A few months back I read a blog post (someone please stop me from reading so many blog posts...) about a mother who was so happy she was the mother of boys because she was okay with their craziness and didn't worry about their injuries and enjoyed their antics and let them be wild soon-to-be-men, not like those moms who worried over scrapes and bruises. I read that article and came away deflated.
I'm not that kind of woman.
I don't get into wild wrestling matches where someone will inevitably get injured.
I don't think farts are that funny.
I'm not into hunting.
I'm not into fishing.
I'm not even into sports all that much.
I don't like mud.
I don't understand the fascination with destruction and violence.
I like my house clean.
I like girly movies.
I like having pretty hair and fun clothes.
I like quiet activities like reading.
Seriously, why do I have three boys to my name?
Well, after pondering the question for the last several months, I have come up with the following list of reasons why I am a good mom for my three boys:
1) I'm okay with being a girl.
Seriously, don't underestimate that one. I am glad my boys will see a female who (at least most of the time) is okay with the gender I've been given. I'm not going to tear myself down every day complaining about how awful it is to be a girl. In fact, I am going to work to be thankful for it, even proud of it. Because if they see that a woman can represent her gender with peace and dignity, maybe they will have more respect for her unique challenges and abilities.
2) I like girly things.
Hey, they need some variety in life, right? And when they at last find the female of their dreams, they will know what a curling iron is, and how to say, "You look very nice." Maybe I will even produce offspring who enjoy a good Jane Austin film and that will aid them in their quest to find said female of their dreams.
But...
3) I also like having fun adventures.
Talk is good, but talking while walking is even better. I like having fun. I like doing things. I like making memories through activity. This mom will do things with them and love it.
4) I'm a good cook.
The way to man's heart is through his stomach. Those teenage guy friends are totally going to say, "Let's go to your house... your mom is making food." Oh yes.
5) I'm not depressed about not having a girl. And I will say that.
I kid you not, I was asked, by someone who I'm sure meant no offense, "So were you finally blessed with a girl?"
Uhhhh... "No. But we feel blessed anyway." (For serious???)
6) I am not an overly dramatic girl.
I have my moments, but overall I consider myself mostly level-headed and not prone to freak-out dramatics and hysteria. My boys will grow up seeing that women can be rational, practical, and not dependent on manipulating situations through emotional over-reaction.
I also am not easily moved by drama. Truly. Throw your tantrum somewhere else. (Because boys can be dramatic too.)
But...
7) I'm also a sensitive girl.
Mass hysteria, not good. Emotional stone wall, also not good. I think I have a good shot at showing them that vulnerability doesn't have to mean weakness, and tears aren't just for funerals and injuries.
8) I'm not a germ-o-phobe.
Need I say more?
9) I'm a country girl at heart.
While my boys are young and fascinated with all things tractors and machinery, it's kind of nice to enjoy living in farm country. And I even know the names of a few machines, although they are rapidly passing me up in that knowledge.
Last but CERTAINLY not least:
10) God gave them to me.
If He hadn't wanted me to raise boys, He wouldn't have given them to me. I am uniquely qualified to raise my boys. I have been equipped to raise three in a row. I have the approval and indwelling power of Christ to do so. Sounds like a good enough reason to me.
But please, don't let my personal ra-ra list make you feel inadequate! What are the reasons you are the best parent for your kids?
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
A Man Had Two Trees
A man had two trees.
The man was not young. His weathered hands and wizened face had long placed him in the category with grandfathers and sages.
Today he sat in the rocker on the front porch, hands grating along the oak arms without thought to their pattern.
"Nothing much changes, does it?" The murmur seemed absent-minded.
"Sir?" The boy on the floor glanced up at him. His hair was skewed and brown. No other color for it, just brown. His eyes were too probing for one so young.
The old man cast a glance at him. "Life keeps repeating." Eyes outward again. "Cycle after cycle. Year after year."
The boy remained silent. Silence has a way of asking questions words never can.
The wind scurried across the porch, taking with it a few remnant leaves from the recently departed winter months. It smelled vibrant and alive, full of all the promise and desire born of dormancy. The dried leaves tumbled to a halt in the orchard just beyond the porch, joining the first blossom petals.
"Life and death right next to each other," he mused. His smile was rueful, not bitter. Gaze drifting over the rows of neatly arranged trees, he observed the transition from withered memories to blossoming promise. "Do you see that stump over there?"
