Reminders of Spring

The weather the past few days has been pitiful.  Dark, dreary, wet, cold ... nothing like the expectation in my mind of what spring should bring.

I think that's the worst.  When you have your heart set on something and you're only met with disappointment.

However, as I walked to my car this morning, in the drizzly rain and cold air, I looked down and saw a flower.  One single flower, in the midst of the downpour...with beautiful colors, full of life.  I smiled.  It was a reminder that spring is coming.  It was His reminder to me that it's all a part of the process.  And it won't always be this way.

I love the small, but significant reminders, in the midst of the downpour.

An unexpected, and perfectly timed text message from my sister.  Just a simple, "love you sis".  A bright flash of sunshine in the midst of the rain.  I'm talking perfect-to-the-minute-when-I-needed-it-the-most.  (How does she do that?)

A gift-just-because from a lifelong friend.  You know the friends that have always been there and you can't imagine them not being there?  Been there through boyfriends, bridal parties, and babies.  A small, but sentimental token of our friendship.  Again, perfectly timed.  (How does she do that?)

I think it all ties back to Him.  He is looking out for me.  Sending tokens of His love through the messengers that can best relay it in my life.  He uses them to show me that spring is coming.

My heart is happy today.  Because of sisters and friends.  The ones who take a few insignificant moments and make them come alive.  Moments that breathe joy and life and hope in the midst of the downpour.

The winter is past; the rains are over and gone.  

Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come.  

(Song of Solomon 2:11-12)

Grace in Aisle 4 Please

Grocery Store.  Aisle 4.  Major Meltdown In Progress.

Heidi has decided that she is officially finished shopping.  She is ready to go home.  I am too.  Can't really blame her.  She starts out with a whine and then quickly escalates to screaming, stomping and squawking.  At first I calmly ask her to stop.  (Funny, right?)  My frustration escalates just as quickly as her's.  I offer candy to distract her.  Not working.  Without warning my voice takes an unpleasant (and unloving) tone and she snaps to attention.

The young mother, with an angelic newborn sleeping soundly in her cart, rolls by.  I know what she's thinking.  What a horrible mother.  I will never speak to my child that way.  Poor kid.

I hold back the tears.  I want to stomp over and tell her a thing or two.  You have no idea what kind of day I've had today.  I'm exhausted physically and mentally.  YOU have NO idea what I've been through today.  How dare she judge me when she knows nothing, nothing of my story.

A few days later I sit in the pediatrician's waiting room with Heidi.

In walks a mother with 3 kids running in behind her.  I notice that they aren't wearing coats on this chilly winter morning.  They are loud, disrespectful and completely void of any obvious discipline or structure.  They run past my freshly bathed, Gap wearing little princess and nearly knock her over.

I roll my eyes, and turn my attention to her ... making sure she is aware of the havoc that her little heathens are wreaking.  I catch her eyes.  Embarrassed and exhausted her eyes are pleading…

You don’t know my story.

I offer a weak smile and move on.

Deep down, it's not about bribery, tantrums, or clean faces.  At least it shouldn't be.
     

Daily, we cross paths with so many. And we only get a glimpse -- a page in their story still being written.

And yet I am so prone to be that person. The one who rolls her eyes and thinks she knows better.

When instead I am simply called to offer grace.  Listen.  Smile.  Hug.  Encourage. 

I need to slow down and take the time to be a small, but life giving character in their story.

Being a perfectionist makes you flawed, not perfect.

Tiny footsteps are usually the start to my day.

Before I know it, 3 beautiful little girls are begging for breakfast.  

Unfortunately, you can’t press snooze on a human alarm clock.

My day of hurry has begun.

Instead of being met with warm and cozy cuddles, my girls are met with demands.  Finish up and eat.  We need to get moving.  We have to hurry.  We can't be late.  Get your pajamas on.  Hurry up.  Time for bed.  We need to get up early tomorrow.  We need.  We must.  We have to.

Demands that are really a blanket for my insecurities about being a good mom.  

I check my email, world news, Twitter and Facebook, and my calendar, and my to-do list, and, and, and.  I plan my day, I plan their day, and I would likely plan everyone else's day if they let me.

I mistakenly assume that these things are more pressing than the three sweet souls sitting at my table.  

When did “Type A” become a compliment one gives oneself?  (guilty)

When did we begin to base our worth on how “busy” or “tired” we are?  (guilty)

When did we find it more fruitful to manage our days than to live them?  (guilty)

I'm giving myself permission to snuggle with my girls at bedtime.  I'm giving myself permission to say "no" so that I can say "yes" to my family.  I'm giving myself permission to laugh when London raids the pantry and devours 5 cinnamon rolls, rather than jump to clean it up in 5 seconds or less.  (Who's counting anyway?)  I'm giving myself permission to laugh more and worry less.

Unplug.  Live life slowly.  See if the world keeps spinning.  It will.  Without my help.  Without my control.  Without my to-do list.  Without my hurry.  Without my bossy-pants self.