missed millimeters and miles of grace

The life of a caboose is not always an easy one.

It often means to (unintentionally) get caught in the crossfire of two warring brothers.  It is just the way it is. And it makes for (too many) close calls.  Thankfully not all wounds require ER visits, but the location of this one made us realize that every missed millimeter equals miles of grace.

The puny girl in me ordered all weapons (commercial or self-invented) to the trashcan.  NO MORE WARS.  Obediently (and somewhat shaken by The Fritz’s almost-out-eye) the Pirates, Vikings, Barbarians, Indians, Union solders and Confederates lay down their swords, sticks, PVC pipes, 2x6’s (:-o), Mazoongas and logs at the feet of their loving and long-suffering?, oppressive?, traumatized Queen Mother.

But we all know it will not last long.  Slowly, subtly and shrewdly the weapons will mysteriously multiply again, the faintly familiar sounds of war will reach my ears, but not register in my cluttered conscience as potential danger. I will label it simply as boy-noise.  I will even enjoy it…  until the next wound.   May the missed millimeters be many and the miles of grace stretch w i d e and looooong and high and deep.

BIG mess... BIG sweep

"And this mess is so big 
And so deep and so tall, 
We cannot pick it up. 
There is no way at all!" 
- Dr. Seuss (The Cat in the Hat)

They meant to give me a gift.  They meant to clean the house all by themselves.  But at some point, as the cloud of dust settled into uncomfortable piles of filth, my well-meaning  little cleaners felt overwhelmed by the enormity (impossibility?) of the task, and disappeared. They left the mess for someone else to clean up.  Someone more able, someone bigger than themselves, someone gracious enough to dig into and remove their heaps of grime.

I grumbled as I beheld the chaos they created.  Why did they have to dig deep into forgotten corners, move furniture that was effectively hiding the unseen, roll back rugs covering dead things?  Surface cleaning would have been sufficient.  We would have looked clean to the world and no-one would have known what lurked in our dark holes…

But since the stains were now exposed, I took the broom and started sweeping.

I swept forgotten stuff; I swept real things, yet almost unrecognizable for being hidden for so long; I swept things long dead, but never eliminated; I swept fresh crumbs.

And as I swept, the Light illuminated specks of dust everywhere.  EVERYWHERE.

And I felt overwhelmed by all that came out of my dark, hidden holes.

And I felt overwhelmed by the impossibility of self-cleansing.

And I felt sure that surface cleaning removed even less than I had hoped.

And I longed for someone else to clean up my mess.

And I yearned for Someone more fully able,

     Someone bigger than myself

                Someone gracious enough

                            to dig into

      and remove

             my heaps of grime.

And Someone came.  He ached for what He beheld. Yet He washed. He cleaned. He beautified. He loved.  He gave.  He paid.  And when He said: "It is finished", my grime was on Him.  And He took it... to decompose in an empty grave.  

He bowed down low and bent His head
For to sweep the Lord’s house clean...

"Yes I’ve come to wash and clean
From this floor, the stains of sin
Sweep high, sweep low
Sweeping clean as I go."

I bowed down low and bent my head
for the King did sweep and  now I'm clean...

adapted from

Bow Down Low

(an old Shaker song)

Happy Easter to all!

pirates-on-tap

Our Little Bit of Hot Lava has sparked an interest in pirates.  He has pestered the (very patient) librarians for every book even remotely affiliated with pirates – and brought them all home. (The books, not the librarians.) While nouns and verbs makes his eyes roll, and math facts bore him to death, he comes to sudden life when studying information essential to health and wealth, such as the fact that pirate weapons generally include axes, cannons, fireballs, muskets, flintlocks, and cutlasses.  (Whatever those are… but please don’t make the mistake of suggesting that pirates simply use SWORDS and GUNS.  Also remember - for your own safety - that Barbary Corsairs are in a different category all together, for they have been suspected to swing scimitars, not cutlasses.) It is important to know that Captain William Kidd did not start out as a pirate, yet became a pirate, but without the Jolly Roger.   He was eventually hung. (Should you desire to hear more, Pirate Hot Lava will gladly share the gory details.) Your head spinnnnnnning yet? Welcome to my world! Yet most essential to life-at-present is to note that Buccaneer Henry Morgan ultimately became a knight – an attractive career path our own little pirate intends to follow himself.

