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.  

Connect

Papa, You came to connect and I, of all people can understand that.  You came to empathize with one side by taking on its form.  You ate its meals and felt its feels.  You wore its skin and hugged its kin, donned its clothes and dirtied its toes.  You were one of us.  Except for where You also weren't.  Because You were one of us for the sole purpose of connecting us with Who You really where and Who You really came from.  I know the desire to connect.  I know the drive to reach out, to extend empathy, to remember, to remind.  I know the desire to love and be loved.  In my heart of hearts, I want to believe that You desire me that way.  And I want that truth to change my every word and motive.  Papa, You sent Yourself in my likeness to make the ultimate connection for me and I adore You for it.

Mother (Luke 1:43)

I find it fairly easy to imagine how she held You to her skin, just moments after You were born.  I can picture her swaddling You, cuddling You, nursing You.  I can feel the joy she treasured up in her heart.

But at the end of my day I wonder, did she tell You 'no' or haul You off the table for the umpteenth time?  Did she grab Your hand when You tried to run across the street or holler for You when You dawdled far behind?  Did she shoo You out of the kitchen before dinner or require that You help with the dishes?  Did she ask You four times to wash Your face or send You to play outside?  Did she insist that You eat Your vegetables or refuse to listen to Your sixth bedtime excuse?

Did she sigh about Your mischief and miss seeing Your strengths for what they were?

Did she tell You she loved You as many times as she told You 'just a minute'?

Mighty (Isaiah 9:6)

Papa,
You are the mighty God.  Today I adore You in that might, even as plead for it in this little pocket of family that is overwhelming and fragile.  Lord, my biggest little needs Your might today, this week.  He has looked his weakness in the eyes, yelled at it, and been brought to tears of humility.  Show Him Your might in overcoming.  Show Him Your might inside of him in places He never knew.  May my heart and his beat in rhythm with the movements of Your mighty grace within these walls.

Tender (Psalm 119:77)

Tender is one of those things that you can't be on the inside without it being obvious on the outside.  It translates accordingly into words and actions, posture and attitude.  Amidst the power and glory of my God, perhaps I haven't put much thought into His tenderness.

But I whisper-adore under my breath as I put in the first load of laundry, trusting that this truth will become my truth this day.  I watch the sun ease it's way above the trees and picture His hand cupping it from below, slowly and tenderly lifting it to fuller brilliance.

I think of chosen gentleness in the face of anger, chosen laughter in the aftermath of dissension.  Sometimes tenderness is deliberate, I suppose.  A gracious response despite preceding circumstances.

But sometimes tenderness just leaks from a genuine heart.  Amidst the rowdy chaos of family and pizza and birthdays, a little boy strokes his baby cousin's cheek, the younger one's eyes adoringly fixated on the giver of the gesture.

His tender mercies come to me.  And my response could not be anything but wholehearted adoration.