little altars everywhere

i'm full of wonder and incredulity. it's been one of those days that turns into a week that blinks into a month. and here i am. wondering how i made it to this date on the calendar. it's as if i exhaled and nearly 30 days passed. how is that possible? 

this morning, our sunday morning ritual realized. some of us early risers. some of us not. i stood in my little sanctuary, my kitchen peering out the window. blinking out the bright sun and trying to decide if i should curtail the blinding light with cloth or keep the windows uncovered. this is where i go to worship most days, well really everyday. my kitchen sink is where i work through the weights and whiles of this world. praying and thinking and stewing and cursing and ultimately accepting. 

i looked over at my hard working espresso maker spewing out my, ahem, second helping of the morning. and i thanked god for the delights of this black substance that brings me such joy. 

cup in hand i walked out to the back porch, littered with dogs and unfinished art projects. praise to the maker, the creator of artistic means and ways. 

walking passed my bookshelves covered from top to bottom with books most of which i have never read, but have collected in hopes that one day i will. o, those beautifully bound words deemed worthy to publish. praise the lord and pass the nonfiction.

the mister is up and out with two of our strapping gentlemen in pursuit of more lawn tools. a day of yard work awaits. the second day of what will likely be a summer long taming of the shrew and shrubs. wrestling creation back into submission as we kill off some bossy honeysuckle and threatening poison ivy-and teaching our boys to drive a riding lawn mower.

i see little altars all over my home. invitations to worship-not my stuff, but the creator of my stuff. i am reminded of this as i read a taped piece of paper not so neatly cut out that hangs over my sink. it reads: "for we know that if the tent, which is our earthly home, is destroyed, we have a building from god, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. for in this tent we groan, longing to put on our heavenly dwelling". 

the littlest pestered for food. i distractingly ran through a list of possible options. he chose my homemade apple bread over cold cereal. it may not be healing the blind, but it's close to a miracle. 

i returned to the sink. more to see. more to do. more to work through. but mostly more to worship and enjoy. and it's only sunday. a week's worth of opportunity awaits.

i hope your sunday is full of such things. see good.

xo,

gf

teen spirit

the obligatory birthday post for a most unassuming fellow. in case you haven't met our second born son, allow me to introduce: charles keats. 

he was born on the ides of march. ironically he is the most loyal of our bunch o' boys. 

and quick witted with a vocabulary that can get him into a wee bit of trouble on occasion

this year marks his entrance into official teenager-hood though he's been climbing the fence or trying for years now. he's an old soul. his flare for walking to the beat of his own drum inspires me. 

aside from the fact he's been a complete trooper when it's come to moving great distances, acclimating to new surroundings, taking one for the team over and over, he's an all around great boy. i'd want to be his friend even if he weren't my kid.

it's our family tradition to hold the 13th birthday in high esteem. a coming of age if you will. on this day, the celebrated chooses an adventure that is reflective of his interest and invites a few men to join along, men who have joined along in his journey to 13. our boy chose wisely. some men who have been with him since birth(or shortly thereafter) all the way up to one he just recently met, his sensational science teacher/soccer coach/cross country coach. 

as i think through the last 365 days, adding up the many changes, subtracting the friends he's left, adding in the ones he's reconnected with and met, dividing up all the hours in his day where he is away from home(so much more than i would like)and multiplying all the ways he has flourished as a future man, i come away with a stunning sum. 

god is faithful to hold this boy when i fail him. god is good to love this boy perfectly when i don't/can't. god is gracious to extend mercy when i am exacting. the one thing i know about this kid is that he is not an extension of his father or his mother-no child is really. he is indeed his own person. and that person is stunning. 

happiest of days to our newly minted teenager. you finally made it. it's official! 

and in case you lost count, i now share living quarters with two teenagers. two! lucky me.