While apparently grabbing supplies for his ship recently, I found our fierce pirate at the kitchen sink, filling his water bottle.

“This is my rum!” he announced excitedly. 

Being expectant that he had no idea what rum actually was, I dully inquired : “Rum?  What’s that?”

“Oh, it is al-co-hol,” he informed his obviously dense mother.  “It is what pirates drink to make them pirates!”
Oh indeed.  Pirate-producing-rum-on-tap, flowing freely from my kitchen faucet.  I think we are in trouble.

Grumpy: redeemed.

The truth. Unfiltered.  That’s what children are for. We were reading about charming Snow White, when a little finger unexpectedly smashed the nose of a fat dwarf: “That’s you, Mamma!” He was pointing to Grumpy.

Bewildered for a second, I absurdly tried to justify his observation: “Ahhh, I look like a short, fat little man to him!  How cute! How funny. How...improbable.” He yanked off my feebly applied band-aid and twisted the vorple blade deeper: “Your face looks exactly like his – so grumpy.” Gulp…How to respond to the stark truth handed to you by a dirty little honest hand… My mind desperately grabbed for a softer label: Grumpy? No, it's called stress; grief; hormones; allergies; headaches...

But from somewhere beside me another small voice came to the rescue: “Oh no, that’s not right!  This is mamma!” The sweet, merciful, tender, kind, patient, generous, forgiving, rescuing, redeeming  finger was pointing to the ever-gentle Snow White.  

No she doesn’t!

Yes she does!

NO she doesn’t!

Yes she does!!

  Under the cover of their bantering, I took a personal time-out to process the evidence laid before me: The scarlet of my grumpiness (or whatever lurks at the root of it) is real and it stains.   Yet the white of an imputed coat of Righteousness changes not only my appearance but also my name: 

Though scarlet is thine grumpy heart,

Snow White thou in Jesus art.

The unfiltered truth of the gospel exposed by little boys. 

"Simul justus et peccator" - Martin Luther

When dwarfs share a ladder... hobbits grow beards.

 Due to one boy's interest in riddles, our offspring recently found themselves immersed in the adventures of the most excellent Mr. Bilbo Baggins.  Thus our home, once occupied by a tribe of boys, now is The Shire - filled with barefoot hobbits.  But these hobbits tend to unexpectedly convert into a horde of trolls, a party of elves, gory goblins or a company of bearded dwarfs on a mission in Middle-earth. 

Our 80-something year old abode has worked out quite to their advantage, as the milieu is by default conducive to adventure: in January our yard became akin to Gollum’s slimy island, surrounded by dark sewage water as our ancient cardboard plumbing finally and firmly gave notice and was laid to rest next to a new PVC line. In tandem with that event, our not-so-young-anymore hot water heater became cold as the waters of Forest River, leaving hobbits and dwarfs (and a much perturbed Gandalf-in-residence) shivering on the banks of the tub.  But of course the greatest adventure always involves a dragon – which was conquered in our laundry room when our Smaugy dryer exhaled several scary puffs of smoke last week… and died.

But of course it would be dull for the story to end there, so it continues:  you probably knew (though I had to be informed) that hobbits are short but have no beards, while authentic dwarfs are short with beards. Well, we had only the short part of the dwarf description covered until one of our company (quite unintentionally) acquired the with beard part this weekend.

                          

The details of the event remain murky, and the available facts are limited to:

•         Two boys dwarfs
•         One bunk bed ladder
•         A body-floor collision
•         A gaping chin
•         Lots of blood
•    One hollering dwarf

Photo and transportation-to-ER credit: Uschi Jeffcoat

Several ER hours later, a sword-like needle promised to numb the quivering little dwarf chin – and it did… but not until after the 2^nd stitch was hooked:-(. But by the 3^rd stitch, tears still salting his cheeks, the short creature (whom I still assumed to be a dwarf) braved a smile and whispered: “I, Bilbo Baggins, did well.”

And indeed he did.

Being now a peculiar hobbit with a beard, he certainly earned his whiskers honestly.  And I daresay I detect a twinkle of accomplishment in his eye (and that chin poking just a little with pride) when he passes under the admiring gaze of the four beardless hobbits sharing his hole. 

