Now What?

So, if love is a verb, how do you wrap that and stick it in your stocking?

As the majority of our children are just beginning to enter the age of desiring to give Christmas gifts as well as get, we have been presented with a new dilemma.

Last year we took all of the younger set to the infamous Dollar Tree and let each one pick out gifts for their siblings. It was fun. The kids loved picking out toys that each one would enjoy.

But we ended up with 16 toys that were probably broken and disposed of before the new year, if not that very Christmas afternoon.

This year we are looking to try a new plan.

Another experiment.

(Which I am beginning to believe is all parenting really is - a really expensive, really frightening, really powerful experiment.)

Anyway.

This year we are encouraging the kids to give one another gifts that have no dollar sign attached to them. Gifts that you cannot pick up at your local Wal-Mart.

We are working on gifts of Action. Of Love. Of Experiences.

When I told the kids our plan, I cited Kevin's active love when I was sick. I asked them, "If dad had given me a really cool toy - like a Transformer - would Mommy have gotten better?"

All heads shook no.

"Right," I said. "But what did Daddy give me instead?"

They answered, "Rest." "Sleep." "Help." "Lunch."

"Can you buy those things at a store?" I asked them.

All heads shook no.

After a bit more nudging, we got out crayons and paper and began the process of card making and gift giving. And they started to get excited.

We haven't finished everyone's gifts yet, of course. But so far Bergen has designed his card for Daddy with his act of service written down - which I cannot reveal here since the secret would then be out.

Mosely made a card for Piper promising to play with her and Eagle one afternoon. She has also pledged to play cars with Bergen on two different days. (Which is a bigger sacrifice than you might think - Mosely is no fan of car playing and Berg's daily request is for someone ANYONE to play cars with him.)

London knows Mosely has been asking for an American Girl doll. But we are not buying presents this year at our house. Instead we are going on a road trip to Florida to spend time with family, framily, friends, plus one big overpriced Mouse. So both girls know that an American Girl doll is not in Mosely's future.

After designing her card for Mosely, London began tapping her pencil to her head as she pondered what she could do for her sister. Her eyes lit up as she caught the spirit of our endeavor. "I know! I can let Mosely play with my doll for six, no seven, no eight, no TEN whole days!"

We still have a handful of cards to design and action gifts to determine, but I hope this will be an idea that can catch on at our house.

If not, I guess next year we'll head back to the drawing board for our next experiment.

Love Is A Verb

I heard it first said at Look Up Lodge actually. (Maybe twelve years ago.)

Love is an action.

Love is a verb.

There is always a lot of talk about love. And how we humans can best express it, one to another. Particularly at this time of year.

But even the coolest, most amazing gift, (even a Mac) cannot express our love as beautifully and as profoundly as our actions can.

Even our most simple actions.

Yesterday I was suddenly and inexplicably very sick. Really sick. Chills, aches. Miserable. Even my eyes hurt. It was lousy.

But despite the fact that I have six children, five of whom do not leave the premises in a daily trek to traditional school, I was able to stay in bed. Sleeping. Resting. Until after four p.m.

I'm not kidding.

And all because my husband loves me.

After I nursed Otto first thing in the morning, Kevin did the one action in our house that equals ultimate rest. He removed the pull up bar from our bedroom door so that the door could be shut completely and entirely. That has become like a sign between us. Normally, we just leave the door slightly cracked and the bar in position. But when you need real privacy (for sleeping only of course) then the bar comes down. (Now, if the bar is down and the door is locked, that's another story entirely.)

I was able to spend the day recovering and resting because Kevin showed how much he loved me through his actions. He took care of things. (And at this house, an awful lot falls under the category of things.)

He tended to our children's needs all day. He cleaned the kitchen from our wild Thursday Night parties. He made breakfast. And lunch. (I was even served my lunch on a tray. My grilled cheese sandwich was cut in half and my plate featured a tiny heart-shaped sugar cookie as well.)

Kevin's actions did not cost a dime. But they revealed more love than him purchasing dozens of items for me from our local Mast General Store.

His actions said everything.

