Kristen Anne Glover

Five in Tow

Like Bread on the Water

Bread on the water

I hold in my hands a loaf of bread, still warm from the morning baking.  Simple and earthy, it is food for the day.  Fragrant, it is hope that I have enough.

I have come to the edge of the sea.  The water is calm with the morning, misty-eyed and heavy with the waking.  It reaches out over my toes, and pulls the covers back.

Something in the air makes me think the weather will not hold, and it makes me restless with the unknowing.  But I have this bread, and that is more than I can say for the gulls who circle overhead.  They have nothing for the stormy days.

Yet, they fly.  High up into the clouds where I must squint to see them, they touch the hands I cannot reach.   They are free to follow the fisherman’s wake, where even in the storms, they can glean all they want from his nets.

But this bread in my hands keeps me tied to the earth.  I am not free as long as I am holding on to something.

At least I have something.

No, it is more than something.  It is everything.  Everything that makes me feel safe, safely separated from uncertainty, safely veiled from eternity, safely immovable.   The wind can carry the birds wherever it wants.  But it cannot carry me.

Yet, they fly.  I can’t help but wonder at the magnificence of it.  Higher and higher, they rise on wind I cannot see and they cannot control.  They do not fear—they soar.  But I am left here, stodgy and rooted, crushing my vulgar grip into this one thing I can’t release, the one thing that keeps me pathetic and small in the midst of glory.

I wonder where the wind would take me, if I let it.  As soon as I wonder, I know.

With shaking hands, I rip at the crust, releasing a little steam into the chill of the air.  Wholesome crumbs drop down into the sand and melt into the sea.   My hands are full of bread as the waves roll in.  I cast the bread out to meet them—all of it.  I hold nothing back.

But wait!  No!  My very breath escapes me.  I collapse into the sand.  Foolishness.  Stupidity.  Madness!  There it is on the water, my one thing, my very life, now bobbing, now sinking–wasted.

I look up to the sky desperate to rise but more bound by the earth than ever before.  I have given it all!  For what?  For what!

There is nothing left.  I am empty.  I am alone.  Even the gulls have left for deeper ocean as the clouds mount over the water.  The wind rises, blowing sand into my eyes without lifting me higher.  It is stronger than I remember it being, and it pushes me out into the water, deeper and deeper.  The water swirls and foams with the storm, and I cannot fight it.  I sink down into the waves, flailing, desperate.  I look up at the glassy water that keeps me trapped and I see it, the shadow of bread on the water.

The waves are full of it, cast off bread, given in hope, returned in abundance, more bread than I can see.

I fight to the surface, and open my eyes before I even gasp for breath.  It is all there, and more.  “I do not understand,” I say to the no one and everyone as I reach out to touch that which was not wasted at all.  “I do not understand.”

In all my lifetime, I will not be able to gather it all.  I cannot hold it all.  I cannot lose it, or even give it all away.  But there is no need.  It is all around me, this bread on the water.

The wind pushes the waves to the shore, carrying me to back to the very place where I started.  But I am not the same.  I have felt the crushing power of the wind and the waves, yet I stand as one redeemed, bought back, renewed.

My hands are empty, but I feel no fear.  I feel no need to grasp on to something, anything.  Everything I ever had has been given back in ridiculous abundance, but I am not tied to it.  I am no longer immoveable.  Like bread on the water, I am free.

Cast your bread upon the waters, and in the day of trouble, it will come back to you.  Ecclesiastes 11:1

Odor and Other Potent Stuff

Reasonably cool socks

 

The odor was pervasive.  It wafted through the room, drifting up over the book I was reading to the children.  It obscured my senses until I could no longer concentrate on the printed words.

“What is that smell?” I asked the kids.

“I don’t know,” Faith said.  “It’s awful.”

“I don’t smell anything,” Jonathan shrugged.

But there was definitely something to smell.  “Did anybody step in something outside?” I questioned.

“No,” came the unanimous reply.

“It smells rotten.”

“It smells poopy.”

“It smells dead.”

We looked behind the couch.  We looked under the love seat.  We checked behind the ficus tree where the cat sometimes leaves us signs of his cooling affection.

“Hum.  I don’t smell anything,” Jonathan said again.

“Jonathan, you don’t smell anything because it’s coming from you!” Faith exclaimed.  She leaned over and sniffed the air around him.  “Oh!  It’s your feet!”

“Jonathan, is that awful smell coming from your feet?”  I looked down at his socks.  “Did you step in something?”

“No.”

I looked closer.  I couldn’t see any dirt because his socks were black, but the scent was unmistakably corpse-like.   How could he trample on a dead body and not know it?  “When was the last time you changed your socks?” I demanded.

“Uh…”

“Jonathan!”

“I mean…”

“Jonathan, you have to change your socks every day.  It’s like underwear.  If you don’t remember, then it’s definitely been too long.”

“But Mom, I only have one pair of socks!” he moaned.

“What?  No you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.  All my other socks are getting holes.  Remember?  I told you that.”

A little sticky-note in the back of my brain seemed to corroborate his story: “Jonathan needs new socks.”

