I first discovered the spoon flower when I was in Maui in 2007.  In fact, I took a gorgeous picture (this one isn’t it), that is lost somewhere on one of the hard drives of one of our computers.  Isn’t it purdy?

But, imagine this flower with only half its petals.  Or one super long petal and fourteen short, stubby ones.  Imagine how lop-sided it would be.

That’s what mamas are sometimes.  We’re a spoon flower with half its petals.  Or with one super long petal and fourteen short, stubby ones.

Maybe I’m awesome at being a mommy, but terrible at being a wife.  There go a few petals.

Maybe I’m great at bringing in the bacon, but terrible at connecting with my teenagers.  There go a few.

What if I’m awesome at cooking, but awful at affection?  Awesome at affection, but awful at cooking? Pluck, pluck.

When I think of my life as a mama, I think of the spoon flower and how lovely she is with her almost perfectly equally-sized petals.  One doesn’t jut out beyond the others;  there aren’t fourteen short ones and one long one.  They are all fairly the same, balanced in size and weight and beauty.

Such perfect balance may be near-impossible in the world of kiddos and dried-on-taco dishes, but it’s something I want to shoot for.  I don’t want my life’s flower to be so deformed that no one will stick it into a jelly jar and plunk it on a counter somewhere.

The spoon flower reminds me to make dinner, even when I’m in the throes of final edits for a two-year-long writing project.

The spoon flower reminds me to take a shower once and again, even in the midst of spring cleaning.

The spoon flower reminds me to play the piano and to stop to kiss a brown-skinned little boy even when time is short and duties long.

She says, a clean house petal without a love petal is missing something.  As is a muscular, fit body petal without a good-food-on-the-table petal.  And a houseful of children petal without a content mama petal.  And a frig full of good food petal without a day-off-at-the-art-museum petal.

Whenever I’m tempted to let one petal grow long and let the others dwarf for lack of attention and nurture, the spoon flower chides me.  Her petals are so lovely, mostly because they are all in balance with each other.  This musical outlet sits across that writing assignment.  This night spent digging out of the basement clutter sits across that night spent lounging in the tub.  This sewing project sits across that bathroom scrubbing.

The petals of life are all the richer for their side-by-sideness:  Bach and wine and weeding and toilet cleaning and homemade croissants and raspberry jams and wood fires and picking boys up from soccer and Hostess cherry pies and salads and Gladiator and Dostoyevsky are all so much more beautiful when experienced together.  Not one instead of the other.  Not one without the other.  But together, one perhaps in front of the other as a mother’s seasons dictates, shaken and stirred, here a little, there a little, like the spoon flower,  no one petal outgrowing the others until a pathology forms.  Like the spoon flower, finding time, even just moments here and there, to add spice to chores, to add depth to the mundane, to enrich while teaching basics, to beautify while changing diapers.

Notice how there is a tiny ‘spoon’ at the end of each petal.  You can almost see a child holding open his mouth for a spoonful of the cream you just whipped with vanilla and sugar.  Each one seems to be offering a sweet gift.  But, if our petals are cut off at the root, or so long they can’t support the treat, we’ll miss out on whatever that gift might be.

I don’t want that and I know you don’t either.  So, let’s go play some Chopin or jump in the sandbox or pull out our paints.  We’ve got some petal-growing to do, dear mamas.

God says it even better:

***

You are loved.  (Jeremiah 31:3)

You are secure.  (John 10:28-29)

You are forgiven.  (Colossians 2:13)

God is with you.  (Hebrews 13:4)

(This last bit shamelessly stolen from John and Stasi Eldredge’s book, Love and War)

1.  First, students, remember to major on minors:  Make no differentiation between social guffaws and moral absolutes.  In fact, invert your response if possible–For commandment-breaking acts, throw up your hands and say, Oh, she didn’t actually mean to lie.  And, for matters of indifference,  go bat-crud-crazy: HOW DARE YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE WITHOUT SHOES, and so on and so forth.

2.  Concern yourself with externals like ‘modesty’ over internals like ‘a growing resentment that will take years of therapy to even begin to undo.’  Your daughter wants to do what??  Wear a tank top??  Doesn’t she know tank tops are of the Evil One?  Refuse at once, shame her for even asking, and then turn a blind eye when she goes to chat on her iTouch with a 14-year-old boy who wants her to talk dirty to him.

