer. If you're feeling hypersensitive, overstimulated, overwhelmed, crowded: I recommend it.

**Linking up with friends at The Mag.

Movie Review: The Odd Life of Timothy Green

Jim was wondering aloud if he needed to undergo surgery, again, in order for us to have some alone time. Fortunately, our friend Jymmi came to the rescue. (She's a grown-up, but she's one of the girls' very best friends.)

Jim and I went to McAlister's. I ate a grilled sandwich (Smoky Pepper Jack Turkey). He had a spud with chili...or part of one, anyway. I didn't take photos.

Then we went to the movies to see The Odd Life of Timothy Green. We loved it!

This film includes fantastic elements, but what it offers is not only beautiful but also believable, relatable, even universal: for adults. I'm thinking it will go over your children's heads unless they're at least thirteen, and--if they're teenagers--they'll appreciate a different movie more, so leave them at home.

Do, however, take Kleenex. I was sobbing by the end of the movie, and in my efforts not to frighten the children in front of me by making horrible gasping noises, I missed, at first, the fact that my beloved was mopping his face with his shirt. "It got me a little, Brandee," he said.

But look: there's a difference between a movie that's worth an emotional investment and one that (like Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close) isn't. The Odd Life of Timothy Green will probably get you a little if you're a parent. It might get you a lot if you're not a parent but desperately want to be, but you may well appreciate its message ("Never give up!"), regardless.

It's hard work to build a family, and it's hard work to grow that family once it's complete. The parents in The Odd Life of Timothy Green (like many parents I know in real life) struggle in getting their son, and--once they have him--worry too much about some things and not enough about others. They love big, and they make mistakes. You'll just adore them.