Time

Five weeks ago we delivered a healthy son. He is already much bigger, more alert, and displaying the foundational aspects of his personality. Jack is five. Five years have passed since the day he breathed his first breath. Annie will soon turn three. I watch the years thunder by like a high speed train - clickity clack, clickity clack, clickity clack - and my heart aches. Another year is all but gone, its bundle of life tossed over our shoulders into the vaguely remembered past.

Time is a prostitute, she lends herself to everyone, but gives herself to no one. Have I taken full advantage of her this year? Have I Breathed in her fullness? Have I surrendered myself to experiencing each curve of her body and strand of her hair? Each soft place and hard place? Perhaps the fear of missing something keeps me from fully entangling myself in each moment.

But since there are so few moments, there is no point but to treat myself with nothing but compassionate understanding, allowing myself to passionately flail, and sometimes fail, through life. And to face the world - my children, my family, friends, and strangers - with the same gracious gift, as everyone else struggles to experience what moments they have.

So live in compassion. That is, I suppose, where God lives, too.

The Third of July

For our local town, Independence Day is celebrated on the third of July. Why? I don't know, but it is. Crowds packed the small park at the center of town and lined up on the grass along main street for at least a mile. The local high school bussed even more visitors in from the school's parking lot, swelling the population from under 1000 to at least twice that. Carnival vendors in tents sold food. Others, meandering between lawn chairs and blankets, hawked glowing plastic jewelry.

We were lucky to find a single open parking spat at a bank about a quarter mile from the park and, as a quartet of old warplanes circled overhead in various formations, walked to the grassy bank on the near side of the park's little creek. It was already nine o'clock, so we expected the show to start soon. Patriotic music interspersed with garbled announcements accompanied the dance between the fireflies and the children trying to catch them.

"I'm tired. I want to go to bed." My kids started complaining within seconds of spreading our blanket and sitting down. We assured them it would only be a few minutes before the fireworks started. But, although a profusion of fiery blossoms burst from the surrounding residential areas and a mass of grumbling mountainous clouds edged into the dark skies between the park and the stars, the city's ceremony dragged on.

My children's grumbling escalated as the thunder clouds crept into place. By quarter to ten, it appeared mother nature would start her own spectacular light show first. We didn't share the apparent general belief that, in the spirit of Independence Day and its celebration, God would prevent any severe lightning over the crowd. So we took up our blanket and trekked back to the car. Once there, the kids insisted on being buckled in, but still we didn't leave.

At five minutes to ten, just as the storm drew overhead, the fireworks finally started. White flashes of lightning frisked with the red, blue, green and gold bursts, painting the low clouds in a gyrating rainbow of light. We stayed for another ten minutes before succumbing to the demands of our children by climbing into the front seats, putting on our seat-belts, and going on our way. We weren't the only ones leaving early. Ominous sky to ground lightning lit up the skies to the south. 

The fourth, a clear and balmy night, we stayed home. The kids went to bed on time and we watched the big city fireworks through our back windows as the bloomed along the horizon. 

A Primer on Female Persuasion

She was wrapped around her daddy's leg screeching and giggling, "I catched you!"

Now you owe me a hug and a kiss," Daddy said. "When you catch me, you have to give me a hug and a kiss."

"No," she giggled, climbing onto his belly.

"Okay, then here come the tickle birds!"

Annie twisted and turned, laughing and screaming. After a few minutes, Daddy took a break from tickling her to grab two sticks of Lincoln Logs beside him. He began tapping them together.

"Give them to me," she demanded, reaching for the sticks.

"No, I'm playing with them," he answered, blocking her.

Several more blocked attempts, and my two year old daughter paused, sat up, tilted her head, and blinked her lash-fringed blue eyes at her daddy. "Hug and kiss?"

His crooked smile told me he wasn't fooled, but he answered, "Yes, hug and kiss."

She leaned forward and, wrapping her small arms about his neck, planted a soft kiss on his lips. Sitting up with a smile, she asked, "Have those?"

Daddy gave them to her.

Slipping to the floor next to him, she struck the sticks together, "making music."

Daddy picked up a small colored ball and tossed it from hand to hand.

Annie dropped the sticks and held out a hand, "Have that?"

"No, I'm playing with it," Daddy replied.

She reached for the ball, he blocked her attempt. The physical battle was much shorter. "Hug and kiss?" she suggested.

"Yes, hug and kiss," Daddy agreed. She climbed onto his chest, wrapped her small arms about his neck, and planted another soft kiss on his lips. Sitting up with a triumphant smile, she asked, "Have that?"

Daddy held the ball out of her reach, preparing his lecture. "Now Annie, just because you give someone a hug and a kiss doesn't mean you'll always get what you want, especially with boys. Understand?"

"Yes," she grinned, then watched the ball drop into her hand.

Is there Strength in the Neck?

"The man is the head," dramatic pause, "but the woman is the neck." Although everyone had heard the phrase before, they guffawed gaily and glanced around suggestively. This launched a merry discussion among my family and friends, very intelligent married women included, on how a woman might manipulate a man into doing as she wished by wearing lingerie and clouding his thinking with passion. My uncle, a man of outspoken opinion, suggested the sooner a woman learned to remove her outer garments, the better off a couple would be.

