Quotable Pearl, age 5

A week ago Sunday, Will’s mother and brother came to visit us. For several days beforehand, I’d plotted how and when to clean and de-clutter, and my good intentions had been repeatedly thwarted. The night before their arrival, I was bemoaning my total failure as a housekeeper when this Pearl of wisdom flowed from my 5-year-old’s lips: “Gramma C and Uncle S won’t care about the mess, Mommy. They’ll only care about the children.”

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Yesterday in children’s church, those present reported to us later, Pearl explained the theological concept of temptation to her peers using this analogy: “God is the superhero because he makes all the good things happen. The Devil is the villain because he makes all the bad things happen. When we make bad things happen, we’re all villains, too.” And there you have it, kids—temptation, in a nutshell: Resist the urge to be villainous.

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In keeping with her development as a saint-in-the-making: This morning before school I ran a bath for Pearl—her hair needed washing. I brought a bright pink plastic cup from the kitchen with which to douse her head and she demanded: “What in the hills is that for?!”

Quotable Ben, age almost 7

“How big is Heaven? … Is it bigger than Russia?”

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“My teachers keep saying that I’m kind.”

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Listening to Vi practice her 6^th-grade trombone music: “I know that song – I think it’s by Justin Bieber.”

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Holding the book for bedtime story, so I could nurse the baby while we read:

Mommy: “OK, next page…”

Ben puts his hand to his nose, then turns the page.

Mommy: “Why’d you do that?”

Ben: “I was just sniffin’ my hand – that’s what people do when they turn the page.”

Old haunts, old wastebaskets, and vague-but-vivid dreams about seeing the world (not necessarily in that order)

(I have to be brief because, per usual, I don’t have much time. You might say my free moments come in sound bites these days.)

First, “old wastebaskets.” Well, one. One wastebasket. Today, while rinsing a mustard poop-covered FuzziBunz and leaving it to soak by the utility sink, I realized that I had purchased that particular pink plastic pail in the summer of 1992, anticipating my freshman year of college. And here it is, nearly two decades later, helping me soak my fourth child’s dirty laundry. In the ebb and flow of all the crapola that clutters our middle-class American lives, you never know which stuff’s gonna stick through the years.

Second, world dreams. Maybe it’s because I’m working on an article for my alma mater about alumni living thither and yon. Perhaps it’s because—I confess—I’ve been purposely avoiding excruciating reports of catastrophe and suffering throughout the globe (I already feel too heavy-laden to bear any more burdens than I must). Or maybe it’s because I have been enjoying, vicariously, the youthful adventures of an A-Town college girl currently touring Europe. Whatever the reason, I awoke today with the trail of a vivid, breath-taking, 3-D dream following me into the morning. (Or—ya think?—maybe I just gotta get outta dodge more often than … hardly ever!)

Third, old haunts. A few short years ago I went to see a show at the A-Town Aud. The H.S. Theatre Dept. was presenting Little Women, a wonderful Broadway musical I’d never seen. I wrote about the experience, pre-blog, but I’ve drummed up a way for you to read it here. Meanwhile, the ever-rolling stream rolls on, and last night I sat in the same auditorium, watching in amazement as my own dear daughter took to the stage—and seized it! I felt proud of her performance, but also dazed by my memories. Seeing her hair dangling in long ringlets, her makeup-caked face shining in the spotlight, her black shoes collecting dust from the same wooden floor I once trod … it was a bit like an out-of-body experience. Or another vivid, breath-taking, 3-D dream.

'A lovely night ... a finer night you know you'll never see'

Our Vi takes the stage tonight as Joy-the-snorting-stepsister in the A-Town production of Cinderella (Rodgers and Hammerstein), 7 p.m., Middle School Aud. -- should be fun! (I have stage-mother butterflies...)

Two shows Saturday also, 12 noon and 7 p.m.

Benediction/Invocation of too many to-do's, not enough time, and life, Lent

Much to mull over, consider, pursue--
more than I humanly can.

Lord, help me discern,
decipher and delegate,

decide the dogged:
"to do or not do?"

And then...
Deem the ream of to-do's:
Redeemed!

By the Father of time,
Son of "the hour has come," and the
Spirit of truth in lending--

for truly,
my time is but lent.

As the time of Lent approaches,
reproaching me for frittered minutes:

"Teach me to number my days aright,
that I may gain a heart of wisdom."

Amen.

Truth on a grocery list

I was tidying up our main living space this morning, muttering to myself about the incredible accumulation of crumbs, paper scraps, raisins, M&Ms, and broken bits of crayon on the floor I’d just swept yesterday. I was breathing sighs of gratitude for hardwood, not carpet; and I was mentally churning over the array of chores and errands available for my attention today. 

I need to make a list! I realized. Grabbing the nearest scrap of paper littering the living room, along with a Halloween-themed pencil, I scribbled, ironically: paper. The stack we keep by the computer—the one that gets raided regularly for craft projects and ends up in pieces on the hardwood floor—was gone. Next, toilet paper. Then juice, cheese, chocolate chips… (Some people would be grossed out by mixing grocery items with toiletries. Not me…not after living with infants and children for nearly 12 years.)

“What are you writing?” Pearl the master mess-maker inquired.

“Making a list of things we need,” I mumbled back, trying hard to channel the household deficiencies I’d noted recently onto the (literally) crummy piece of paper.

“Like toys?” she asked eagerly. My eyes scanned the kaleidoscopic collection of plastic entertainment cluttering our kid-friendly home.

“Of course,” I agreed, not wanting to lose focus to explain to her the meaning of “irony.”

Toys, I jotted on the list.

Satisfied, she went back to her mess-making. About a minute went by. I kept scribbling, she kept crafting.

“Did you write ‘Jesus’?” she wanted to know.

“Huh?”

“You should write ‘Jesus’ on the list,” she insisted.

“But I can’t buy Jesus at the store,” I said, very grown-up-like.

“But Jesus is definitely something we need!”

Amen, dear child, amen.

The real problem of the Christian life comes where people do not usually look for it. It comes the very moment you wake up each morning. All your wishes and hopes for the day rush at you like wild animals. And the first job each morning consists simply in shoving them all back; in listening to that other voice, taking that other point of view, letting that other larger, stronger, quieter life come flowing in.  And so on, all day. Standing back from all your natural fussings and frettings; coming in out of the wind. — C.S. Lewis

Words fail

These are dark, dark days in A-Town: Suspect could face first-degree murder charge. Since Saturday, when the news broke, I’m finding it hard to sleep, nevermind write. I know that such horrific things happen daily throughout the world, but this is the first time it’s happened a block and a half from my house. Heaven help us.