He didn't need to gesture. The gap was obvious. The boy nodded once with eyes on the spot.
"The first one here on the property. As if she had always been a part of it."
The boy's eyes indicated understanding.
"I was so young." Again that smile, this time framed by genuine affection. "We were so young," he amended. "Full of plans and dreams and everything that was going to go right." His cracked palm stilled on the oak rocker. "She was beautiful in full bloom. Perfect in every way, this beacon of solidity for everything else to grow around. She was strong from the beginning, never needed to worry about sheltering her from the wind or hail. She put her roots down deep. Nothing could shake her. Every year she flourished, even in the dry year. That was a rough one." His brows furrowed.
The boy had to lean closer; the old man's voice was never raised, always steady and low.
"Do you remember her?" A tremor there.
"Of course." A stray hunk of brown fell in those dark eyes. "We had a tire swing on the lowest branch. I got in a fight with the girls over who could swing first."
A soft laugh. "I remember that."
"There's a picture of my dad in front of that tree," he offered.
Silence slid over the porch. But the boy didn't hurry him for a response. The wood in his hand received a few more whittles. The cuffs of his plaid shirt hung loose around sure wrists. Slow and steady. No need to make a mistake.
"It was the first day of school." Old eyes were on the distant horizon again. "He didn't want summer to end. So he went and hid in that tree house. Did you know there was a tree house up there?"
Slight shake of the head.
"Huh." More rocking. As if rousing from another thought: "We built it the spring he was born. We were so excited about the adventures he would have up there. Of course, it was years before he made use of it. By that time the orchard was filling up - row upon row of saplings in the shade of that tree. One summer there was this big storm, and a pine from the grove came down. It would have crushed the new saplings if that tree hadn't caught it on the way down." Quiet reflection as the sun peered out from behind billowing clouds for a brief moment. "That was what ruined the tree house."
The old man stopped rocking again. A deep breath. "Every time I look at that spot..."
The boy's eyes followed his. Shoots of grass were beginning to surround and envelope the remains of a stump. Soon the spot would be invisible unless you knew what to look for.
"It doesn't matter how much time passes - that empty place will make me think of her every time I look at it." Hints of a crushing storm gathered in the old man's eyes. "Every time I see a solid oak. Or a hand-made tree house." The last was almost a whisper as his thoughts retreated back inside.
"Or a tire swing," the boy put in, turning his eyes back to his wood work. Tears were shed more easily when meeting another gaze. The wood in his hands carried his emotions back to a stable place. Away from the still-fresh memories of the sweet woman who had taught him how to climb on to the tire swing on his own. Of how quickly it all happened. "I wish there weren't so many things to remind me all the time." His words were breathless and harsh. Maybe those tears weren't pushed back so far after all.
"You wish-" For the first time the old man turned a full gaze to the boy. Oh, those concentrated lines in his face as he restrained his emotion looked so much like his own reflection years ago.
A rebuke reached his tongue but disintegrated upon forming. Had he known any better? Not at the tender age of wood whittling and lolling for hours in a tire swing, feet and head on the same straight line, as an afternoon was spent recalling nothing but memories. Those dark eyes were still fixed, set - a challenge behind the glistening emotion.
"No," the old man said softly. His gaze purposed beyond the porch again. "Do you see another gap in the orchard, boy?" His eyes never left their distant focal point. He didn't need to look - he knew where it was.
The boy's gaze searched. At last rested. "There."
The old man nodded. "Not a very big gap, is it?"
The boy shook his head and returned to his wood with a small scowl. Not rebellion, simply confusion at being turned away from his own question.
"A man, a young man, planted a seed there." A pause. His mind's eye held the image of the tiny gap in the orchard. "There was so much hope in that little seed: the first of the orchard, dreamed of and saved for. Nights lying awake talking of the future. How that one tree would be the first of many."
The boy looked up at the old man's sudden pause.
The old man's mouth cracked open, but it remained soundless.
The boy looked again to the spot. "But?"
The old man searched, but the only words that came were the most straight-forward. "There was never a tree." A deep breath and resuming of restless hands on the weathered chair arms. "Planted and watered and awaited, but never seen to fruition." His lips pursed and his eyes began studying the chair arm.
Confusion flickered across the boy's face. A moment passed as he waited for clarity. Upon receiving none: "Why be sad about that? There are more trees now." Gaze on the full orchard. "It was just one tree."
"So was that one." A simple lift of his finger in the direction of the once-magnificent oak.