3.  Care more about what the church ladies think than what God  thinks.  Discipline only for behaviors that embarrass you during the coffee hour between Sunday School and church, then ignore the same ones at home because no one’s there to watch Miss Sassy Pants give you the lip.

4.  Frustrate your child at every turn:  She wants to go to her friend’s house?  Make her pay.  She can only go if she does ALL her chores, WITHOUT complaining once even though you are forcing her to do her brother’s dishes as well as her own, her homework, her piano practice.  Make her clean her room and babysit her baby brother whenever you need a break or have a headache, even if that’s seven hours a day.  Should she dare to defy you on this, cancel the get-together at once.  Better yet, wait until the very last moment and THEN cancel it.  How will she ever learn to submit if it doesn’t hurt?

5.  Treat her like a slut.  Again, crucial.  Shaming her for liking that sundress is only the beginning.  Showing an interest in boys?  Flirting? Caught kissing once, even?  Label her ‘loose,’ immediately.  Freak out well out of proportion to her ‘deed.’  Give her every indication that you believe, deep down, she is a bad seed and has some sick perversity no other girl has.  Whatever you do, steer clear of honest talk about sexuality, periods, and what is normal (and God-given) in that arena.  It’s integral that she feels dirty as young as possible.

6.  When you see what she wants/needs, make it a priority to give her the exact opposite.  Is she needy at night, wanting to take up your precious bath time to chat?  Push her away.  Teach her the meaning of ‘me-time.’  Roll your eyes.  Does she need an outlet, a friend, advice, encouragement?  Toughen the big baby up by just ignoring whatever wheel is squeaking loudest.  Make her life an obstacle course of pleasing you, of avoiding your mercurial wrath, of lying just to keep you off her back and have a moment of peace.

7.  Never, ever say you’re sorry.  What, and risk her thinking you flawed, or, worse, human?  Shame on you for even considering such a thing…

8.  Keep your distance.  To make sure she knows who’s boss, it’s important to remain aloof and detached.  Whatever you do, don’t cuddle up on the couch and watch a chick flick together.  Be as cold as possible, let her know your displeasure in her very being, and be sure to never tell her that you, too, have bad days, wonder who you are or who God is, or hate your thighs like she does hers.  Instead of living life alongside her, live across the river, detached and indifferent, but be sure to flip out when she gets the attention and affection she craves elsewhere.

9.  Never smile at her.  This may communicate that, no matter her weaknesses and struggles, you actually adore her.  Make sure you are distracted when she talks and be sure not to praise her most recent accomplishment too lavishly.  In fact, try not to attend her recitals or games or play performances if at all possible.  What, and risk her getting a big head?

It’s so easy to look at a rebellious child and think, what is her problem and to further shame her in our attempts to pull her back onto the straight and narrow. But, what if we are to blame, at least in part, for creating our prodigal?  What if we’ve been boorish and unreasonable and perfectionistic and relentlessly demanding and too harsh?  What if we’ve toyed with our child’s psyche or bludgeoned her vulnerability and withheld from her the warmth and love she so desperately needs?  Perhaps the first stop on the road to a prodigal’s return is a heartfelt apology from her parents.

I hope this class is one we all fail abysmally.

Admission:  I like O magazine.

I sneak it into my cart when Ian isn’t looking.  I check it out at the library when he is, but under a pile of biographies.  When he discovers issues hidden under dirty laundry in the bathroom, he chides me:  Ames, if you want this, let’s just get a subscription.

But, of course, I can’t admit that I want it.  In Reformed circles, Oprah is on par with Deepak Chopra…Feministic.  Edgy.  Man-hating.  Liberal.  Touchy-feely.   Do you blame me for shying away from any association with her?

But there’s just enough that appeals to me to shun it altogether:  The emphasis on decluttering appeals to some deep part of me that struggles with a childhood spent knee-deep in ‘stuff.’  The emphasis on self-improvement appeals to those areas I’ve never been able to pray away.  The emphasis on ‘accepting yourself’ scratches a forty-something-year-old itch that started in somewhere between All we like sheep have gone astray and never hearing the words, I love you, until I was 18 and forced from them a begrudging, and most uncomfortable ‘love ya’ in response to mine at the end of a college phone call.