yours ever so sincerely, 

gf xo

Love and Basketball

"no one can perfectly love god unless he gives up his affection for perishable things...our free will is never so free as when it is a slave to god's will, just as it is never so servile as when it serves our own will." francis de sales

i called my sister from the road. i was barely out of her driveway, but knew i needed her to pray for me. it seemed that my little less than 24 hour getaway was going to cost me. 

you see when i called the mister to tell him i was on my way home, he said those words i have to come to learn are usually always loaded, "do you have a minute to talk?"

he proceeded to tell me that our darling 10 year old, the one who does the laundry every week for our family{save the 14 year old who insists on doing his own}tried to wash two, count them two sleeping bags-at the same time. want to guess what happened next? one word: toast. as in our washing machine is toast. burned. gone. wrecked.

it's not that i am tied to my 17 year old washing machine, the one we bought new when we bought our first house. i am sentimental, but i am also cheap. i don't like spending time or money on things that i shouldn't have to and this washing machine was supposed to last a few more years. operative word being supposed.

so here i was driving home, hung over, not from an alcoholic elixir, but from an emotional one. sister and i had stayed up into the wee hours of the morning talking about our shit, like anger and worthiness and love. and just like that i was being put to the test on all of mine.

fortunately i had a two hour buffer before meeting the boy who had slain my washing machine in the name of clean camping equipment. and i had my sister praying for me-and my potential volcano of burning hot anger that could level any community or tender shoot of a boy's soul. 

praise be. upon my arrival home, there was barely enough time to make a cup a coffee{remember i only had a few hours sleep} before we were out the door to his basketball game. by that time, i had gained that little nugget of goodness called perspective. 

my 3rd boy broke the washing machine. yes. but he did it trying to be helpful. he did it trying to be efficient. he did it because he was trying to serve me. he did it because he was trying to be independent. he did it because he felt comfortable with this gadget that he uses(or sometimes misuses)every monday/tuesday when he washing about 8 loads of laundry for our family.

my anger was gone. the clarity shown like that bright orb in the sky. i was able to see him and his motives and love him and not bowl him over with my need to vent. o, how often my frustration is taken out on my children. too often.

once we settled in on the bleachers, i watched as he played his best game ever. scoring two points. the most ever{this is his first try at basketball. the jury is still out if he'll really take to it}. and i wondered. what would have happened had i not had those two hours to pray and think? what if i had fallen into my old way of allowing my anger to spew onto my kid? would he have played as well? would he have been as confident on the basketball court? would he have had his head in the game? and hear me say, it's not about basketball. it's about life. basketball was just the example i was able to observe.

the day passed and no one mentioned the incident-that-happened-when-mom-was-away-for-19-hours. the mister was off with two of our boys, all day soccer tournaments. by the time 10 pm rolled around, and we were all under the same roof, the washing machine was the LAST thing i wanted to talk about. the mister sweetly kissed me good night and said, "hey, how about you and i go pick out a new washing machine tomorrow?" and another light went off. 

then it really dawned on me: nobody had brought up the incident. was this because i hadn't? how often does my anger spread like a wildfire? i fuss at a boy, who either later spews his anger on another brother or becomes the target for more ridicule. o, goodness. how have i been so dense to see how malicious my sin is? up until this morning, i had the notion that my anger was more like a "white knuckle it and pray til it goes away" kind of problem rather than a "pervasive and widespread" one. i always thought i would perhaps see the anger in my sons as fathers, but didn't see it as clearly in the here and now as they are still little sons. and towards their brothers. ah. ha. 

perhaps that's why i've had to scold the self righteous oldest boy or calm the tumultuous 10 year old, try to redirect the sometimes over reactionary 7 year old and soothe the 12 year old. gracious me. i am not too quick on the uptake, peeps.

this morning i snuggled in bed reading one of the 4 books i have going. the beginning de sales quote sparkled even more brightly. how often have i allowed perishable things override the eternal? how often has urgent robbed eternity? too often. and here's the thing. i am not even that captivated with perishable stuff. look at my house all filled with my secondhand finds. blood and chocolate strewn about like the pattern of a thrifted kilim rug. our once white walls now bear the fingerprints of our kids and others who frequent our little cottage-in-the-hood. geez. 

so my take away on this day, the first day of more daylight, how apropos: perspective can override anger-when you have two hours to think.

just trying to figure it out. 

xo,

gf 

as a follow up: in case you were wondering how we eventually addressed the broken washing machine with the boy. he accompanied his father to pick out a new one. seemed like a fitting punishment especially seeing how he'll be using it for a few more years-i hope!