"Yes, but," spluttered the reply. Anger and confusion bubbling together in a cauldron of unshed tears. "You never even saw that tree. You didn't build a tree house in it or sit under the shade on a hot day or even eat a single piece of fruit from it."
The old man nodded. "You're right." Misty blue eyes locked into brown. "And that's what makes it the most painful."
Question bloomed again in his face.
"I never saw that tree bloom, but I imagined it. I never pruned that tree, but I had made every preparation to do so. I never enjoyed its fruit, and so," and his voice cracked, "I have no true memories of it, only unmet anticipation." At last his eyes acknowledged the gap. "I remember that great oak so many times a day it's painful to simply walk out the front door. But at least I have memories. I have a true and solid part of my life that can be recalled and revisited with gratefulness for the time shared. But that gap? There are no memories, just the longing for them. The wondering. The eternal question of what could have been, should have been... but isn't."
The wind had stilled. Warm sun rays replaced the breeze, bathing the porch in an embrace.
"Memories are painful," the old man told the boy, voice solid now. "But they're beautiful because you can hold on to them even after the pain has gone."
The boy's face was now serene as he continued to stare at the gap.
The old man studied him a moment. "Do you understand?"
A nod. Gaze still on an unseen object.
The old man returned to his rocking. He was surprised by the quiet voice that interrupted his thoughts.
"Grandpa?"
"Yes." He had never seen the boy look this earnest.
"Someday you'll have all those memories, but without the painful part."
The man couldn't see the boy anymore. All he could do was nod as he swiped at his eyes with his shirt sleeves.
The boy unfolded his already lanky form from the porch floor and took his whittling inside. The screen door clattered shut behind him.
The rocker began again, steady and even, as the sun cast a few more rays along the orchard.
"Nothing much changes, does it?" The murmur seemed absent-minded.
"Sir?" The boy on the floor glanced up at him. His hair was skewed and brown. No other color for it, just brown. His eyes were too probing for one so young.
The old man cast a glance at him. "Life keeps repeating." Eyes outward again. "Cycle after cycle. Year after year."
The boy remained silent. Silence has a way of asking questions words never can.
The wind scurried across the porch, taking with it a few remnant leaves from the recently departed winter months. It smelled vibrant and alive, full of all the promise and desire born of dormancy. The dried leaves tumbled to a halt in the orchard just beyond the porch, joining the first blossom petals.
"Life and death right next to each other," he mused. His smile was rueful, not bitter. Gaze drifting over the rows of neatly arranged trees, he observed the transition from withered memories to blossoming promise. "Do you see that stump over there?"
He didn't need to gesture. The gap was obvious. The boy nodded once with eyes on the spot.
"The first one here on the property. As if she had always been a part of it."
The boy's eyes indicated understanding.
"I was so young." Again that smile, this time framed by genuine affection. "We were so young," he amended. "Full of plans and dreams and everything that was going to go right." His cracked palm stilled on the oak rocker. "She was beautiful in full bloom. Perfect in every way, this beacon of solidity for everything else to grow around. She was strong from the beginning, never needed to worry about sheltering her from the wind or hail. She put her roots down deep. Nothing could shake her. Every year she flourished, even in the dry year. That was a rough one." His brows furrowed.
The boy had to lean closer; the old man's voice was never raised, always steady and low.
"Do you remember her?" A tremor there.
"Of course." A stray hunk of brown fell in those dark eyes. "We had a tire swing on the lowest branch. I got in a fight with the girls over who could swing first."
A soft laugh. "I remember that."
"There's a picture of my dad in front of that tree," he offered.
Silence slid over the porch. But the boy didn't hurry him for a response. The wood in his hand received a few more whittles. The cuffs of his plaid shirt hung loose around sure wrists. Slow and steady. No need to make a mistake.
"It was the first day of school." Old eyes were on the distant horizon again. "He didn't want summer to end. So he went and hid in that tree house. Did you know there was a tree house up there?"
Slight shake of the head.
"Huh." More rocking. As if rousing from another thought: "We built it the spring he was born. We were so excited about the adventures he would have up there. Of course, it was years before he made use of it. By that time the orchard was filling up - row upon row of saplings in the shade of that tree. One summer there was this big storm, and a pine from the grove came down. It would have crushed the new saplings if that tree hadn't caught it on the way down." Quiet reflection as the sun peered out from behind billowing clouds for a brief moment. "That was what ruined the tree house."
