Is This A Test?

We try to learn a few verses together as a family.

I write them on the chalkboard wall near the dinner table and we read them out loud together before each meal.

This week I wrote out James 1:19-20 - "Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry for man's anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires."

And let's just be honest.

When I picked this little nugget of a verse I was targeting a handful of sometimes short tempered, angry-word-shouting siblings.

I was trying to preach when I should have been quiet.

And so maybe this day just serves me right.

Because I have wanted to be angry today. A lot.

At little things. At big things. At every thing.

Because this day seems to have been full of problems, mistakes and inconveniences.

Like Magnus putting his two gigantic paws on the counter and knocking down a wooden bowl that I really loved that was a gift from Kevin's mom. It broke into four pieces.

Like Mosely complaining that "all we ever do in school is read! I wish we never had school."

And like my ridiculously weak eye flaring up again, causing me pain, forcing me to wear my glasses and making me ultra self-conscious about my appearance.

Like the computer making a rather loud and annoying humming sound all morning while not allowing me to access my photos.

And like my poor Wilder sporting a fever tonight.

Like one particular small boy I know choosing to lie despite my provision of ample opportunity for truth-telling.

And like one toddler I know exercising her vocal chords loudly and boldly during any sibling conflict, of which there were a-plenty.

Like misplacing the all-important notebook of school schedules.

And all of this occurring the first day of my husband's business trip.

When I introduced the verse to the kids on the first day, I told them that it was a message for all of us, not just them. And I told them that this was something we could gently remind one another of any time we saw one of us struggling with anger. "You can even correct Mommy about her anger, as long as you do it kindly and respectfully," I said to them. (What was I thinking?)

And how many times I have heard a little sweet voice beside me today, patting my shoulder or touching my hand, "Mommy. Slow to anger. Remember? Slow to anger."

Yes. I remember.

I remember.

What?

Is this a test or something?

No, not exactly.

And yes.

This Is Not Good

Look what happens
when I answer the phone
and have the audacity
to walk into another room
to finish my conversation.

Close Enough

Last week we visited our new favorite field trip place again - Pisgah National Forest and the Pisgah Wildlife Center.

The kids attended a class about opossums.

Apparently, Bergen was paying attention.

Today I asked him to return some math toys to their proper basket.

After he had completed his chore, he said, "Okay Mom - I have returned them to their native habitat."

She Will Surprise You

Oh.

This One.

Sometimes she is such a mystery.

Last week at the entrance to my least favorite store a lady representing the Salvation Army was ringing her little holiday bell.

I gave all of the kids whatever change I had and they all trotted off to dump their coins in the red kettle.

Much later, inside the store, I heard loose change hit the floor near my feet.

And there was Mosely, scrambling after it. I knew right away where that little kid had gotten her quarter.

Instead of dropping her money into the kettle, Mosely had dropped her quarter into her pocket.

(Yes, I made her go back outside and give the volunteer the quarter.)

After several conversations over the next few days, Mosely and I came to some sort of terms.

She felt as if she never had the opportunity to earn money to purchase things that she would want.

"Like what?" I queried.

"A piggy bank," was the quick response.

Okay.

Mosely volunteered to do extra chores and asked to be paid for them. I agreed to her entrepreneurial schemes.

One afternoon, she cleaned the sun room above and beyond the normal methods. (She did a remarkably good job too. Hmmm. Now I have a new standard for five-year-old labor. That one might just back-fire on her.) One quarter earned.

The next day she accomplished another task. Another quarter dropped into her makeshift piggy bank - the classic plastic container with a thin slice cut out of the lid.

More chores done. At this point, Mosely has earned three shiny quarters.

She continually opens her container and looks adoringly at her coins. She shakes them in her tiny hands. She stores the container on a high shelf, just in case Piper tries to take it, she tells me.

Mosely is making plans for tomorrow - what she can do to earn more money, to collect more coins, to see her empire stretch even farther.

Fast forward to right now . . .

Bergen and Kevin are about to embark on a little father-son jaunt to the store for some necessary items - such as milk and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

London complains that she is not able to attend this exciting adventure.

Mosely, however, does not speak a word of complaint.

She jumps up and races into her bedroom.

Her fist is tightly clenched as she returns to the living room.

Still without a word, she approaches her younger brother. She stretches out her closed fist to Bergen.

Wordlessly, he opens his hand, palm up.

And into that palm, Mosely places the entire contents of her piggy bank fund into Berg's sweaty little hand.

All three coins.

Nothing held back.

Oh.

This one.

Sometimes she will just surprise you.

11:00 a.m.

The alarm on my watch beeps every day at 11:00 a.m.

When Kevin was in Israel we both sat our alarms to the same hour so we could remember to pray for one another and our family at the same exact time, despite the physical distance between us.