#seegood

the more i try to figure stuff out, the more muddled it all gets. take this blog for instance. whatthehellamidoing? would the responsible adult please stand up? crickets chirp.

i was writing to a friend today catching her up on our life in the wild ass monkey house. 

i auditioned for a reading part this past weekend. two words: lead. balloon. good thing i don't take my writing seriously cause if that was all i had going for me, well, i'd have to find a new dog and pony show. 

i wrote to her about the boys and their particularly pertinent places in their lives right now. one is moving about life at an alarmingly great clip, one is getting his ass handed to him-every day. one is forgetting the difference between solving for pi and solving for area. one still wants to be cradled like a bebe. lawd have mercy. it's a rocky ship over here, dear ones. and i am feeling very seasick. 

yesterday, i met with one of my boys' teachers. i passed her in the hall. a casual meet up. she asked, "how are you doing?" i said, "okay. not great. just okay." she mentioned that our boy had written her a note that said, "i am trying to do the right thing, but sometimes i want to explode." she was very touched with his honesty. i am grateful he has a confidant in his teachers as well as his coaches. 

it's a rocky road, sweet ones. never promised to be lined with pine needles and lavender the way i would want. but so filled with promise. i've started my own #seegood campaign to combat all of the #shit brokenness. i go about seeing good and documenting it, noting it to myself and instagram. i am reminded when i watch one of my boys play basketball (play is open to interpretation) with his teammates. there is so much wasted opportunity. the kids fight. the coach is practically blind (literally). the sportsmanship is toxic. it's been a giant waste of time. or has it? 

when the boy comes to us and says, "b threw a ball at t and really hurt her all because he got angry." and we say, "b is not the enemy. he is looking for boundaries. but he is not the enemy." 

or when another boy says he is being made fun of and the mister very perceptively says, "those boys are angry. they need to hit a reset button before they are on a path that leads to prison." 

we talk through words like fuck {ewwwww} and locker room etiquette {ewwwww}. the mister is even more leery of what goes on when there are no adults around to observe the tomfoolery. he reminded the boy, "you have one enemy. keep your eyes open. you are not these boys' parent. you are not there to parent them. you are not there to set them straight. you are at school to learn. but keep your eyes open. getting angry and fighting only tells the boys they have control over your emotions. and they don't. you are not being bullied. you are being abused. take it out into the light. confront them firmly in front of a teacher. don't go to the teacher. go to the kid-in front of the teacher. and use their words back at them. if they call you 'f-hole' again. go in front of the teacher and say, 'stop calling me 'fuck hole'."

i am reminded of how out of control life can feel when i am driving a carload of middle schoolers. they ask me questions like, "why are some kids so mean?" and i reply honestly, "because they do not know they are loved, really loved. if you feel love, you are compelled to show that love (kindness) to others." like begets like.

that's my story and i'm sticking to it. and yesterday as i drove, these precious boys chatted for an hour NONSTOP about how much they hated their fathers, hated their sisters, hated their brothers. they autocorrected one another. "bro, don't be so negative. that's not good to hate. the bible says to love and stuff." i sat as quiet as a leaf as they bantered. i was in a sacred spot. i only spoke when i was spoken to. but i listened intently. so much hurt. so much trust. so much hope. 

my boy's favorite school chum confessed, "i felt abandoned when i found out my stepfather wasn't my real father, like i had been tricked. but my stepfather is the only father i have known so he is like my real father. is that possible, mrs. utley?" yes, darling boy. that is possible. 