Bother.

I’m not good at remembering the little things, like brushing hair and clipping toenails.  I usually only think of such things when we’re all sitting together in church and I notice with horror that my daughter has enough dirt under her nails to qualify for a farm subsidy.

“Well, listen,” I said, trying to distract him from my obvious oversight.  “Take off those socks and put them directly into the washing machine because there is no way I’m touching those with my bare hands.  Then wash your feet.  And your hands.  With soap.  Lots of soap.”  I threw in that last part because it sounded like the responsible thing to do under the circumstances, and I was suddenly interested in being more responsible.

Jonathan came back with clean feet and a much fresher smell.  Together, we investigated his sock drawer.  Besides a dozen rocks, two pocket knives and a wad of rubber bands, we found three pairs of hole-free socks.   Whew.  Probably I wasn’t the most neglectful mother on the planet.  Probably.

Still, I was going to have to buy him new socks.  A child who owns only four pairs of socks means a mother who is going to have to do laundry, well, way more often than I do.

That week, I showed up at the department store with a $10 merchandise coupon I’d gotten in the mail.  I went in with the singular purpose of getting that kid some socks.  I did not even look at the cute fall blouses or the shoes…dang, there are some cute shoes…but went directly to the boys’ section.

They were having some obscure BOGO 50% off sale, which meant I had to do math right in the middle of the day in order to figure out which package of socks was the best deal.  I wanted cool socks, the more the better, but not Tony-Hawk-cool.  I mean, really.  I was not about to pay an extra $5 a package—wait, make that $2.50 a package—to have “Hawk” written on the bottom of his feet.   I settled for some sturdy-looking Gold Toe socks with charcoal heels.  Cool enough.

That night, when Jonathan got home from a day at Nana’s house, I told him, “You have a surprise up on your bed.”

“What is it?” he gasped and ran upstairs like it was Christmas.  Probably I shouldn’t have used the word “surprise” in reference to socks.  Probably.

I was kind of surprised when I heard him squeal.  “New socks!  Wow!  Thank you, Mom!  Thank you!”  Jonathan clipped off the tag and put them on immediately.   “Faith, Kya, boys, look!  New socks!  Aren’t they cool?”

“Yeah, weawy, weawy cool,” Micah agreed, hands in his pockets like he was the ultimate authority on cool.

“Look, I can slip across the floor!  Whoa!  These are the best slipping socks!”

The other kids writhed with envy.  “How many socks did you get me, Mom?”  Jonathan asked, noticing their agony.

“You have eight new pairs.”

“Oh!  Can the other kids try them on?”

“Sure!”

A cheer went up as Jonathan passed out socks for everyone.  They all evaluated the slippery-factor for themselves, which, scientifically speaking, can only be measured in contusions, head-on collisions and possible concussions.  Turns out, these were really great socks.

Soon it was time for bed.  The socks had to go away, but I heard Jonathan babbling on about them when he was supposed to be brushing his teeth.

My goodness, I thought, they’re just socks.  I mean, I kind of owed him socks, being his mother and all.  And they weren’t even special Tony Hawk socks.  They were just plain, practical mom-socks.

But Jonathan delighted in those ordinary socks.  His gratitude was powerful and infectious.  It transformed our home as night crept in.  Where there may have been squabbles and bedtime drudgery, there was happiness.  Where there might have been sibling envy and strife, there was appreciation and selfless sharing.

Odor-free and happy

It gave me pause to think, and I realized gratitude is potent stuff.

It has the power to see the hand of God in the ordinary, the breath of the holy in the daily bread.  It lifts our eyes off the dirt and ground from which we were made and turns them up to heaven where we belong.  Gratitude reminds us that we are always and ever the recipients of many good gifts, sprinkled liberally into our lives by the very fingertips of God.

Most of the gifts are ordinary.  Mundane.  Even expected, like a package of plain white socks.  But gratitude awakens us to the evidence of the Divine in our lives.  Suddenly, even difficult situations or frustrations give way to thanksgiving.  A traffic jam reminds us that we have a car and a job.  A cold reminds us that we are most often healthy.  A mortgage payment reminds us that we have a home.  Is there anything I have that God has not given?

When I let gratitude reign, I find I have no room for rights.  Gratitude knows I don’t deserve most of what I demand, and my perspective shifts from my lack to my abundance.  I find myself grateful for the simple things like fresh-picked grapes from our arbor, a beautiful harvest moon, and a chance to talk to my husband who is far from home.  If I think about it, I could probably even be thankful for the odiferous socks that started it all.  Probably.

 

Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth!

Worship the Lord with gladness; come before him with joyful songs. 

Know that the Lord is God. 

It is he who made us, and we are his; we are his people, the sheep of his pasture.  

Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise;

Give thanks to him and praise his name!

  For the Lord is good and his love endures forever;

His faithfulness continues through all generations.  —Psalm 100

 

What Micah Taught Me

Micah, age 1

Micah and Paul were born at the exact same minute.  They were the exact same height and almost the same weight.  They were both tongue-tied.  They both had the same blue eyes, and even though Paul had a shock of red hair and Micah’s was mousy brown, it was obvious they were twins.