The Murphy Revolution

Neels has been reading the Illustrated Classics version of Dickens'  A tale of two cities, which introduced him to an exciting new head-removing tool: the guillotine. Naturally he felt the need to build one himself.  When I walked out into the yard today, I encountered a revolution:

Devan: Neels, may I chop your head off?

Neels: No, I want to chop my own head off.

Devan: Please!  You’ve already chopped yours off several times.  May I please have a turn? 

(One has to appreciate the civility of their bloodthirsty conversations.)

Neels: OK… just once.  But don’t hurt me!

Neels’ head rolls with appropriate sound effects and the look on his face becoming less civilized by the second.): Owwwhhyeeey you hurt me!! Now I am going to chop your head off!!! 

Devan (calmly): No… I have a white shirt on.  I’d rather you not.

Neels (hot from excitement of having just lost his head): Oh come on!  Who cares about a white shirt? (Who does indeed?)

Devan (effectively diverting attention to another victim): Why don’t you chop Martin’s head off?

Neels (taking the bait WAY too easily): OH yeah!  Martin!!!!! Come here! Where’s Fritz? He’s next! Pieter? Where are you?

And so, by lunchtime, I had at least 4 headless boys running for food in order to fuel yet another Murphy revolution.  But the one with the white shirt… he of course made sure to keep his head.  It is called First Born Invented and Executed Democratic Autocracy.

celebrating belonging

But when the time arrived... God sent his Son... 

so that he might redeem those of us who have been kidnapped by the law. 

Thus we have been set free to experience our rightful heritage... 

fully adopted as his own children...

God sent the Spirit of his Son into our lives crying out, "Papa! Father!" 

- Galatians 4:4-5 MSG

J.I. Packer explains: "In adoption, God takes us into his family and fellowship -- he establishes us as his children and heirs. Closeness, affection and generosity are at the heart of the relationship. To be right with God the Judge is a great thing, but to be loved and cared for by God the Father is a greater." [Knowing God]

Therefore this Christmas we celebrate again

Jesus coming 

to redeem and adopt

us

into His family:

Respect your elders or else...

I was cleaning out some old folders on our computer and unearthed this video clip I received in an e-mail several years ago. Do you remember it? It was funny then,  but having reflected on the unstoppable and often sad and lonely reality of aging and the elderly this past year, I find it even funnier now.  The consequences for not respecting your elders could be costly  - especially for the ego of the arrogant.

redemption

Conversation with a Surgeon about a Little Boy's Broken Finger.

The finger, he said, is pretty messed up...

We humans, I heard, are pretty messed up.

It's broken, he said, it's worse than we thought...

We're broken, I heard, we're worse than we thought.

There is hope, he said, for healing of course...

There is hope, I heard, for redemption of course.

But growth, he said, may be crooked or odd...

And growth, I heard, refines the crooked'n odd.

And numbness, he said, cannot be ruled out...

but numbness, I heard, afflict even th' devout.

Yet movement, he said, should be fully restored...

There's movement, I heard, when the Spirit restores.

The whole finger, he smiled, is but part of his story...

The whole story, I smiled, is redemption, His glory.

watercolor

(nearly) Fingerless Fritz

I'm not sure what it is with Fritz and fingers, but it appears that he is determined to lose some.   And I guess being the last of five boys, he considered being the first to visit the ER a worthy contribution to a rather dull (:-o) family life.


So while investigating the extreme limits of a rocking chair's "rock",  he actually found that vital tipping point... to the detriment of a fingertip that bore the brunt of the impact and thus burst open(!) Skip the next 2 sentences if you have a vivid imagination and are sensitive to graphic descriptions. Devan described it afterwards as resembling a pull-tab soup can - half opened with the  contents spilling out. To me it resembled a weeping 3-petal tulip, and all I wanted was for those leaves to close back up and be bulb-like again!


If indeed angels are assigned to individual human beings, I suspect that boys need at least 2 of them at all times.  Our friend Chris chuckled with Scott and me (after the dust had settled and the blood had dried) as we imagined the possible conversation between Fritz' winged guardians yesterday morning: 


 "Angel Alert!  He’s going down! Every wing in position to buffer fall!"