Once Kevin returned, I just left the alarm setting as it was. (Not just because I don't know how to change it either.) It has been a good daily reminder to pray for my husband.

In the past when I have prayed for my husband, or any loved one in my life really, my prayers were pretty selfish.

Yes, I would pray for his physical health, his safety or specific situational problems.

But the reason I was praying those words was the selfish part.

I wanted those things to be protected, those requests to be granted, because his physical health, safety and everything else directly affected me and our children.

It's pretty hard (maybe impossible) to separate our prayers, even in our most sincere moments, from our selfish desires.

But my prayers for Kevin while he was in Israel became so much larger than just prayers for his physical safety.

I started to pray something else for my husband, the tall, handsome, bearded man I committed to stay married to for the remainder of my life.

I didn't ask God so much for stuff for Kevin any longer. (Or anyone I pray for really.)

I didn't ask for a cancer-free life. Or happiness. Or financial security.

I asked God for this . . .

Let my husband love you God. Make him chase hard after you. Chase hard. God, keep him pursuing you, pursuing you, pursuing you.

And that's all.

It's really my prayer for me too.

Maybe it's still selfish.

Because I know (and am learning) that when Kevin chases hard after God, my life is better too.

Of course it flows in both directions. When I chase hard after God, Kevin's life is better as well.

And who doesn't like better?

Back in the day (as in high school) I distinctly remember hearing youth leaders in my life, like Mark Griffith and Sonja Richards, say what I thought to be the most absurd things about marriage. Stuff like, "Fall in love with a person who loves God more than he loves you." And "the most attractive thing about your future spouse should be his love of God".

Yeah.

At sixteen I thought the most attractive thing about my future husband would be how attractive he actually was.

And I was hardly convinced that I wanted my spouse to love God more than he loved me. I think I was pretty anxious to edge God out of that first place position.

Now, and only after fourteen years of marriage, I think I may just be starting to understand the concept. A little. (Ask me why I make things harder than they need to be. And I answer - I don't know.)

It's so simple.

And so complicated.

When I love God (When I love Him well. When I love Him right.) everything in my life can find its proper place. Peace. Shalom.

When I love God better, I love Kevin better. I love my children better. I love people better. I just love better.

So if I really love my husband, why would I ask God for anything else?

My Blue Eyed Boy

Do you know what song I have been in love with lately?

"Hard Rain's Gonna Fall". By Bob Dylan. Performed by Jason Mraz.

And I listened to it this morning as I took my bi-monthly run. (Or maybe I should call it my bi-monthly shuffle-my-feet-only-slightly-speedier-than-I-walk.)

I like the line about my blue-eyed son and my darling young one.

Which made me think about my little Wilde Fox of a son, conquering milestones left and right.

Eating too many new foods to count - like peas and sweet potatoes and pears. And not turning up his tiny pert nose at any of them.

Responding to our voices and our expressions and freely offering his face-altering, flat-lined grin at almost anything we say.

And now his latest feat.

Lifting that wee belly right off of the crib and pushing up securely on all fours.
Downright adorable. The very definition of it.

He may be Number Six Keigley Kid, which may imply busier parents, hand-me-down toys and already-been-worn clothes. But that Six ranking also most certainly means more love from so many more faces, hands and arms.

This kid is loved. Very well.

And there is simply no way he will not know that fact.

I hope he rests in it. I hope he rejoices in it. Finds comfort in it.

I hope this love, this abundant overflow of love that drips on his sweet life will point him to the love, the greatest love, of a God who decisively placed this minuscule man in our home.

My blue-eyed boy. My darling young one.

The Greatest Obstacle

Do you want to know what my biggest parenting challenge is?

Let me start but telling you what it is not.

It is not

determining which homeschool curriculum to use

or even the decision whether or not to actually homeschool these children at all.

It is not preparing daily breakfasts, lunches and dinners with variety and healthy eating habits in mind.

It is not

balancing the demands of six children, a messy house, overflowing laundry, marriage and friendships.

It is not

determining the best course of discipline appropriate for six different humans.


No.

It isn't any of those things.


My biggest parenting challenge is this . . .

With five children under the age of six all together on every day outings to the grocery store, museums, farms, nature hikes and more -

How am I supposed to use a public restroom?

Afternoon

This past weekend Riley volunteered to help at a local Farm Day with her classmates.

The farm was beautiful. The barns and the mountain views made me miss sweet Virginia.

The smell of the hay barn even made me miss the dairy farm on which I grew up.

London, Mosely and Bergen passed around bunnies that were so cute I almost wanted one.

Almost.

Because I had bunnies when I was a kid.

My little brother and I had matching white fluffy ones. Trapper and Whatever-Douglas-Named-His. My cousin Mark jumped into their pen once when he was visiting. He landed on Trapper, my bunny. Hard. It died. Since the bunnies were difficult to tell apart, I told Douglas that his rabbit was dead. He believed me.