But by the time the boys were six months old, we knew Micah was behind.  By the time they were a year, we knew something was wrong.  It was painfully obvious.  By then, Paul was crawling all over everything and was on the verge of walking, but Micah couldn’t follow him because Micah had yet to crawl.  He didn’t even slither.

Our pediatrician was at a loss as to what was wrong.  She said all kinds of scary things before scribbling out a referral to Children’s Hospital in Seattle where Micah was examined by a team of neurologists.  They wrote lots of notes on little pads of paper while Micah smiled at them and tried to find the Cheerios they’d hidden under brightly colored cups.  “Micah does not play with his toes,” they wrote as they watched him.  “Micah does not roll over.  Micah does not bend his knees.  Micah can’t right himself if he falls over.  Micah can’t grasp a finger.  Micah can’t…Micah can’t…Micah can’t….”

Then, the doctors went out to talk about their findings.  I waited a long time while Micah sat on my lap and played with my necklace.  I wondered what life was going to be like for my sweet little boy.  It is one thing to be behind.  It’s another thing to be behind when you’re a twin. He had a built-in reminder that he didn’t measure up.

Finally, the chief neurologist came in.  She shook my hand warmly and told me what a delightful child Micah was.  “He’s very bright,” she said, and I breathed a sigh of relief.  “His delay is not cognitive; it’s muscular.”  It seemed that every muscle in Micah’s body was weak.  Every muscle was behind.  “He needs a personal trainer and a baby gym,” she concluded.

We were assigned a physical therapist who told me to write goals for Micah.  “Micah will learn to hold my finger.  Micah will learn to roll a ball.  Micah will learn to stand unassisted.”  I wanted to write, “Micah will learn to climb up the steps all by himself!” because at 16 months old, he was heavy.

But Micah could not achieve that goal.  Paul was climbing steps like a monkey, but it didn’t matter what Paul could do, or what any toddler could do.  It didn’t matter what was normal or expected or even desired.  Micah was not any toddler.  He was Micah, and I had to adjust my dreams, wishes, and goals for him based on who he was, not on who I wanted him to be.

Months passed, and then years.  The progress was painfully slow, but still, it was progress.  I quickly learned that achieving the goals was not the goal.  Success, for Micah, was about making steps in the right direction.

I watched Micah and I wondered if I was willing to accept that definition of success.  I like goals.  I like reaching goals even better.  I am not so good at being content with progress, especially when it seems like everyone else is running and I’m just crawling along.  It seems like I should be able to do it!  I should be able to keep my house clean and my kids dressed like they just stepped out of a magazine.  I should be able to make that creative birthday cake and look like I didn’t eat a piece of it.  I should be able to write two blog posts a week, for heaven’s sake, and keep all my kids happy and well-fed and educated.  After all, Facebook and Pinterest tell me that other moms can.  Why can’t I?

Every day, I get up and I aim for that goal.  I do the best job I can.  It’s not always Pinterest-able, but it’s generally a step in the right direction.  So why do I feel so guilty when I am still so far away from the goal?  Why do I feel like everyone is staring at me, writing down notes on their little pads of paper, Kristen can’t…Kristen can’t…Kristen can’t…?

It’s because I forget that I am me.  Not my mother.  Not my sister-in-law.  Not the other mom of five kids who does everything better.  I’m just me, the me with gifts and the me with shortcomings.  Like Micah, I must accept that some things are just going to be hard for me.  It doesn’t matter what is normal or expected or even desired.  I can only do so much.  Some things I will do really well.  And then there’s the rest.

Motherhood involves such a myriad of skills and abilities; it would only stand to reason that I would stink at 50% of them, maybe more if you count sports.  Some things I am just not naturally able to do.  I am deficient.  I am broken.  Sometimes, I really mess it up, and I wonder why I’m the only one who can’t get it all together.

But God did not give these children to the woman who has it all together.  He did not give them to the woman who is better.  He gave them to me.  He didn’t even check out my Facebook profile to see if I qualified.  He didn’t look to see if I am good at planning birthday parties or if I know 50 ways to sneak vegetables into macaroni.  He did not ask me if I felt adequate because it’s never been about being adequate.  It’s about letting God be adequate enough for the both of us.

At the end of the day, when I’ve poured myself in to these lives God has given me, and I am tempted to think that I haven’t been or done enough, I remind myself that I am a lot like Micah.  When I first became a mother, I could not even crawl.  But by God’s grace, I have learned to walk.  His hands have steadied me, and now I can even run.  I may not qualify for a marathon, but then, I was not made for marathons.  I was made to walk with Someone holding my hand, and that is enough.

Micah is now four.  He still struggles with significant speech issues because he can’t seem to get his tongue to do what it should do.  I can’t always get my tongue to do what it should either, so I understand.  He will never be the star of the soccer team.  I understand that, too.  But every day, he continues to try.  He lets me help him make steps in the right direction.  That is something I understand best of all.

He has said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.” Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me.  —2 Corinthians 12:9

Success