The Mountains Among Us

The day we left the mountains behind us broke his heart a little. We drove away with all our possessions crammed in a moving truck and said goodbye to those majestic peaks. It was all he could do not to sob like a baby heading up the canyon and away from our home as we knew it.

Mountains are his thing. Growing up in the flatlands of Kansas as a kid, he found himself in the mountains when he left home as a young man. He built trails, he led trips, he hiked up to the places where the oxygen is thin and makes your lungs burn with every step. He even donned a backpack and trekked for weeks in a place so remote it literally hadn’t been mapped. There aren’t many places left like that. Fresh ground never trod by man’s footprint. Places where a man can conquer the world simply by stepping forward into it. 

The mountains called to him, and he went out into them. Exploring and finding himself, his vocation. He would return from his explorations bent on etching out a living from the crags and cracks that loomed high above his head. He learned that a livelihood could be made from photographing an adrenaline rush. That entire budgets existed to show off the grandeur of the streams that flowed from the hallowed peaks down to the mighty oceans. The mountains–they became his destiny. They were his food. They were his religion. They marked his identity and gave him a purpose to pursue something greater out there in the Wild. 

The mountains shaped my husband and called out something within him that nothing else ever will. And he misses them, I know. 

We left the mountains behind for the rugged shores of a great big lake. It’s beautiful here. And cold. No fast-paced city at the foot of a lofty range. The country sky is our night scene now. There’s no real skiing or climbing. We have state parks and scenic views. The gardens are breathtaking and the winters have an untamed raw beauty all their own. Summer is heaven at the lake. Trees tower overhead, bluffs poking out into the rippled waters below. The people are honest and kind. And our family is here too, so he’s learned to morph his business into something that survives the rocky shores and lush forests of our new home.

Some would say he went soft. Gave up a life of freedom and adventure for the chains of a family. He collected a wife who doesn’t earn an income and a lawn that needs to be mowed. He’s got four kids, with appetites and needs and little legs that can’t go fast. Can’t go far. Certainly can’t climb up to those high places where he once stood surveying his life, the world literally at his feet.

And he’s ok with that.

You see, out there in the wilderness my husband discovered what so many men have missed on their coming-of-age treks through the woods. As a young man he may have found himself in the mountains, but he did not lose himself there. While he may have left behind a scenery so special to him, he took along the lessons of that landscape. 

Now he looks out on a different vista, fraught with all kinds of new challenges to tackle and majesties to behold. In one direction the view sweeps off into the future, four little peaks, all uncharted. All untamed. Each day the sun rises on these glimmering little mountains, promising adventure, treachery, and hope for the years yet to come. And though the journey is slow and the slog is long, he knows the thrill of making it to the summit. That’s what keeps him going on this path of fatherhood. The climb he is on now is one that will make him a real man, one who can lead generations onward into the unknown, laying down his own rights for the benefit of those who come after him. These four peaks are the toughest terrain he has ever tackled and the most rewarding footprints he’s left behind.

 

And at their center stands a mother mountain, the one landscape he must learn to navigate so well, he could do so with his eyes closed. It will take a lifetime to map her out. To learn her highs and lows, her vulnerable spots, her rocky slopes, her glowing meadows where her heartbeat can be felt underfoot. The mountains may have called him out, but she calls him home.

They say there aren’t many uncharted, wild places left in the world where a man can really go searching and find himself. But my husband would disagree. For him the most life-changing mountains are not the ones he left behind, but ones living, breathing, and rising up in his midst. He would say it’s  the mountains among us that make us who we are.

And as I watch him traverse his way through life, really it is him who has risen up, becoming a mountain himself. A man of enduring resolve, an icon on the frontier that is our family, and a majestic pointer to the One who’s glory he reflects. 

A Mother’s Prayer

The Lord bless you, and keep you,

The Lord make His face shine upon you, and be gracious to you.

The Lord turn His face toward you, and give you peace. Num. 6:24-26

My His blessings rest upon you and a thousand generations, for your family, and your children, and their children, and their children. Generation after generation.

When you wake up, when you lie down, when you go out or come home, when you cry in pain or laugh in delight, know that He is with you. Always with you.

May His presence go before you, behind you, and beside you, surrounding you forever, and filling you deep within. He is for you, like I am for you.

May He show you His face, and turn your ears to His voice. May you know Him, may you seek Him, may you find Him, and may you love Him.

In your triumphs and your failures, in your weakness and your victories, in your wandering and your resting, He is working goodness for you.

Dwell in His lovingkindness, search out His wisdom, walk empowered by His breath, rest in His promise.