another said he has 11 sisters. i joked, "goodness what is THAT like?" he says, "i have no idea. you gotta blame my father. he's the one who is responsible." come to find out those 11 girls live in mexico-and have never met the little brother they have. the one who was riding in my car.

so muddled and full of hope and sincerely trying to #seegood all the while engaging this wonderful, wacky world around me. 

before i forget, how are things in your neck of the woods? i hope you are hearing a lot less f-words. sorry. just reporting the news. and if you step outside your door for more than five minutes, it's likely you are seeing and hearing things as unsavory.

but in case you didn't know-you are loved! like ridiculously so. more than you can ever imagine. by a creator who is so taken with you that he gave you your own fingerprint and personality {swear words and all}. so go get 'em tiger. risk big. love bigger. and never stop doing stuff that seems hilarious and uncomfortable. you'll be better for it. swing for the fence, sweetums.

xo

gf

be still

it was a morning much like all mornings. late starts. groggy mama. roaming boys. only on this morning the lure of a new trampoline and a sky filled with snowflakes called to boys. and a hot, freshly made cappuccino called to mama. so i went with it. 

the littlest bundled on two pairs of pants and thick socks, two sweaters and a sleeping bag. out they went for an early morning romp. i compromised, "p.e. came early." that is my excuse for our late school starts. and in reality sitting down to the table at 9:45 isn't going to kill anyone, right?

i was about to launch into reading history when i closed the book and said, "boys, what is the most important thing we can do all day?" in unison they answered, "pray". and so we did. only this time i told them, "today we are going to do something a little bit different. let's spend 1 minute saying aloud adjectives that describe god." i went on, "there is no method to this. just say a word. we are not going in order. for 60 seconds let's just close our eyes and remind ourselves who god is by describing him aloud. i'll start. powerful." the 10 year old chimed in "merciful". silence. the 10 year, feeling his part as older brother offered his younger brother in a loud whisper, "strong". so the littlest added louder as if it was his idea, "strong." feeling the unspoken rhythm i said, "love". the ten year old said, "powerful". silence. clearly the 7 year old was now accustomed to his older brother helping so he must've been waiting for another prompt. "all knowing", helped the 10 year old through a loud whisper. "all knowing!" raised the 7 year old.

and for 60 seconds we went around the table, eyes shut-i think, i never opened mine, but could hear the swill of hot chocolate sips and slurps in between words. it was the sweetest, most sacred time of prayer i have ever had with these little boys. hearing the 10 year old. his words so telling of how he sees his creator. the 7 year old speechless, but willing to take a lead from his older brother. and follow.

it is rare, rare that my hurried personality senses an urgency to slow down, for stillness but i have sensed for going on a year now an urgency, neigh, necessity to slow down. it began before we moved back to tennessee when i was anticipating this school year with its many changes. i knew that i needed to keep life simple. and i willingly obeyed that prompting. not committing my boys to too much. recognizing that less is more in the way of curriculum. honing their strengths and working methodically and slowly on their weaknesses. deciding that art class was the way to draw out their inner scholar. finding time for running club, basketball and swimming were the way to inspire deeper understanding of mathematics and reading. deciding much to my discomfort that reading, spelling, history and math with a gentle nod to science and grammar were the full scope and sequence of our school year, leaving out latin, rote memorization, and my love, writing. i tabled those. for now. 

everyday as i sit to teach i say something that i dare say no other school teacher has ever spoken to her students which is: i don't care if you don't learn a thing except to know that you are loved by an eternal, loving, true god. if you know this and if you love him, that is all that matters in this life. and you know what. that is my veritas. i don't care where they go to college. i care about where they spend eternity.

