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The Pelican

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Last week we went to the beach. The sun and the sand and the water felt like a dream after a long and snowy Colorado winter.

One afternoon I walked with the boys along the water’s edge in that space where the tide rushes in and out, leaving behind a wet and settled path. We came upon a man sitting in a large dug-out pit on the beach. All we could see was his head and shoulders and his bright yellow shirt that was wet and stuck to his skin. Once we came closer we saw he was carving out a large animal in the sand.

Cooper asked him what he was building and the man asked him to guess what it was. Cooper guessed pterodactyl. Cal guessed bird. Crosby guessed octopus. The man said they were all pretty close (though Crosby really wasn’t but the man was kind). He said he was building a pelican and he showed us a pelican photo sealed in a Ziploc bag. He had also drawn measurements in inches and feet around the image in the photo, making clear this was no spontaneous let’s-build-a-sandcastle whim but rather a thoughtful and deliberate plan. His pelican looked more alive than the real pelican in the photo. This intricate three-dimensional sand version reminded me of the thoughtfulness of God’s design.

I asked him how long he had been working because he appeared sunburned and overheated. He said he started early in the morning. As we stood admiring his sculpture I also noticed that the tide was slowly creeping up toward it. I felt a pang of worry and a strange surge of protection over this work that was not even mine. I preemptively felt bad for this poor man who had labored so hard and so intentionally on this creation when I thought about the tide’s certain approach, imagining water filling the pocket and this beautiful pelican falling apart and away with the receding flow.

“Aren’t you worried the water is going to come in?” I asked, wondering why he didn’t start higher up on the beach and away from the ocean.

He looked at me, smiled, and quietly said, “No, I’m not worried. It is sand. It was always supposed to go back to the water. It was never supposed to stay.”

I smiled and nodded and turned to continue our walk down the shore as the boys raced ahead of me.

I don’t know how long the pelican lasted on that beach, whether it made it through the night or through the light rain that came the following afternoon. But I learned that it didn’t really matter. The pelican was always going to be temporary. It was created out of love to be shared but always intended to be returned home.

It made me think of all of the things I hold so tightly, all of the things I am so afraid to lose, and helped me realize I need to learn to hold with open palms instead of a tight grip. Nothing is ever supposed to stay. The tide gives and returns. It is easy to receive and even easier to love and hold.

But the return is harder, sometimes impossibly harder, because it requires a surrender and an awareness that nothing ever is really ours. We are simply the caretakers.

What a Pair of Green Boots Taught Me About Love

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My four-year-old son wore the same pair of green frog rain boots every day for over a year. He wore them in the rain, of course, but he also wore them in blizzards and on hot July days. He wore them when he went to school and the grocery store and the swimming pool. He wore them when he played soccer or rode his bike or dressed up as a superhero. He wore them everywhere.

After a while the boots started breaking down. It began with a few cracks and then some rips which created little flaps that fluttered in the air as he ran. Every once in a while I’d come across a new piece that had fallen off—in the house, the car, his bed. I was waiting for the day the boots dismantled mid-stride into a crumbled heap on the ground. Until then, I knew that if I couldn’t find him, I just needed to follow the green rubber trail.

The boots received endless commentary wherever we went. Most people laughed. Some were confused. A few even offered to buy him a new pair. But I explained this was a love affair that no one could ever break up.

He chose those battered boots, over and over again, and over all other shoes. I bought him new flip-flops and new sneakers, but he always chose the boots. Even when they deteriorated to a point that when it actually rained, they remained wet, he still chose the boots. Especially on rainy days. He chose them because although he liked other shoes, he loved the boots.

And by loving those boots, he reminded me about what it really means to love.

To love means to make a choice, the same choice, over and over again. It’s a knowing choice, a thoughtful choice, a deliberate choice.

It may not always be a logical or practical or comfortable choice. In fact, it often isn’t.

But love doesn’t care so much about those details. Love doesn’t bother with logic and practicality and comfort. Love doesn’t worry about disgrace or damage. Love turns a blind eye to other options, including the sparkly new ones. Love hangs on in a breakdown. And in a storm.

When we love, we don’t see the cracks or the rips. Because love clings to the tried and true. And all of those cracks and rips come with the trying. But it is only by trying that we get to the true. And once we get to the true, we keep coming back, to make the same choice one more time, over and over again.

When we love, we have found something that is indispensable…to our hearts, to our lives, to our stories. We have found our true.

There’s a lot to love about a little boy and his green frog rain boots.
There’s a lot to learn about love as well.

KID

Monday Mantra #103

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Misty Forest Trail

When Great Trees Fall
by Maya Angelou

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.

Hush Little Baby

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New born baby hand

I was driving in the car with my kids and, in an effort to stave off some whining, I played a CD of nursery rhymes I found in the glove compartment. I’ve heard these songs a thousand times, most a thousand times too many. But sometimes a peaceful drive home is worth twelve back-to-back renditions of Itsy Bitsy Spider. It’s a close call, but it’s worth it.