Yahweh, bless them. And keep them. And make your face shine upon them, and be gracious to them. Please turn your face toward them, and give them peace. Let your favor rest upon their shoulders, generation after generation, to their families, and their children, and their children, and their children. May the legacy of the gift and inheritance of renewal be to them a promise that endures and a blessing that multiplies. Give them a home and a life in the realm of your glory, a house along that mighty river of life, and a spirit made whole.

 

 

 

*Portions of this prayer were inspired by Kari Jobe’s song, “The Blessing.” Highly recommend!

The Best Part of Parenting No One is Talking About

The other day I sat down with a friend and listened to her tell me about her fears of raising kids. She is knee-deep in toddlerhood, where tantrums and choking hazards are the biggest struggles of daily life. I listened as she shared her doubts and worries, the messiness of her life at home with young kiddos. It was the standard “the days are long but the years are short” condundrum, one that any mother worth her salt will face. Through our chat she expressed to me her fears about her little people growing up and the days when there are no more toddlers or preschoolers around her home anymore. She worries about wishing these little years away and dreads the hole her children will leave when they outgrow babyhood.

Her fears have merit. Every single person I’ve ever met has told me how much I should treasure these young years and how fast they go. Anyone can get misty at the thought of a bright-eyed, beautiful baby suddenly grown up, gone from their life in a blink. But it seems to me that in sapping about over the days of cuddles and coos, we’ve missed the best part of parenting that no one is talking about. We’ve missed the quiet, gentle days of big kids.

It sneaks up on you, that phase. You don’t see it coming. And as quick as it comes it’s over, and you’re off to the precarious transition of tweens, and then into the full-blown teenage years that everyone seems to fear. But this year I realized what a beautiful season I’m in right now. For the first time in almost nine years, half of my children are big kids.

Like their little brothers, my two oldest kids are still fun and lively. Their imaginations and possibilities are limitless, and their main goal in life each day is pretty much just to have fun and discover something interesting. It takes very little to make them happy, and for the most part, a simple routine full of rich explorations satisfies them.

But unlike their baby brothers my big kids have the stamina to really go for something. They have attention spans and cognitive abilities that make conversations stimulating, even for an adult. And while not every moment is a bright one, for the most part they have enough maturity to navigate the ins-and-outs of the disappointments and thwarted plans that daily life brings.

While everyone is quick to tell me not to miss a beat with my two youngest, they never tell me about the ways in which my heart nearly bursts when I see all that my big kids have grown up to be.

Resourceful, responsible, kind. Humorous, welcoming, gentle. Creative, hard-working, useful. Empathetic, independent, self-controlled.

And then there are those moments where I truly have to pinch myself. The ones where I walk into a room and my 8 year old has dressed his little brother, taken him to the potty, brushed his teeth and hair, and generally made my morning faster by at least 15 minutes. Or when I discovered the two big kids, working together in harmony, just randomly cleaning up the kitchen. And it’s then that I realize that I won’t be a slave to little tyrants forever.

We still have a long way to go. There is still plenty of character shaping and hard parenting in front of me.

But with two littles and two bigs, I find myself resting in the beauty of the truth no one tells: big kids are just as magical as babies.

The best part of parenting isn’t the phases we look forward to or leave behind; it’s the phase we’re in. It’s those everyday moments we don’t notice that shape us and shape our children. And after a while all those moments add up and transform into something that–surprisingly–we didn’t expect to see during our time in the muddy trenches of the little years.

And so I savor the moments I have. I soak in those snuggles and the simple play with my tiniest ones. But I also bask in the awe of the two in my home who are no longer little. And I delight when one of them walks into the room and I just love them more than I ever thought I could. I will cherish them for who they are, and step into the fresh season ahead, loving every moment of being with these babies I’ve raised.

When my friend finished telling me about her fears of her toddlers growing up, I smiled. “Yes, your babies will grow up,” I said. “But do you know what happens then? You get to marvel at the big kids they’ve become. That’s the best part of kids. They grow.”

Lessons from the Little Bear

Dusky blue shadows hang in the space between us. The last rays of the sun have gone to sleep, and twilight looms, a lazy, late-summer night. We sit in the quiet, just looking at each other. I hum a lullaby over you and study all your sweet features. Soft, dark hair combed over to the side of your white forehead, roll poly arms, a blocky face with a perfect little, round nose and pointed chin. Your eyes stare back at mine, as if you’re begging me to tell you the story.

Because there’s a story in you, Little Bear. Did you know that? We all have one. It’s yours–beautiful and rich with all the light that makes you human. I may not know just quite how it goes yet, but it’s there inside you, waiting to be read.

Rocking back and forth in the familiar chair I hold you in my arms. What a sweet lump you are. Soft, warm, with that baby smell I would exchange oxygen for if I could. I try to decide what I love most about you, but hopelessly give up because there is just too much goodness in you to choose.