Sitting here with my newest issue, I realize that, no matter my semi-verboten enjoyment of O, the magazine is a sham.  Way beyond the debate about Oprah’s spiritual state (I’m exhaustified of my sorts trying to peg her into any particular theological heresy), what hits me is O‘s in-your-face-how-can-we-not-have-seen-it hypocrisy:

Accept who you are!–(Yet, How to get better with age! Rev up your metabolism! Refresh your style! Recharge your spirit!)

Be original!–(Here, dress in this cool $895 outfit, try this new $98 skin enhancer, copy the liberated lives of these five uber-original women who have–surprise!–ditched their husbands to find fulfillment!)

Declutter!–(But first buy this Physician’s Formula lotion–Look 6 years younger in 4 weeks:  We promise!…Buy these four books actor Bill Paxton recommends, Try one or all of the ten books Oprah herself recommends!, Fill your closets with these no-fail outfits sure to get you attention in the spring!  And the ever-so essential wide-brimmed hat for only $58!  And the shampoo to eliminate that pesky dandruff!  And these neat new ceramic containers that double as a colander AND a serving dish for strawberries!  And these neat, new, green versions of the wing-tip gold shoe that no truly fashion-aware woman dare not have stuffing up her closets!)

Have mercy.

I know mags are in the business of making money, and, in large part, this means selling advertising.  But to have articles pushing material goods right next to articles espousing the importance of giving or sacrificing or bettering the world via anti-materialism is, if nothing else, ironic.  Oprah, or whatever bobblehead is running the cash cow called O mag, is living–and selling–a contradiction.  If those associated with O mean even a fraction of they claim to mean, their magazine ought to prove this.  They ought to declutter their obnoxious advertisements.  They ought to refuse to accept any ad for any beauty product, whatsoever.  They ought to get rid of any column or article promoting the seasonal necessity of this or that buckoo-bucked outfit.

If you believe what you claim you do, O mag, live–and publish–like it.  No matter how you draw me in with the occasionally-decent and authentic article, if you can’t align what you print with what you claim to believe, I’ll find a mag who does.

Ian will be ecstatic.

Each day you face me, but never reproachfully, no matter how long I’ve ignored you.

Cream-colored, usually, sewn into one of the Moleskine journals I bought for 50% off when our local Barnes and Noble consolidated itself with another branch, there you are, my most loyal of friends.

No matter how tired I am, no matter last night’s sorrowful dreams are still floating through my sleepy mind, you greet me like a noble lover…with promises of new beginnings, fresh starts, a smudge-free canvas.

It’s early, which means I’ve not yet made any mistakes.  The babies sleep later and later these days, the big boys until 11 if I let them.  So you, my creamy page, unbesmirched with the scribblings of anxieties and failings, call like a Siren.  You say hello and it means as much as the husband who rolls over and says, Shall I go for donuts?

Yes, dear.  And don’t forget the Bavarian cream.

So I meet you, this other lover of mine, this page, this blank space waiting to be filled, with the anticipation some reserve for a romantic interlude.  You have not yet failed me, though I have not returned the favor.  Sometimes my tears sog things up so that whatever is written is smudged beyond recognition.  Sometimes I spew venom that, hopefully, no one will ever read.  Sometimes, more often these days, that beautiful page is covered with hopeful things.  Ways to love my babies better.  Testaments to a marriage being healed.  The raw cries of a woman who longs to be whole, and the gentle whispers of a God who is listening.

Oh, yes, how I love thee, blank sheet of paper.  You hold no judgements, no grudges.  You do not pigeonhole me as this or that of a woman.  You have no memory and, thus, meet me each day with the faith of the child who kisses his mother on the mouth and wraps his brown arms around her neck, no matter her sins or morning breath.  You believe the best and anticipate it.  You wait with bated breath for my next move, and trust it will be a good one.  You take my abuse without cringing, forgive my most vitriol-filled rants, yet gently prompt me toward better things.  Your unconditional love brings out the best in me, and, as unconditional love does, melts this heart of stone faster than hot pavement melts ice cream.

