Peace

The Pelican

April 5, 2019 By kimberly Leave a Comment

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.

Hush Little Baby

October 19, 2015 By kimberly Leave a Comment

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

Three Minute Present

July 24, 2015 By kimberly Leave a Comment

The other day, during some rare quiet time at our house, I sat outside on the back porch with a good book.

It was a perfect back porch day, warm but cloudy. No sweatshirt or sunglasses needed.

The warmth and the clouds started to feel like a blanket and I, in turn, started to feel a little drowsy. So I closed the book, tilted my head back, and shut my eyes.

And I just sat there and listened.

For three whole minutes, I paid attention only to the sounds around me.

I heard dueling lawn mowers. I heard birds chirping in trees. I heard a band playing music in the distance, unsure whether it was a nearby concert or a backyard wedding. I heard children laughing out front. I heard a few dogs bark. I heard the drumbeats of two construction trucks as they traveled down the street. I heard the rumble of thunder in the clouds.

In between those sounds, I heard phrases of remarkable silence.

When I opened my eyes, I looked around me. I noticed the varying lengths and greens in the grass. I saw leaves glimmer in the tall trees. I watched my son’s homemade birdfeeder swing from a branch. I followed birds as they swooped in U shapes from one tree to the next. I saw misplaced rocks and abandoned toys.

I felt heavy. But it was a good kind of heavy, a gratifying kind of heavy. Not the kind of heavy you feel when the alarm goes off in the morning. Or the kind of heavy you feel with exhaustion or stress or a broken heart.

I felt grounded. I felt peaceful. I felt secure. I felt like my eyes and my ears had opened in some new ways.

It was lovely.

I noticed the good heavy stayed with me long past those moments. I still felt it when I went back to my day. I moved with more purpose with my tasks, with my words, with my life.

That was lovely too.

All I needed was a little stillness, a few moments to abandon all of my distractions and self-produced noise.

All I needed was to take it all in and appreciate what shows up in between the lines.

All I needed was three minutes.

I found my present. And a little peace to pocket for the road.

KID