I admit, I sat in silent shock, failing to defend the strength of a woman's mind, the persuasiveness of her speech, and the undeniably insightful feminine wisdom. These were my peers. Well educated women raised in a culture of gender equality casting off their sharp intellects, logical arguments, and verbal acumen to rely on the powers of the body. Thereby taking advantage of the man in his weakened, sex-heightened state. Was no one offended?

The conversation passed into another. Time slipped away, as it always does, and faimiles drove off to their own homes. Mark and I went up to prepare for bed. "Can you believe what they were saying?" my wonderful husband huffed. "That's just what I was talking about. As long as women use their bodies to control men, they'll be treated like objects." We'd had this discussion before. Often, I supported the occasional use of feminine graces to gain an advantage, just as a man might sometimes use his superior speed, or strength. But this time, we were in accord. "That's why I love you," he finished, "because of your mind." I smiled.

Several nights later, well past the time I'm usually open to lovemaking, I ventured from the bedroom to the kitchen, where my husband, Mark, sat surfing the internet. I suggested, with a coy smile, he come to bed. Hearing my tone of voice, his eyes jumped from the screen, his brows raised, and he mouthed, "Can we?" casting a surreptitious glance at the oven clock.

I grinned, "Yeah. I have something I need you to do for me."

"Oh. What?" he said.

I laughed. Wow, that was easy, maybe it's not such a bad idea after all...

Learning to be Beautiful

Pink is Jack's favorite color right now. He complained bitterly when Annie got to wear the tights she proclaimed "beautiful" to church last Sabbath and he had to wear a button down shirt and shorts. So, midweek, he found a pair of Annie's too-large pink tights, stripped to his undies, and pulled them on. Digging a pair of pretty pink gloves out of the same drawer, he donned them and pranced out of the room to dance through the house, thrilled with bathing in the beauty of pink. That outfit became his standard attire for the remainder of the week. He skid across the floor behind a tricycle, he pushed around his cars and trains, he even slipped outside and dug in the mud, all in pink tights and gloves. I took some pictures and videos. Eyebrows were raised (a pair of them mine), smirks exchanged (yup, me too), and teasing ensued questioning what unmanly genes my husband may have passed down to our son.

Annie loves cars, planes, helicopters, and trains. She steals Jack's Lightening McQueen sandals, fights over his matchbox cars to stuff into the back of her "happy bear" plush backpack, plays "race cars" pushing a stroller around at breakneck speeds, and her favorite shirt is a hand-me-down with Thomas the Train's happy face on the front. She wants to climb, play hockey, and dig in the mud. No eyebrows are raised, no smirks exchanged... no one questions the unwomanly genes I may have passed down to our daughter. Oh no, a tom boy with long blond hair and beautiful blue eyes is always adored.

Offensive: My son learns appreciation of beauty from the sister he adores and is ridiculed. My daughter learns appreciation for mechanical things from the brother she adores and is praised.

Delightful: My daughter's strengths are expanding my son's perspectives.

Delightful: My son's strengths are expanding my daughter's perspectives.

Fortunately Jack and Annie aren't socially sophisticated enough to understand the scorn of a smirk. But the time will come when the devastation of condescension invades their emotional security. I'd better not be the one to introduce the concept to them.

Is it time to wake up?

"I haven't seen Nanny in a long time," Jack said.

I stopped singing "The Old Rugged Cross," the first song in our nightly ritual. "No, you haven't. Do you remember that Nanny died: We buried her in the ground. We won't see her again until Jesus comes. Then, Nanny will come up out of the ground and go with us up into the sky to meet Jesus and go to Heaven.

Jack stared up at the green stars scattered by his night-light across his ceiling and thought for a moment. "In Heaven, Nanny will never, ever, ever, EVER die again?"

"That's right. Nanny will never ever, ever, EVER die again." He was quiet, so I started singing again.

But Jack had one more comment, "Airplanes take us to airports, but clouds take us to Heaven."

I grinned into the darkness, "Yes."

Yesterday a friend of mine sent me a link to a sermon series by David Gates called, "The Extreme Series." I listened to the first sermon yesterday. Now I wonder, are we deep in the darkness of the early morning? Are we the bridesmaids that were all ready when the cry went out in 1844, but who have fallen asleep now since such a long time has passed? Will we awaken in time? Are we among the wise with the extra cruise of oil?

I almost never watch TV. I live in blithe ignorance of the events surrounding the times. I hate seeing reports on crime, economic depression, world wars, starvation, and murder, so I ignore it. I suppose it's a bit like refusing to look at the sky. Is it fair, or cloudy? Are there severe thunderstorms ahead with tornados about to touch down? Should I be running to my Shelter? Is David Gates a modern-day Noah, or is he crazy?

Jesus promised He would return. Do I believe Him, or will a coming Armageddon simply spin us into another dark age of human existence as so many books and movies project. Jesus said he would come as a thief in the night to those in darkness. I don't want to be want to be in the darkness! Give me the Light!

Starting down the Laine

At the suggestion of a few friends, I have entered the realm of blogging. I'd like to think they pushed me to record my thoughts in a public arena because of my unique world view, insight, and wisdom, but I'm suspicious it's because they got tired of getting generic emails from me with pictures of my kids. 

I admit I have not been one to peruse blogs. When reminded, I like to read my friends, but, by the time they remind me, I've forgotten my ID and password. 

What shall I write? Full of ignorance, I am, nevertheless, embarking down a new path. The Sonya Laine. If I see any interesting scenery along the way, I guess I'll post my thoughts and pictures here. We'll see how it goes...