in the late afternoon amid the folded clothes on my bed, the 7 year old came to lie down beside me as i read the news. he chatted to me as i scanned the screen. i said what i say to him about a million times a day which is, "i really like you. and i love you. you are my best friend." and he said back, "i like you. and i love you. but my best friend is...you know." i began rattling off names of whom i thought it could be, his best friend. then he cut to the chase and said, "god". and my heart was glad. "i hope he always is."

so the next morning after the Mister left for work and in response to the frigid temperatures, i called the boys back to my bedroom, the warmest room in the house. "let's just read and pray back here since it's so cozy." the boys got situated under blankets and after what felt like an eternity of reminding them that nestling into bed isn't license to become rowdy, we read scripture. the familiar passage elicited a chorus of little voices who had somewhat memorized this particular set of scripture. when it came time to pray, i reminded them of what we did yesterday. "so today we are going to spend a minute calling out the many names of god." i went through the list many taught to me from amy grant and sandy patti songs. then we began, "savior". "lord". "mate". i thought about the boy who called "mate". and when i couldn't contain my emotion, i burst out laughing. yes, god is our mate, thinking he meant husband, but no. "he's my mate-like friend." ahhhhh. then we began back. "messiah". "judge". "life boat." clearly this boy sees god in a way that is pure and real, but when he called out, "brother from another mother" i chided, "okay, i think we're done here. our minute is up."

here's to finding an urgency to be still. had i not listened and obeyed, i would have missed these magnificent moments. how many of these have been squandered by the tyranny of the urgent. o, i am so ashamed. but there is hope to change. i will take it, the invitation to change. and find the blessing in what i've got left. may you find it and be delighted. 

xo,

  gf   

grit and bear it

i could see him. traipsing through the yard. with a ladder. i would be remiss if i didn't mention how i muttered, "o, good lord" under my breath or maybe it was rather audible as the sound prompted the Mister to ask, "what is it?" i nodded out the window to a group of boys who were gathering around a tree. i couldn't make out what was going on but from the looks of it the crepe myrtle was about to be scaled by the likes of two of wild ass monkey's finest: the 7 year old and the 10 year old. the 12 year old stood beside the ladder to steady the harrowing climb and to serve as wing man with an extra long pole in his hand. and then i spotted it. in the tippiest top of the tree was the 10 year old's latest procured aerobie that he just last night had spent his 10$ on at the adventure store aka REI.

now stop. in this story, i could have 1) ran out to stop him from making what was a risky climb which could result in a fall that could potentially mean a broken something or 2) i could watch (and maybe pray) to see how he worked out this scenario. want to guess which one i did?

i feel with my entire being that allowing children to risk and struggle is profoundly good (and ridiculously hard) and completely necessary. it produces grit. and grit chisels character. the lines run deep. the end result is stunning. but not without consequences. however, the consequences of not standing back and letting children risk, fall, fail are much more damaging than a trip to the e.r. and much more insidious. i would rather a bone need mending than to see one of my sons being crippled with fear-fear of failure, fear of intimacy, fear of success-you name it. better to have stitches than to have gaping holes of character flaws that result in too much navel gazing, hand wringing, waffling and what ifs. the purpose of parenting is to prepare our children for this wild world not to enable them from engaging it. 

the 12 year old lifted the pole he had fashioned with his brothers. pvc pipes taped together, 3 in total that they estimated would just reach that taunting orange circle. i stood at the sink. the Mister stood in the driveway and watched as three of our boys worked together like a team of mules in synch. i held my breath as the 10 year old climbed higher and higher. and just like that with the help of his brothers and a jury rigged pole, he knocked his hard earned toy free from the snares of the branches. the Mister looked up at the kitchen window to see if i had seen. i had. and i ran outside to holler, "way to go!" and just like that they resumed their game until it was time to assemble the trampoline.

this lesson is one that i must practice daily like when the 14 year old came home from school at 4:00 and wished to walk back to school to watch a basketball game that lasted until 9 at night-by himself. or when the 7 and 10 year old joined their 12 and 14 year old friends for a bike ride to the nearby ice cream parlor. or standing by when the 12 year old has to decide to stand for truth and goodness when he could easily be bitter or dishonest. even recalling these recent events makes my mama's heart wince. it's so hard, but then i see the consequences. 