The old man stopped rocking again. A deep breath. "Every time I look at that spot..."
The boy's eyes followed his. Shoots of grass were beginning to surround and envelope the remains of a stump. Soon the spot would be invisible unless you knew what to look for.
"It doesn't matter how much time passes - that empty place will make me think of her every time I look at it." Hints of a crushing storm gathered in the old man's eyes. "Every time I see a solid oak. Or a hand-made tree house." The last was almost a whisper as his thoughts retreated back inside.
"Or a tire swing," the boy put in, turning his eyes back to his wood work. Tears were shed more easily when meeting another gaze. The wood in his hands carried his emotions back to a stable place. Away from the still-fresh memories of the sweet woman who had taught him how to climb on to the tire swing on his own. Of how quickly it all happened. "I wish there weren't so many things to remind me all the time." His words were breathless and harsh. Maybe those tears weren't pushed back so far after all.
"You wish-" For the first time the old man turned a full gaze to the boy. Oh, those concentrated lines in his face as he restrained his emotion looked so much like his own reflection years ago.
A rebuke reached his tongue but disintegrated upon forming. Had he known any better? Not at the tender age of wood whittling and lolling for hours in a tire swing, feet and head on the same straight line, as an afternoon was spent recalling nothing but memories. Those dark eyes were still fixed, set - a challenge behind the glistening emotion.
"No," the old man said softly. His gaze purposed beyond the porch again. "Do you see another gap in the orchard, boy?" His eyes never left their distant focal point. He didn't need to look - he knew where it was.
The boy's gaze searched. At last rested. "There."
The old man nodded. "Not a very big gap, is it?"
The boy shook his head and returned to his wood with a small scowl. Not rebellion, simply confusion at being turned away from his own question.
"A man, a young man, planted a seed there." A pause. His mind's eye held the image of the tiny gap in the orchard. "There was so much hope in that little seed: the first of the orchard, dreamed of and saved for. Nights lying awake talking of the future. How that one tree would be the first of many."
The boy looked up at the old man's sudden pause.
The old man's mouth cracked open, but it remained soundless.
The boy looked again to the spot. "But?"
The old man searched, but the only words that came were the most straight-forward. "There was never a tree." A deep breath and resuming of restless hands on the weathered chair arms. "Planted and watered and awaited, but never seen to fruition." His lips pursed and his eyes began studying the chair arm.
Confusion flickered across the boy's face. A moment passed as he waited for clarity. Upon receiving none: "Why be sad about that? There are more trees now." Gaze on the full orchard. "It was just one tree."
"So was that one." A simple lift of his finger in the direction of the once-magnificent oak.
"Yes, but," spluttered the reply. Anger and confusion bubbling together in a cauldron of unshed tears. "You never even saw that tree. You didn't build a tree house in it or sit under the shade on a hot day or even eat a single piece of fruit from it."
The old man nodded. "You're right." Misty blue eyes locked into brown. "And that's what makes it the most painful."
Question bloomed again in his face.
"I never saw that tree bloom, but I imagined it. I never pruned that tree, but I had made every preparation to do so. I never enjoyed its fruit, and so," and his voice cracked, "I have no true memories of it, only unmet anticipation." At last his eyes acknowledged the gap. "I remember that great oak so many times a day it's painful to simply walk out the front door. But at least I have memories. I have a true and solid part of my life that can be recalled and revisited with gratefulness for the time shared. But that gap? There are no memories, just the longing for them. The wondering. The eternal question of what could have been, should have been... but isn't."
The wind had stilled. Warm sun rays replaced the breeze, bathing the porch in an embrace.
"Memories are painful," the old man told the boy, voice solid now. "But they're beautiful because you can hold on to them even after the pain has gone."
The boy's face was now serene as he continued to stare at the gap.
The old man studied him a moment. "Do you understand?"
A nod. Gaze still on an unseen object.
The old man returned to his rocking. He was surprised by the quiet voice that interrupted his thoughts.
"Grandpa?"
"Yes." He had never seen the boy look this earnest.
"Someday you'll have all those memories, but without the painful part."
The man couldn't see the boy anymore. All he could do was nod as he swiped at his eyes with his shirt sleeves.
The boy unfolded his already lanky form from the porch floor and took his whittling inside. The screen door clattered shut behind him.
The rocker began again, steady and even, as the sun cast a few more rays along the orchard.
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