When we rounded the corner onto our street the lullaby “Hush Little Baby” started to play. I smiled and sang along with my sons.

Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,
Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird
And if that mockingbird won’t sing,
Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring
And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass
And if that looking glass gets broke,
Mama’s gonna buy you a billy goat
And if that billy goat won’t pull,
Mama’s gonna buy you a cart and bull
And if that cart and bull turn over,
Mama’s gonna buy you a dog named Rover

And if that dog named Rover won’t bark,
Mama’s gonna buy you a horse and cart
And if that horse and cart fall down,
You’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town.

I love this song. Whenever I hear it, I feel a surge of nostalgia. It reminds me of my babies when they were babies, when everything was brand new and scary and really hard and miraculous.

This song was my middle of the night anthem. It was my go-to. These lyrics were the only ones I could ever think to sing in those weary, ready-to-drop moments.

I remember trying to lull my boys to sleep while I paced in circles around our living room. I remember sitting and cradling them in our big blue rocker. I remember the swaddle blankets. I remember warming bottles in the dark kitchen. I remember the whimpers and the whines and the tiny yawns. I remember staring out at the nighttime street filled with sleeping houses. I remember all the phases of the moon. I remember the ticks of the clock. I remember thinking I was the only person in the entire world who was awake at that time.

But I also remember big blue eyes staring up at me. I remember that new baby smell and the feel of my boys’ cheeks against my chest. I remember the softness of their hair. I remember their little kicks. I remember the way their entire hands would curl around and grip my little finger. I remember how their bodies could fit in the crook of my arm. I remember the peace and the stillness and the quiet. I remember falling in love again and again.

Hearing this song now, years later, takes me back to those nights. It reminds me of drowsiness and exhaustion and desperation. But it also reminds me of tenderness and compassion and awe in those moments within the heavy moments.

I still can feel the fatigue in my bones. But I also still can feel the softness in my heart. I can feel the weariness, but also the wonder. I can feel the exasperation, but also the patience.

All of those feelings, all of those feelings, are equally important. They all matter. Of course, I never want to forget the tender moments. But I also don’t want to forget the not-so-tender moments. Because they are all part of our story. The good, the bad, and the magical.

I still have those moments today. Things have moved forward and changed and my kids have grown, but I still have those moments. I still find frustration. I still feel fatigue and desperation. I still throw my hands in the air. I still bury my head in my lap. I still wish I could close my eyes and go to sleep. The bottles and swaddle blankets and midnight pacing circles may be gone, but they’ve been replaced with new struggles. And the feelings are still the same.

But, thankfully, I still find the awe. I still feel compassion and unconditional love. There are heart bursts. There are twinklings of tenderness. There are moments of sweet affection. The baby smells and tiny yawns and little finger grips may be gone, but they’ve been replaced with new joys. And the feelings are still the same.

Even now, there are Hush Little Baby moments. Because it’s still brand new and scary and really hard and miraculous. Every single day.

KID

Mom Knows Best

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I have known my children every little minute of their little lives. I understand their chemistries and their hearts. I know their nooks and crannies. I know their moods, their joys, and the precise locations of all of their freckles.

I know my kids. I know what my kids need. I’m Mom. And Mom knows best.

Except, of course, when she doesn’t.

Take one of those “fill in the blank” parenting problems-the overwhelming, exasperating kind of problem. The kind of problem with a variety of possible “solutions” from experts and friends. The kind of problem that comes with a lot of opinions.

I know that problem. And I know how it feels when I can’t fill in the blank. I know furrowed brows, tears, and a lot of guilt. I know times when I put my head in my hands and say I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to do. I. Don’t. Know. What. To. Do.

Sometimes Mom knows best. But sometimes Mom doesn’t have a clue.

There’s an expectation for parents to get it right all of the time because there’s an assumption that we have this special kind of knowledge.

Not only do we know our kids, but we are the grown-ups. We have decades of life experience on our sides. We have an understanding of the end game. We have learned from our own mistakes.

We are the Yodas to these young Jedis. Great knowledge we have.

But the truth is, we don’t.

Despite my decades of real-life years, my parenting years are pretty limited. I’ve only been a mom as long as my kid has been a kid.

There is still a lot to learn and a lot of ways in which to grow. Not just for my kids, but for me too. There are a lot of I don’t knows still to say and a lot of bad choices still to make. Not just for my kids, but for me too.

Kids grow up. But along the way, so do parents. And no one gets through it without a few scraped knees.

Moms may know best most of the time, but certainly not all of the time. We try and we try and we try. We pour and we pour and we pour into these kids.

Sometimes we hit it out of the park. Sometimes we swing and miss.

But we have this beautiful gift called unconditional love.

It’s a love with room for screw-ups, second chances, and forgiveness. It’s a love of duration without expectation. And it’s a love that knows we can’t possibly know best all of the time.

It’s also a two-way street.

No matter how often our kids get it wrong, we love them no matter what.

No matter how often we get it wrong, our kids love us no matter what.

In the end, that’s all that really counts. And that’s a better kind of best to know.

KID