Tag: Life

Not Normal

As anyone who follows my blog knows, I have been silent for several weeks. This was not by choice, but by circumstance. I want to try to explain why because I hope to encourage others to embrace who they are in whatever situation they may find themselves.

Life is not one size fits all. Every person is an individual with unique characteristics and needs. When individuals are combined into families, the combination of however many individuals are involved becomes a new and unique personality. That sounds complicated enough, but as individuals within the family grow and change, the family personality grows and changes. Puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly one day fit differently the next.

Our family has an extra unique personality. For starters, there are eight of us. Consider the standard occupancy limits on things like vehicles or hotel rooms if you want to grasp how unique that is. In addition, we homeschool all six of our children and have from the beginning; our days are full of living books, hours outside, family projects, and conversation. To add another difference from “normal,” my husband is a preacher, so is present and involved in most daily life instead of only nights and weekends. And on top of all of it, as a family we manage extreme personalities, emotional disorders, and behavioral disorders.

We’ve been growing this family personality for twelve years (longer counting the time my husband and I dated), but it has been four years since the last addition. Until this year. This year God blessed us with our sixth child, a precious boy who needed a family. It was unplanned and unexpected, so the adjustment period has been consuming. We went from officially homeschooling three last year to officially five plus a preschooler thus year. We went from knowing every person in the house intimately to learning how a whole new individual fit into our family personality. Adjusting to the new family personality that individual helped create.

In short, our life has never been “normal,” and the last few months made us even less so. For many, this fact makes us unappealing, even crazy. For others, it makes us a novelty. The truth is that not being normal makes us awesomely normal. There is no such thing as normal; it’s an imaginary construct that we as individuals and families constantly stress ourselves out trying to achieve or at least pretend we have. In our stress and our pretense, we miss out on the beauty and variety of “not normal.” We miss out on everything different individuals have to offer each other.

Because we are not normal, I had to take a break from this aspect of myself as an individual. I had to focus on adding new elements to our family personality. I had to find our new normal. It won’t be the last time our life brings change. It won’t be the last time I have to step back and learn something new. It won’t be the last time I get to experience the beauty of “not normal.”

Book Review: Through Grandpa’s Eyes

Until I read it to my children last night, I had never even seen this book, but it is definitely a new favorite. Patricia MacLachlan has a gift for describing the world through the eyes of a child, and this book is no exception. The story beautifully introduces to children the concepts of empathy and understanding the unique perspectives of others.

John’s Grandpa is blind, and experiences the world in a completely different way than John does. The sun wakes him with its warm rays instead of its light. He eats breakfast by turning his plate into the face of a clock. He sees faces with his fingers and identifies birds by the sound of their songs.

John doesn’t understand how Grandpa sees until he spends a summer day and night with his grandparents. Grandpa teaches him to close his eyes and listen for the little sounds around him, like Grandma clinking dishes in the kitchen. John learns to take deep breaths and identify every smell, like eggs and toast and marigolds. He learns that running his fingers like water over faces paints the same picture his eyes do.

There are some things that Grandpa can’t smell, hear, or touch, like color or light. While he learns about how Grandpa sees, John shares those special things that his eyes see with Grandpa. Together they experience the world around them in their own special way.

What If…

In the book of Mark we read about a man who was deathly ill, plagued with leprosy. This man had nothing left to lose, and threw himself at Jesus feet with a poignant faith born of desperate need. “If you are willing, you can make me clean.”

What if Jesus had practiced social distancing? It was the law, after all. The law He had given, in fact. Those who were sick with leprosy (a death sentence at the time and highly contagious) were unclean and anyone who came in contact with them became unclean. Lepers were cast out of society to die a slow, painful, lonely, poverty-stricken death.

What if when the leper fell on his face before Jesus and begged for healing, Jesus had stepped away to a safe distance? What if He had covered his face? What if He had demanded the leper follow the law to be examined by a priest and ritually cleansed before coming into His presence? What if He had ordered every other person nearby to declare themselves unclean from contact with the leper and be ritually cleansed by a priest before allowing them to interact with others, even their own families? What if He didn’t reach out and touch the leper with His own hand, didn’t look into his eyes and say, “I am willing?”

What if the law He had given was not about physical sickness at all? What if it was an object lesson about the importance of separating ourselves from the attitudes and behaviors of those who do not acknowledge God? What if it was about the corruption of a fearful and unbelieving heart? What if it was a reminder to look to Him for heart healing? What if God’s people got it wrong?

What if Jesus had stayed in Heaven? What if He kept His distance from all the corruption of men? What if He didn’t show His face on Earth so that men could know Him? What if He avoided the diseased and the outcasts to appease the misguided and self-absorbed people and to escape their constant verbal abuse? What if He didn’t speak about the depth and the wonder of His covenant, of the Kingdom which is not of this world, and fulfilled the Satan-driven desire of mankind for a perfect and safe physical life? What if He avoided the anger and rejection that tortured His body and broke His heart, that nailed His physical body to a cross and lifted His love so high that no one could avoid seeing it?

What if He didn’t come to be safe or comfortable or admired? What if being saved is not about being safe? What if following His example means I will look different, that I will never be accepted, that I will face misunderstanding and abuse at the hands of other humans? What if I stand beneath His cross, facing the world maskless, fearless, limitless, reaching out to hold the hands of the hopeless and lift them out of the pit?