Good morning, my friend.  I’m glad to see you.  As always.  Have I told you lately how much I love you?

Lots of late-night candlelit writing gets done here on the prairie…

Another fave, tucked under the eaves in Maine.

If I knew you and you knew me–

If both of us could clearly see,

And with an inner sigh divine

The meaning of your heart and mine–

I’m sure that we would differ less

And clasp our hands in friendliness;

Our thoughts would pleasantly agree

If I knew you, and you knew me.

…

If I knew you and you knew me,

As each one knows his own self, we

Could look each other in the face

And see therein a truer grace.

Life has so many hidden woes,

So many thorns for every rose;

The “Why” of things our hearts would see,

If I knew you and you knew me.

–Nixon Waterman

Lent is a time for grieving one’s sins. For pondering what one has done while, at the same time, looking ahead to Easter, the quintessential reminder that our sins are taken away as far as the east is from the west.

Maybe that’s why my heart is heavy tonight. Not for my tidy, safe-to-share-at-ladies’-Bible-study sins like forgetting a quiet time or not giving a bigger check to Mercy Ships, but for the Big Ones, commandment-breaking ones–hatred of my brother, murdering with my tongue, slaughtering relationships.

And that’s just for starters.

The church (lower case), sadly, is not always a haven for the sinner. Sometimes it’s just a social club, a place to feel ‘connected,’ as one person on my Facebook recently put it.

Other times, it’s a place to be either bludgeoned into submission or kept on the outskirts until a proper level of penitence is perceived by those who think they can decipher such things. A place even the closest friends turn a quiet cold cheek away from the lonely, the ugly, the messy, the morally leprous, those stuck in their sin, those suffering under a burden they cannot share, where opening a vein only results in further ostracism and condemnation.

I don’t attend a church like that and for this I am most, most grateful.

Tonight, however, I’m thinking, not so much about grace not given me, but of grace I’ve withheld from others.

Being a person who thinks out loud, I often forget that words have meaning, and that verbal skills cut both ways. I think of friends I have shred to the bone with my pious judgment, lives I have shattered by selfish acts, forgiveness I have withheld, standards I have demanded be met before bestowing love. That knowledge brings me to my knees: No words of restoration seem adequate to this person to whom words have always come so easily when it comes to judgment and sarcasm. In my prayer closet, I am rendered mute. Perhaps the groanings of the Holy Spirit can make sense of the rot in my gut, for I cannot.

Want to be more alone than you’ve ever been in your life? Sin big.  Sin loud.  Sin before those you hold most dear. For, if you are a stubborn sort, only then will your head find the pavement and your cries reach beyond requests for better ‘quiet times.’ You wake up with the regret of the world on your shoulders, the heaviness of your heart causing you to understand the tiniest bit of how it was possible for Jesus to sweat drops of blood, the forgiveness of God temporarily obscured by the unforgiveness of man.

The strange thing is, even with all we Christians have accessible to us–the Bible, weekly worship, the catechism, the creeds–it’s when we’re neck deep in our sorrow and tears and broken hearts and regrets and apologies and bruises, when we can’t pull ourselves up by our bootstraps and we’ve exhausted all other courses of action and our friends have abandoned us and pat answers no longer suffice and our promises to pray for each other are never carried out and we use spiritual terms to beat each other up and our brother’s sin to excuse ours and we find that no amount of charm or wit or charisma or intelligence wins us any points and when we’ve said we’re sorry a hundred times…

It’s here, in this desert, in the darkness of being, in the coldest place in the world, an Antarctica of the soul, that place we have put others so many times, that we catch a glimpse of grace.  And I, for one, am desperate for it.

The problem is, we’re human and none of us breathing are in a perfectly glorified state.  Meaning we get hurt feelings, and hold grudges and, try as we might, many of us cannot or do not look at each other as God does, which is to say, with the tender mercies of an Abba Daddy who loves us as we are, no matter how messy our lives.  No one but God can fill the holes, forgive AND forget, or love unconditionally.

That Daddy is the only true grace giver and I’m learning–one cry at a time–that He’s enough.

Nothing says spring like tulips!

We renamed these ‘Jester’s Caps.’

Ah spring, how I love you.