Crash!!!!!!!!!!

"...Uh-o… who was supposed to cover the hands?!!"

"You were!"

"No, you were!"

"No I wasn’t – I secured his feet!"

"Not my fault, I held his head." 
"Oh dear... we better head on over to the ER and make up for this or we might just have our wings clipped!"

But despite our musings about imaginary heavenly panic, we vividly experienced the Lord going before us and holding everything together - specifically the finger and especially the mom:

We unknowingly ran to the wrong ER door, (it actually was the ambulance door), but as we realized our mistake and changed course, an EMT took pity on us and ushered us right into the heart of the ER, bypassing the waiting room.(!)

Dr. Bryon Frost (a friend) attended to Fritz. Our nurse (mother of 4 with a little boy Fritz' age) was a great comfort to this guilt-ridden mom. Dottie was available to comfort and care for the other boys at home. 

A mere 4 hours later we returned home with 12 stitches and a boy who... still acts very much like a boy.  He lost neither a beat nor a finger.  It is his mother who is still missing a few beats... and she sincerely hopes that The Fritz will not find life-as-the-caboose too dull too often...

Update (one week after incident): We found out today that the distal phalange (very end- bone) of the afflicted finger is actually broken... "crushed and kind of split down the middle" our hand surgeon friend informed us. There is also a slight possibility of sensory nerve damage. The good news is that The Fritz' age puts him in the "close-enough-to-creation-to-self-correct" category and the best treatment is to just let it be.  The bad news is that The Mom is shaken all over again!

During a recent visit to the hardware store, our "Bit of Hot Lava" was determined to convince Scott of his need for a new screwdriver.  You must understand at this point that this little boy already is was the owner of several screwdrivers. SEVERAL.  Being the wise man that he is, Scott was not swayed by the begging, puppy-like brown eyes framed by freckles and a reddish mop of hair.  Instead, he reminded Mr. Hot Lava about all the screwdrivers-in-residence waiting at home.  To which came the reply: "Well, you see.... I actually do not have them anymore... Mamma took them away."
Wise man: "Well, I am sure she must have had a very good reason for taking them away...?"
Hot Lava:" Wellllll, it all started when I used that one screwdriver as a dagger to attack Devan."
No Comment.
No new screwdriver either.

Mr. Hot Lava in Greek Warrior attire with alternative weapon in hand. 

And on the 7th day you will... erupt.

It is Sunday morning. There’s a kind of hush all over the world… all over the world except in the Murphy home.  The Tribe is dressed for worship and are supposed to be on the couch, semi-quietly occupying themselves so that their parents can become suitably clad as well. 

The “semi-quiet” part of our instruction to them was apparently sufficiently vague in nature, resulting in liberal interpretation, evidenced by the cry that soon stormed our way: Daddyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!! He hit me in the eye!

Scott (usually the more compassionate parent) responded with little interest or sympathy: Well, y'all are playing rough and that’s what happens when you play rough.

The "injured" boy, surprised and slightly taken aback, replied: OH no, we are not playing rough!!  We were just being volcanoes and the volcano just happened to explode at the wrong time!

With that he makes a one-eighty and speeds back to the “semi-quiet waiting area” with a: “Here I come, guys!  I’m a bit of hot lava!”

It is Sunday Morning.  There’s a kind of hush all over the world… except in the Murphy home where erupting volcanoes are ushering in the Sabbath.

(My sincere apologies to the unfortunate Sunday school teachers who had bits of hot lava on their hands for one long hour!)

Childproof?

Our home has been childproof for 8 years now.  Or so I thought.  You see, being a slow processor, it has taken me these last 96+ months to realize two seemingly obvious realities:

1)      childproof and boy-proof are 2 entirely different concepts

2)      1^st born boy-proof and 5^th born boy-proof are not comparable ideas

It all started when The Fritz decided to enroll himself in The Congaree Boys School.  His application was of course denied, but he keeps showing up nonetheless.  He has been expelled to his bed on several occasions, but some other boy (who is not coming forth) showed him how to escape.  So now we have to manage The Fritz ON our school table way too often.

