breath

My eyes open and I worry that I'm already behind.  She screamed so long and hard it feels like I just fell asleep.  The glowing numbers of the clock come into focus and I breathe out a thank you God that I'm a morning person.  I uncurl, stretch, and make my way to the bathroom.  As I get dressed I'm reciting the things that need to happen before 8:35.  I got this.  Probably. 

Too early, One comes up for a cuddle, anxious as always on a Monday morning.  With an eye out the window for the neighbour kids who need us for five more mornings, I fill cereal bowls and smile as I remember our family win of a skating outing yesterday.  These months have been hard.  Hella hard at times.  Inviting little ones and their accompanying brokenness into our home, into our family, into our hearts.  It is heavy.  It pervades and permeates and doesn't ask permission to hang its darkness over our days.  But, is it just me, or is He deepening my perception of His beauty in this mess?  I smile at the kooky picture of the seven of us, Five's helmet-ed head peaking out from behind me, as we skate on the river. 

My smile falls as I hear the tell-tale sound of One bouncing a ball against the wall in his room.  Sure enough, he woke Two.  I stop him before they all wake like dominos.  Neighbours arrive and the morning is off and I wonder what I will behold today. 

In pockets of peace I remember to breathe.  This Almighty-breath gives life, slows the fickle worried heart so it can truly see.  This circus that makes me crazy?  I love it.  I love them.  I struggle with how much more He might ask of me.  Inside my family or outside.  It's scary to dwell on and I wonder why.  Many days I feel I have nothing selfish left in me, but oh Lord I am so wrong.  I have given, twice.  Poured out in big-enough ways, I tell myself.  Months and months in I am finally seeing how He is working, weaving, winning at the important things in me, in my littles, in those who find themselves inside our spheres.  Dare I say, He is glorying in letting me behold glimpses of the fullness of His radiance.  Where I swear it wasn't before.  Where I wouldn't have thought it could ever be.  Beholding His beauty, pressing on to acknowledge His Emmanuel presence - not only inspite of the painful brokenness, but also right smack dab in those tear-stained, unlikely-to-be-glorious, caught-between-a-rock-and-a-hard-place, down-on-my-knees-wondering-where-this-is-going messes.   He is not afraid of messy and His breath gives me life.

He's Six!

Every so often, one too many dinosaurs on the floor or cars between the couch cushions breaks this mama-camel's back and the frenzy begins.  I'm off on a mission to return every stray creation to the Lego table, organize the helter-skelter book shelf, and declutter the bulletin board of its many now-one-eyed masterpieces.  As I work my way room to room, I eventually find myself staring at the cave that is Niko's bed.

First I haul out the blankets - of which there are four, plus a bathrobe that is used as a blanket.  Then the five pillows, eight stuffed animals, two Hot Wheels, four pieces of Lego, a paper airplane, two books, and a basketball.  Not to mention the four brightly coloured shoelaces that are woven through the slats of the bunk above his and hang down like stalactites and the rat's nest of scotch tape supposedly keeping them in place.  

It makes me claustrophobic just to think about sleeping in this chaos as I put away the toys, books, shoelaces, two pillows, and half the stuffies.  I spread the remaining stuffies out, hoping I can get away with this purging.  Because if there is one thing I know about Niko, it is that he is equal parts method and madness.   

The same kid who carelessly forgets where he put his favourite toy for days on end, can remember that the small dog won the jumping competition when we went to the Brandon Winter Fair almost two years ago, while the big dog knocked the obstacle down trying to jump over it even after three tries.  

The same kid who struggles to grasp the bigger picture of how his behaviour affects the people around him, has built a detailed map in his mind that allows him to navigate routes to Gramma and Grampa's, the ice cream store, McIvor park, the arena, downtown, and countless other places.  

The same kid who has been wearing shorts all winter, who sleeps between fleece sheets all summer because he 'needs to be cozy', who throws tantrums before every Christmas family gathering that I want him to wear a polo shirt for, is also the one who is most likely to give hugs, drape his arm across my back, lay his head on my shoulder, or sit his 50+ pounds on my lap.  

Negotiating the juxtaposition of Niko's extremes can make some days a bit of a minefield, and I find myself on my knees in prayer at least as often as I find myself on them to clean up a mess of toys or a mess of hearts.  

In it all, I find my mind wandering once again to the enigma that is my Saviour.  Full of juxtaposition of His own, His holiness butts up against His humility.  His majesty interfaces mysteriously with His mindfulness of me.  He is brimming with glory, yet it is His grace that overflows.  I almost have time to finish my thought when I hear the accusing words.

"WHERE ARE MY STUFFIES??"  

I shake my head in amazement as my son lists, ridiculously, every stuffed animal I dared to remove from his bed.  Apparently there was, as I should have known, method to his madness.