Goodness. Your story starts with that, Little Bear. So much goodness. Very goodness, in fact. And that is the best part.

Snuggling you, breathing you in, kissing your forehead and hold your hand…it’s intoxicating because it’s full of so much goodness. Your little life unmarred by the world, full of potential and creative power. And even though you don’t know it yet, all you have ever known is love. Perhaps that is the best part; the wholesome and unattached love with which you see me. Love and joy simply because I am your momma. Simply because you love my face. My voice. My fingers intertwined with yours.

Sitting here in the shadows of the night, you stare at the tired woman who carried you in aches and bore you in quite a labor, and somehow you just know to delight in me because you came from me. With you, I don’t have to pretend away my feelings. Don’t have to deny my own desires or hopes or wishes. I can feel my needs because you can’t reject me. You can’t unlove me.

Yes, your story starts with goodness. The shadows, aches, pains, and weariness are all apart of the process. Nothing in life is perfect. But you, Little Bear, you are a glimpse of the perfect human. The one who lives to love and be loved. The one I hope to someday become.

Four Precious Stones

Four precious stones. Four. Each one different and full of the things that make them unique. Most who look at them would see the rough edges and deep pits still so clearly drawn in their varying hues. But not me. To me they are pure specimens of beauty and potential.

Each day I carry them to the River’s edge and emmerse them in the lapping waves and He takes over from there. Shaves away at the callouses. Rolls them over and over again in the truth that polishes all the goodness He placed within them long ago. I stand on the shore, watching the glittering and horrifying process of children becoming adults. And at the day’s end, I pick them up and carry them home. Once again, they feel a little smoother in my hand.

When I began this journal four years ago, I named it for the two precious stones that defined my days. And now I find myself writing again, marveling at the change and clawing for the meaning, with four precious stones in my hands.

No doubt the load is heavier. Each day my arms get stronger and my life more weathered by the vocation of mothering small hearts. I have one who rushes into the River each day, eager to meet it and dive beneath the waves to see what treasures the depths hold.

 

 

 

He is my Emerald, full of life and all things new, deeply interested in ideals and causes. It’s through his curiosity that he organizes his world, and he has a strong connection to his Maker already. But sometimes he swims too far. The currents pull him to places I’m not yet ready to rescue him from, and I worry maybe I will lose him in the places where it gets too deep. But those are the places that refine him most, and I cannot hold him back from where the River takes him. I can only be there when he comes up for air.

Over in the shallows my warrior princess wades, splashes, and cartwheels through her own journey. A July Ruby, she is the one where the vibrant summer sun shines with the most passion and brilliance: creative, determined, spirited, imaginative. Her own instincts took her deep into the murky waters of toddlerhood but now she is emerging into clearer pools of youthfulness. The hard work of her little years has paid off, and I am more able to rest as I watch her knowing she will come around to things in her own time as long as I stay vigilant and attentive to the subtle needs of her complex nature. Love her through the rapids.

And then there is the Amethyst, a royal blessing in the midst of winter. He pokes at me with a smile and his warm, sugary disposition lights up my world no matter how awful the chaos he is causing may be. While he is not yet ready to jump full in, the River calls to him already and each day I find it harder to keep him content playing with the waves that lap at his feet on the shore. He is searching for more. Some days he finds it; the perfect tidepool with just enough newness to keep him happy and safe. But some days he goes looking for it on his own and wanders into dangerous waters, places he cannot yet navigate by himself. And so it’s up to me to pull him back and teach him while I stand stranded on the shore, arms full of our newest little stone, a frosted, springtime Diamond. He is too little for the mighty River and all it’s lessons. All he needs right now is the safety of his family and to hear the promises of the Mighty One redeeming his heart one day. He needs the truth sung over him and tenderness to his changing newborn ways.

Four precious stones. Lately the task is daunting, and my life is like a game of Twister, each of my hands and feet bent on top of a different color. Except my children aren’t a game and falling down isn’t an option. I worry about losing track of one while I linger too long with another. I worry about the pounding they endure on the hard days when a storm rolls in and everything rages in the torrents. I worry that I might be too tired to carry us all home at the end of the day.

But when I stare down at their faces I see my own journey looking me square in the eye. While I am quick to notice the changes in my children’s lives, I often overlook the glory that has come in my own: a mind that is sharper, hands that have memorized the mundane tasks of motherhood, a heart more in tune towards the needs of others, a posture more inclined on the things of the Kingdom, and endurance that carries us all farther.

I remind myself of this when the long and demanding day begins. And when the sunset comes, I stoop down to study their four little faces. These tiny hearts in my hands just a little smoother, glowing a little brighter. The mosaic of their lives resembling more of the image He’s making them to be. We lay down to rest from our day and I listen to the story their hearts tell me.

Because through my four precious stones the River is shaping me too.