What if?

Book Review: One Morning in Maine

Robert McCloskey has always been one of my favorite storytellers. I love his gift of capturing the all-important little moments of childhood. One Morning in Maine chronicles one such rite of passage.

Little Sal has a loose tooth, her first, and can think of nothing else. Losing a tooth means she’s a big girl and is growing up! While helping her daddy dig for clams, she wonders what else loses teeth. Maybe gulls or clams, or the seal she played with on the shore?

An accident threatens to spoil her excitement and stop her tooth wish from coming true. But a handy feather (lost just like her tooth) gives Sal a solution to her problem. Before long, with a few other hiccups along the way, Sal is enjoying a cool treat with her family and showing off her gap-toothed smile to the whole town.

It’s a timeless story with which every child can identify. The beautiful hand drawn illustrations only add to the charm, and as you can see, my own little one is entranced.

The Healer’s Daughter

FB_IMG_1592766229369It was her favorite spot, a tiny gem hidden at the base of a cliff where almost no one went. No one except herself. Her mother had shown it to her when she was just a little girl, barely old enough to be trusted on the narrow path down. It was the secret of her mother’s success as a healer; the herbs and fungi that grew down here were especially potent.

Now her mother could no longer safely walk the path, and the task of harvesting was hers alone. It was the one time a week that she could be completely alone, far away from expectations and women’s chatter. The only sound was the soft fall of the water into the pool, and the light which filtered through the heavy canopy turned leaves luminescent and created glittering jewels in the spray.

That she would be a healer was unquestioned. Thanks to her mother she knew every remedy and could find the best and rarest. Her mother’s secret recipes had long been committed to memory. She had no quarrel with her destiny; it was, after all, a much freer life than that of the girls sent to the matchmaker by the time they were of age. And as village healer she was by law protected from a fate far worse, the fate of those who caught the eye of the nobility. She had seen them, their white painted faces devoid of expression above their opulent robes. No feeling or identity could remain in that life; such would destroy a girl more surely than the demands made of her.

No, fortune smiled upon her, and not even the basket heavy with living treasure against her shoulders could make her sorry. She must put other wishes from her mind and thank the ancestors for smiling upon her. But she could not prevent his face from appearing in her mind one more time.

The Lamplighter

FB_IMG_1591483602188He walked the streets in the dusk, the invisible bringer of light. Dawn and twilight, his two-headed staff tapping the cobblestones with each step. For forty years now he had walked the streets and alleyways, the stones of the old wall familiar friends now.

Fifteen steps from lamp to lamp, his feet knew on their own every start and stop. The tiny hiss as each wick flamed marked a beat in an old song. The almost imperceptible heat of each tiny flame staved the cold growing in his bones.

Ah, there was the ivy trellis across from Mistress Burnley’s shop. Fripperies didn’t sell until the well-born young girls left their late breakfasts with nothing to do but spend their fathers’ money. Nevertheless, Mistress Burnley’s second floor window held warmth at the snuffing hour each morning and comforted him each evening. Yes, there she was, as always, a fixture same as he.

Ten more steps to the old stairs, five – no six – to the top. Imagine forgetting that after all these years! Turn left to follow the wall, but only after lighting the corner lamp. Tonight music wafted from the open windows of Master Hollywell’s townhouse just across the way. Seemed Mistress Burnley’s wares would be displayed handsomely tonight. The Hollywell dances marked the height of the season, no doubt. The merry singing of the strings and the sound of feet tapping in rhythm called out to him, keeping time with his staff.

Fifteen more steps, another welcoming hiss. On he went, marking the time unheeded, forever caught between the light and the dark.

The Bench

FB_IMG_1590687238016It was perfectly placed, halfway down the walking trail along the river, looking out at the park across the water. The city’s most popular view. In the morning the sun rose behind it over the skyscrapers, leaving it in the shadows as people hurried to work, but in the evenings… oh, the evenings!

The river reflected the glow of the setting sun in the sky, bathing the whole area in rose light. If there were clouds, streams of light pierced them, creating natural spotlights at the edge of the water. People would sit, sometimes absently, sometimes with intention, and leave little bits of themselves along with the fading sunlight.

First, there were children. They never sat, not for long. Their weary watchers would collapse onto the bench, calling nervously for their charges to stay away from the water. Excited chatter and daring balancing acts on the wall would be the response, often accompanied by the indignant trumpeting of geese disturbed in their placid feeding.

Then there were the starched and tied business partners, almost too busy to notice the view. Glued to cell phones, foreheads furrowed in concentration or voices raised in agitation over the status of a deal, they relaxed no more than the keepers of the children. Perched on the edge of the seat, knees jogging nervously, briefcases opened and rustled with feverish haste, they never stayed long.

Then would come the old married couples, hand in hand. With creaking joints they would settle comfortably and gaze out over the water, steadfast and quiet as if the world stood still for them. Sometimes they would talk quietly, ordinary conversations about ordinary things. Mostly they just sat, wrinkled fingers entwined with comfortable familiarity with each other and the twilight.

Finally came the young lovers. Dancing carelessly as dark shadows in the day’s final light show, they laughed and talked and played like children. Only it wasn’t the geese they played with, but the future. Soft kisses in the corner of the bench, playful chases around its back accompanied by laughing protests, whispered promises and sweet caresses echoed across the river as the night descended upon it all.