I didn't confess my ten-year-old sin until we were both well into our twenties.

Sorry Douglas.

We were escorted from the parking lot to the farm site on an extended golf cart that the kids thought was just part of the fun. Mosely and London enjoyed face painting from Kendall. They all rode a horse around a small circle. (And imagine themselves cowboys now I think.) There was a rope swing with a feed bag attached to the bottom and boys assigned to push the kids on it. That was a big hit. Bergen was most excited about using an old-fashioned washing tub and wringer. He cranked that little thing with such intensity. And (Girl Staff) Riley carried Curious George around for Bergen all afternoon.

It was supposed to be a quick trip to pick up Riley from a volunteer day, but it turned into such a nice surprise.

I like when that happens.

seriously.

Oh Man.

After this morning's Bible study, I had a small window of time to get back to our house, grab a quick lunch for everyone (and by "grab" I mean "Mommy has to assemble") and get everyone back in the car and headed in the opposite direction to the afternoon's art lessons.

It was raining. Time was limited. I had five children with me.

I knew it was a recipe for disaster.

But I had no idea how violently it would all break down.

The kids got corralled in, stepping in each puddle and muddy inch in the yard and splash their wet selves across the sun room floor.

Thankfully the kind ladies at the nursery had given Wilder a bottle, which bought me a few minutes to slice an apple and set out some pickles per London's lunch request.

Nursed Wilder. Then fed him his mushy bananas. (I am always glad when my babies begin solid food, but sad too because the meal process becomes so much more involved.)

Changed Piper Finn's diaper and then began slapping peanut butter on sandwiches that kids could eat in the car.

London announced that Magnus was in the car. (Didn't bother to ask how this happened, just passed her a dog biscuit to lure him out.)

Heard Piper screaming. Magnus had stolen her sandwich. "Mommy, please make me another one?" she asked.

I did.

Grabbed my bag and began putting poor Wilder back in his car seat.

Screams.

Magnus ate Piper's second sandwich.

Seriously?

"Mommy, can you please make me another san'wich?"

I did.

Attempted to get five set of small feet out of the door.

Watched Magnus barrel back into the house, knock Bergen over and attempt to grab Bergen's sandwich from the poor boy's very lips.

Forced Magnus out of the house in a less than godly manner using less than godly words that were less than quiet and less than appropriate.

Reached for my own sandwich and watched mustard fall onto my skirt.

Trudged through the rain carrying Wilder and my bag.

Wrestled Piper's eagle and Mosley's blanket away from Magnus at least three separate times.

Grew impatient watching two little girls struggle to enter the Suburban while holding umbrellas.

At long last, started the vehicle and hit the road.

From the backseat, I see Piper's peanut buttery hand reach toward me holding her crumpled sandwich and hear her say,

"I don't care for this anymore Mommy."

One Thing Leads To Another

Ups and downs.

Highs and lows.

This and that.

A chain of events that

connects

one thing

to

another.


We were in the car on the way to the bank.

Piper threw up in the car again. (Is this a pattern?)

I turned the car around, errands never completed. I unbuckled the entire car seat, with the sticky, smelly two-year-old still buckled in, and set it all on the driveway. I left the car seat outside and carried the little Finnian directly in to the bathtub.

I forgot about the car seat.

Magnus did not.

Riley (or as our kids call her - Girl Staff Riley, not to be confused with Riley Our Sister) and Caitlyn came for a weekend visit.

We laughed. They burned cookies. We watched silly shows. They stayed with the wee ones while Kevin and I drove to pick up the finally repaired Tahoe. We caught up on the details of our lives. They helped entertain the young crowd of kids at our house. We moved furniture. (Yes, I disobeyed London's No Moving Furniture rule. Hey, I'm in charge here - right?)

In other words, I was rather distracted.

Which gave Magnus ample opportunity to eat Piper's car seat.

Well, not eat exactly. But solidly destroy, mangle or otherwise make said car seat unsafe for toddler transportation.

And the girls happily and kindly offered to stay at the house while I bought a new car seat.

Apparently I stayed distracted at the store as well.

Perhaps I was confused by the unusual calm surrounding me as I paid for my groceries and car seat. But I walked away from the cash register only to hear feet running behind me. It was my cashier. His name was Josh. He was carrying the milk I had forgotten to put in the grocery cart. I thanked him and headed to the car. I was out in the parking lot, approaching my car at the very end where I had parked. I heard feet running behind me. It was my cashier. Josh. Carrying the bananas I had left behind at the check out line.

Good grief.

But, on the bright side, I now appreciate Josh. I have a newly arranged living room. I listened to a really great CD loaned to me by Riley and discovered a fantastic little pair of musicians named Jenny & Tyler. And I basked in the kindness of two summer staffers who showed us love in action.

All because Piper threw up.