 On one of his table expeditions, he got hold of this very interesting thing.  No-one noticed until… until he came to show us his sharpened fingers.  HIS WHAT?  Yes, he sharpened both his index fingers.  No cry, no alarm, no considering it a bad idea after sharpening the first!  Just a mere interested expression of “look at this odd red fluid dripping from my most useful exploration digits.”

No (serious) harm done.  He still has all the important aspects of his fingers – merely missing some skin and nails. Judging by the twinkle in his eye and the perpetual bump on his forehead, I fear a boy-proof environment in this house to be an unrealistic pursuit. 

blessed are the jungle dwellers

Blessed are those who live in the jungle, for they will not have sewer trouble. They may have other troubles, but no congested sewer systems to explode into (yes into) their homes.

Blessed is the jungle dweller because he does not have a concrete driveway on which a child can mar his face. Though they may bust their heads on many other things, concrete it will not be.

Blessed are they who rely on their feet with no other options of transportation. Not only do they benefit from fitness as a natural state of being, the absence of the expectation of an available and operable vehicle eliminates potential locomotion discontentment.

Blessed are those who set traps, hunt and wholly live off the land. While it is true that dinner may not exactly present itself to be killed and cooked when hunger strikes, they are at least likely to creatively fill a tummy without need of a grocery store - and a vehicle to get there.

Blessed are those without watches or calendars, for they are not slaves to such cruel taskmasters.

May I just say: This week I desired to be a jungle resident.

Click picture to enlarge.

Oh the things that we'll learn...

Parenting is a strange season in life – you learn the most unusual things. And I refer to those things that the books don’t even mention - probably intentionally. For who would be “fruitful, multiply, and fill the earth” if we knew all these things ahead of time?

Had there been a booklet: Essential Secret Information – Read This Before Considering a Family, it would most certainly include a section on bunk bed ladders. Experience has taught us that the cute ladder that comes with a bunk bed often causes more distress (for the mom) than it ends up being an avenue for getting a boy into his bed. Be sure, however, that the mother’s anguish is not ignited by the customary climbing of the ladder. (Bunk Bed companies do post all kind of bizarre warnings - on an equally silly sticker that will not come off for anything in the world - about how to climb a ladder.) It is the unorthodox use of the ladder that makes her banish the thing eventually.

You know what I am talking about: the removable ladder doubles as a fire truck, serves as a barricade (and all that comes with the need for such barrier – think war), becomes part of unwanted construction projects, and is propped up against all that is breakable in the house – for gymnastic purposes.

So you will understand that this mother was elated when The Experienced and Esteemed Mr. Wick Jackson (experienced and esteemed especially because he is one of 4 boys) came up with an ingenious plan to reduce motherly ladder-induced stress. He designed a built-in bunk bed (so they cannot tear it down) with a built-in ladder (in order to end and prevent any unsolicited use of such equipment.)

My heart was at ease… but not for long. The unmovable ladder did not meet boy-needs anymore, so they kindly introduced me to another section of the unpublished booklet: Boys and Heights – The Unquenchable Need and Ensuing Deed.

After capturing this clip, I was casually informed that Neels recently flew from the top bunk. I have no difficulty believing it. I am sure it is in the section: Boys and Flight – An Innate Trait. Oh the things we are yet to learn…

Lazy MinneMazy

Lazy Mazy was a bird. Do you remember her? Dr. Seuss tells the tale of this bird who laid an egg but was weary of doing what it takes to see it through to hatching. So she convinced the ever kind-hearted Horton the Elephant to sit on her egg for just a little while so she could stretch her wings for a bit.

So Horton the Elephant sat… and sat… and sat… through various trials and tribulations, waiting patiently and loyally for Lazy Mazy to return. Well Lazy Mazy did not just stretch her wings a little bit – she stretched them far and she stretched them w i d e. She went off on a glamorous vacation and stayed and stayed and stayed, shirking her duty, avoiding responsibility, basking in a liberated life… only to return moments before the egg hatches.

(click picture to enlarge)

Ugghhh - such a devious bird Mazy was. Such a bad mom. Who wants to identify with her?

Well… come to think of it... I do! And so I did. Weary of sitting on a bouncy nest, Scott and I flew off this past week after having implored at least 4 kind Hortons to guard our 5 eggs for a few days.