Because
love is a verb.


The ordinary arts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest. -Thomas Moore

Home

There are just so many little things that make home home.

You know?

And those things are probably a little different in each house.

You know when you have been away from home for a while - for a business trip or a vacation or a holiday or even just a long weekend?

And then you come home and you take a shower in your own bathroom with your own normal-sized shampoo and soap?

That's the feeling I'm talking about.

I love that feeling.

I love that part of home.

The comfortable, familiar aspects of our literal house. The parts of our house that make this place a home . . . to us.

Like the favorite glass always on the ready inside the ice cube drawer.

And that hidden stash of m&m's for Mommy. (Oh, man - that makes me just like my mom. I remember discovering her stash one day - it was inside the brown crock pot on the bottom shelf of the cabinet directly below the microwave. No. I never took any of her m&m's. That is the truth.)

Knowing exactly how to shape the giant red slacker sack so that it forms both a pillow and a foot rest exactly suited to my body.

The scent of my current favorite shower gel- Burt's Bee's Fabulously Fresh. It smells like rosemary and peppermint. And it makes me want to take thirty minute showers. (That and the fact that the shower is the only place in the house the kids don't really want to join me.)

The color scheme that just makes me feel . . . relaxed, comforted, ensconced. (I'm not attributing too much power to colors either. They matter. They really do.)

The fact that our kitchen almost always has all of the necessary ingredients at any given moment to make NeedleTips - should the occasion demand it.

Like the ability to write with chalk on all of our kitchen cabinets and half of our doors.

Enjoying the prism of colors when the light pours through the stained glass window Sally lovingly crafted just for our living room.

And the sound of the rain on the skylights, even if it completely overpowers any other sound during a rainstorm.

Oh and our sweet, bright school room of a sun room.

This Thanksgiving, we did not leave our house. We didn't travel far.

We just stayed.

And enjoyed all these things.

We enjoyed home.

And it was good.


Ah! There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. - Jane Austen

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.

What It Isn't

I love my husband.

I really do.

But with each year and each turn and each milestone of marriage God is teaching me brand new things about love.

What it is. And what it isn't.

And I have so many more lessons to learn.

A number of books and wise counsel have taught me along this path, leading me to where I am now. Books like Love & Respect and Sacred Marriage.

But no book teaches me more than God's word. It strips away popular theory and is more relevant than any book claiming itself as the most relevant marriage help book on the market.

Today our pastor was referencing marriage in his sermon. And, among many other things, he said that marriage really means death.

No, not a death to good times or dude nights or speed dating.

Death to us. Death to ourselves. Our personal, and mostly selfish, desires.

It's really an opportunity to be like Christ. To love another human being before ourselves.

Like one of the books I listed above proposes, what if marriage is designed to make us holy instead of happy?

That's so unAmerican - isn't it?

It's not what Hollywood says. Not what romance novels espouse. It's not what poets ponder and songwriters wail about. Not what fills our dreams at night or drives the plots of the films that wait in our red NetFlix envelopes.

No. We are bombarded with the images of romance and feelings. Always catering to our feelings.

Two souls as one.
Our better half.
Love of my life.
Knight in shining armor.

Please don't read me wrong here. I like romance. Probably too much. I want my days to be full of it.

I spent far too many hours reading Janette Oake's perfect-ending-every-time Christianized romance novels in high school. I watched Pretty in Pink and Two Weeks Notice and dozens of sub-par films in between and I wanted to be swept off my feet, wooed, carried off on a white horse.

But we always take it all too far. Even the good things. Or wait, I always take it all too far. Especially the good things.

Two souls as one?

Romantic drivel at best.

Damning theology at worst.

Kevin and I made a covenant with God. We did. To act in a certain manner to one another. (Not really to feel a certain way forever. Who can promise to feel a certain way forever?)

But two souls?

I'm afraid not.

We're not a package deal.

I am not ultimately responsible for the status of Kevin's soul.

Nor he for mine.

It just doesn't work that way.

Regardless of the sweet sentiment.


When will I ever accept the truth as it is instead of the truth as I wish it to be?