the 14 year old enjoyed his night out alone with his friends. the 7 year old and 10 year old are maturing and learning to handle themselves in ways that i could only hope. and the 12 year old. o, that boy. he grows more tender and loving towards me as he grows more rugged and courageous towards life. 

i do not have this mothering thing figured out. i never will. just when we get in a new groove, life steps in and reminds me that i am working with organic beings who are constantly changing. and so must i. 

xo,

gf

post script: a few hours after the boy rescued his toy from the tree's taunting branches, it landed in an even higher branch far, far out of the reach of ladder or climber made by the bravest. so like the movies, feats must be rated. parental discretion is advised. 

greeting old

okay, just to be clear. i am not old. i don't feel old (despite what the body test i just took at the y.m.c.a. says). my friends say i don't look old. but a few days ago i turned 43. and found myself buying a pair of reading glasses-after the eye doctor gave me that knowing look when i kept holding the reading card away from eyes at my last check up.

but hey, it's all cool. getting older has never been a fear or a dread of mine. it happens, it's inevitable. why hate the passing of time? i don't understand how that's helpful. getting older for me has always meant one thing: one breath closer to meeting jesus. and seriously, that way overshadows wrinkles and achey knees. but seeing how nobody i know finds talking of death hopeful, i keep those notions to myself. 

so a couple of days ago, it was my birthday. it's been a long standing tradition in our household for the Mister to take the day off on this family holiday. this year was no exception. we sent the two older boys off to school and snuggled in with the youngers. they had planned breakfast and took me to a local spot that is often so bustling you can't find a table, but as providence would see (and the fact it was a wednesday), we managed to find ample seating for our dwindled bunch of 4.

the 10 year old brought his wallet and was set on contributing. he wanted to buy me SOMETHING anything. a new flask? no honey, mommy already has one. a small pot of jam, perhaps? no, thanks. i kept telling him there was nothing i wanted. but knowing that it was important for him to buy me something with his money, i told him i would let him know when i saw the perfect gift.

after we were stuffed and over caffeinated, the Mister took the two youngers home to school them whilst i got lost for the day. i took my traditional walk around radnor lake (the only time i typically do this alone), and perused a thrift store where i found the yummiest pendleton blanket for chicken scratch. and of course procured those darling reading glasses. 

after a day of decadently doing whatever i wished, i met up with the boys for indian food and a movie. after the show, we were walking out when the 10 year said, "mom, i didn't get you anything for your birthday-from me." about that time, the 7 year old noticed the photo booth that sits in the corner of this crowded theatre. "hey, i have an idea. for my birthday present, will you pay for a session in the photo booth?" and we bum rushed the booth and packed in like sardines. the 14 year old looked on with mild amusement, but no thank you he did not wish to participate. the 7 year old cried, "but i am so little i won't be visible!" i comforted him, "you can sit on my lap." the 10 year old pulled out his wallet and 3 crisp dollar bills to feed the machine. it was all ridiculously hilarious and fun. deeply satisfying sincerely fun. when was the last time you felt that? 

and when the slot spit out our strip of hilarity, i thanked the 10 year old for my favorite gift. a memory of our sweet time of being silly after a full day of ridiculous reminders of how loved and celebrated i am. and every year that passes, that is one more year for me to be reminded of all the joy and profound goodness around me that blankets me and mine through the likes of friends and community that is better than any earthly riches. i decided that greeting old is better than getting old. greeting is warmer and more intentional. so for this year, that's what i'll think on as i laugh-especially every time i pass the refrigerator where this strip of photographic evidence of time well spent is stuck.

and as you can see, the 7 year old managed to find his place in front of the camera. poor thing.

here's to keeping perspective, people. aging is inevitable-if we're lucky. 

xo

gf