Now, at the time of departure, I had every intention off doing my duty and returning as promised … but within the first deliciously quiet moments of our escape I changed my mind: I was never, under any circumstances, returning to reality. LazyMazyness was my new real. Only a CrazyMazy would return to a nest brimming with 5 always-about-to-explode boy-eggs after tasting the emancipation of a place where no-one bickers, no-one leaves clean clothes and mud tracks on the floor (and if they do it certainly is no care of mine), and no-one wails because his banana is not served fast enough.

LazyMazyness afforded the unconcerned freedom of walking into a “breakables” store without having to fear the inevitable CRASH that would be caused by someone in my party, the luxury of soaking up colors while slouching on a couch in a favorite gallery, the serenity of reading a novel in a coffee-garden while sipping sweet caffeine because I want to, not because I need it to get through the day.

With LazyMazyness also came the joy of conversing uninterrupted with the (rather cute) man I married 10 years ago, discovering with some relief that we indeed still have a lot in common – other than those 5 eggs in the (by now forgotten) nest.

It was bliss. It was beautiful. It was… time to go home.

I sulked. I sniffed. I rebelled. But we respected our faithful Hortons-at-home too much to leave them sitting on our nest ad infinitum. (Though it was a very tempting contemplation…)

Thank you Emily, Nick, Didi and Grandpa for allowing me to be a LazyMazy for a few days! As a result of your kindness and bravery I like my husband, my nest, and my boys better. (And I suspect that my absence was a great source of refreshment to them as well.)

But… I am afraid that I don’t like them quite well enough yet… so… how about you all play Horton again soon… like maybe… next week? Yes??!!

we have a team

Whenever we go out as a family, we inevitably get the “Oh, you have a team!” comment.(Not being super familiar in American sports, I stand confused as to what kind of team we actually have: some people affirm us a basketball team, some count enough heads for a football team and others declare a baseball team. So either The Tribe moves so much it is hard to get an accurate head count, or many of our spectators are not very familiar with American sports either? I guess the former is more probable.)

I, however, usually inform the observer that what we really have is a Demolition Team. My comment is more often than not met with blank stares: A what…? Surely these sweet boys would never… They are too small to swing a tool of mass (I mean much)destruction… Destroy what…? I never explain. If they have not seen or experienced it, no words will convince them. Because you see, our boys do not need tools for mass destruction. They are born already equipped with hands and feet… and that 3 ½ lb thing balancing on top of their shoulders that is occasionally consulted - to determine who wins the “did-most-damage” trophy of the day.

Now in their defense: I do not think they typically plan the demolition. It seems to me that they just find themselves in the midst of it – not knowing how it started, why it started, or who started it. Because put a tool (and I use the term very loosely for anything in their possession is likely to become a tool) in their hands, and you have potential ruin.

Our friend, Mr. Wick Jackson, understands… and he is rooting for our Team! He assures me that this natural tendency towards shattering and scattering [stuff around] is a good thing. It is “By-Design”. It is their job. So he took the title of Team Manager upon himself and volunteered to direct the accustomed higgledy-piggledy demolition into constructive destruction.

He gave them a coach (Coach Glen Head,)

he gave them equipment ( hammers)

and he gave them a playing field (an old brick chimney hiding in the walls of our house.)

The aim of the game was simple: destroy it.

The rules were few: do wear shoes and do not throw bricks at each other.
(click picture to enlarge)

I watched with a smile – the first time ever I watched with a favorable facial expression - as they devastated something. I smiled because my assessment has been right on (and, ahem, it is good for a mother's self-esteem to be right sometimes, regardless of what she is right about): they are professional Obliterators. And I smiled because they were really good at it. And I smiled because it was obvious that they were created to do this. And I smiled because they loved it. And I smiled because the men coaching them enjoyed it. I smiled as they knocked and hammered and banged and thumped and bashed and slashed that chimney down all the way to the dust of the foundation.

And then I stopped smiling.

Game over.

No more chimney.

No more playing field.

Big Problem... they had tasted victory. They had pumped muscles. Adrenaline was oooozing out of their pores. They were hot and wired. They wanted more. Yikes! Now what Mr. Wick Jackson?

We do have a team: a Demolition Team. They’re good, they are ready, they’re available, they’re free – you want them?