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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.

Sticky Stuff

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Yesterday morning I woke up to Aquaphor hieroglyphics on my wall. I tried to make out some star constellations, but upon closer examination, I just found a bunch of handprints and smears.

A few hours later, one of my four-year-olds came running in from outside, shouting that he had some gum in his hair. But upon closer examination, I found that “some gum” was a bit of an understatement. He had a big pink wad that looked to be about half of a roll of Bubble Tape.

Peanut butter is a popular choice to help ease gum out of hair. But a peanut butter/Aquaphor combination works even better.

I cleaned him up and the kids went on to search and destroy as they do so well.

As a mom of three little boys, I am quite accomplished when it comes to stuff that sticks. Name a surface, any surface. Pick an instrument, any instrument. Choose a substance, any substance. I bet I have a story for you.

Was it Colonel Mustard with the glue stick on the leather ottoman?
Yes. Only it wasn’t Colonel Mustard.

I have seen more than my fair share of sticky stuff. I have cleaned up more than my fair share of sticky stuff. I have cried and yelled more than my fair share about the sticky stuff.

Because most of the time, finding sticky stuff means finding mess and destruction and exasperation and a long, hard cleanup.

One time I had to go through four different cleaning solutions and a lot of research to discover how to get Pam non-stick spray off of every surface of my kitchen, including the cabinetry, the stainless steel, and the wood floors which had turned into a large skating rink. Turns out that even the non-stick stuff still sticks.

Later in this very same gummy Aquaphory day, I discovered some other sticky stuff. But this time it had nothing to do with mess or destruction or exasperation. And this time there was no long, hard cleanup required. This time I found something sticky that was so beautiful it eclipsed all of the other not-so-beautiful sticky stuff.

I walked into our front room and stumbled across a long line of gift bags that stretched from one end of the room to the other. The boys, on another one of their rogue missions, had discovered my wrapping paper and box of gift bags. They brought out all of the bags and lined them up from one wall to the other. They filled each of the bags with their own toys. I stood there in confusion and preemptive irritation but then they explained that their gifts were for “all of the kids who didn’t have any toys.” They wanted to hand them out to anyone who might happen to come to our door. They even stood on our front porch and yelled out into the world: “Hey kids who have no toys! Come get our toys!”

What made this moment beautiful was that the boys came up with this idea without my suggestion or influence or requirement. The moment was beautiful because of its independence and spontaneity.

What made this moment a gift was that it helped me realize that the good stuff sticks, too.

Our efforts make a difference. Our efforts to plant and build and pass along important values like kindness and compassion and generosity, those efforts make a difference. Our energy makes a difference. Our energy spent trying to teach our kids how to love, how to care, and how to serve, that energy makes a difference.

Even if we don’t see those differences most of the time. Unfortunately, we have to set aside the privilege of immediate gratification. We just keep planting and building and trusting that all of that good stuff somehow sticks somewhere.

Then we wait. We wait for moments exactly like the moment I had last night.

And while we wait, we clean up the messes and the destruction and we spend a lot of time on our knees.

Because the truth is that the bad stuff that sticks can usually be washed away.

But the good stuff stays around.

The good stuff gets stashed right where we want it to be. Inside. In those tiny corners of their hearts, those unreachable, unwashable, unchangeable places where stuff stays forever. It’s the kind of stuff that forms a character and guides choices and finds the good stuff in others.

The bad stuff that sticks eventually turns into good stories.

The good stuff that sticks eventually turns into good people.

So the next time I’m trying to figure out how to remove melted crayon out of upholstery fabric or how to remove play-dough from the inside of a door lock, I’ll remember last night. The next time I’m faced with a long, hard cleanup, I’ll remember last night.

I’ll remember how my boys reminded me that if I spend all of my time on the bad stuff that sticks on the outside, I just might miss catching a glimpse of the good stuff that sticks on the inside.

KID

The Road Never Traveled

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We recently returned home from a road trip with our three boys. It was our first true “vacation” as a family of five since our twins came on the scene almost three years ago. We decided it was time to be brave and help our little rascals off their beaten paths around our family room.

We chose a short(ish) road trip to New Mexico for the following reasons:

  1. Our destination hotel is kid-friendly with several pools, waterslides, trails, activities, restaurants, and, most importantly, other families with small children.
  2. A six hour car drive is shorter than a plane trip anywhere, given all of the logistics with flying and airports.
  3. If the kids scream and cry, we are the only ones to hear it.
  4. We can stop if we need a break.
  5. We can pack what and however much we want including: bags of snacks, a multitude of electronic devices and chargers, lifejackets, bike helmets, bottomless toiletries, and our very own outhouse bag with diapers, pull-ups, underoos, swim diapers, and wipes. A lot of wipes.
  6. Should disaster strike, we can always turn around and come home.

After forcing the boys on the trampoline for thirty minutes to burn off some excitement and energy, we packed up the car, buckled everyone, and backed out of the driveway with crossed fingers and hope.

The kids started crying and screaming and fighting approximately 45 seconds into the trip.

Ted and I looked at each other and simultaneously said, “Should we bag this?”

We didn’t. Instead we took a few deep breaths and turned up the radio.

We headed south on the highway and our expectations of a smooth travel headed in the same direction. But we went for it anyway. It was, of course, the time to be brave.

As it turns out, we didn’t need bravery. Despite our rough start and low expectations, our kids pleasantly surprised (read: shocked) us. We spent a total of almost fourteen hours in the car round-trip, and it was, for the most part, easy. Our kids were patient (gulp) and quiet (gulp) and peaceful (gulp gulp). Even with traffic. Even without naps.

The hotel also exceeded expectations. The kids loved the pools, the hallways, and the fries at every meal. The twins shouted, “We’re on a trip! We’re on a trip!” Big brother was helpful and happy and just as excited as his little groupies.

There were some road bumps, of course. We had a few rowdy and wolf-like meals, a couple of mishaps with an outdoor pizza oven, and daily “accidental” calls to the security desk due to an obsession with the hotel phones. We also had one midnight looting episode involving two kids, one crib, every coffee/tea/sugar packet in the room, and the hotel shampoos and lotions. Picture mud wrestling. Picture sugar scrub. Picture angry mom.

In the end, however, I’d call this trip a win-win-win. We all had fun. We all got sleep. We were able to finish meals. We smiled. We laughed. We praised. We didn’t have any trips to the emergency room. And we all made it home.

We proved they could do it, we could do it, and, most importantly, we’d even do it again someday.

My kids reminded me on this trip how easy they are to impress. They can find fun anywhere. Give them a long hallway or a telephone. Or a pack of sugar, but only if you’re brave.

One afternoon, a lady stopped us and told us she thought our kids were “so enjoyable.” So enjoyable. Now that was a first. But it was also a truth. They were. They are.

There really is a little magic in that place called When You Least Expect It.

Sometimes all it takes is an open road. And an open mind.

Happy trails.

KID