Family Archives - Page 4 of 7

October 11, 2013 by Karin 2 Comments

~ Day 10 ~

I watched her as she shuffled around the kitchen.

She reminded me of my mom. I guessed she was probably about the same age.

The kids ran wild that evening.

Tunes from the guitars, keyboard, and drums rang a distant memory of the days my warrior wore his rock star hat. Voices belted out Three Doors Down, Sarah McLachlan, and Buffett. Food and joy overflowed. There is just something about music. Music speaks to hidden memories and connects us without words. Just the lyrics and the melodies blanketed the room.

I saw her eyes glisten as she smiled into the young exuberant crowd.

Her eyes met mine as I bounced my squirming two-year-old in my lap. Baby girl clamored for hands full of candy corn. I obliged. These nights don’t roll around too often.

She slid into the chair next to me. As her fingers stroked the strawberry blonde wisps on baby girl’s head, she told me her story. The music faded to a framing mural as she began,

I don’t have any family. I was the baby of my family. They are all gone now.

Her blue-green eyes sparkled with memories of decades gone by.

My birthday is next week. I’ll be 83.

Yes, just like my mom. I looked into her eyes and pretended for just a moment that I could have this conversation with my own mom. Memories intact.

I moved a few times and came here about 15 years ago.

I’ve been alone for a while.

I nodded, sliding closer. The crescendo of notes wrapped around us as a beautiful voice began,

in the arms of the angel…

Songs catapult us from memory to memory like rabbits scurrying down a hole… only to pop up somewhere else.

My baby found this to be the ideal moment to squirrel candy corn after candy corn. I was riveted. How did this dear soul come here? What story brought her to live with these new friends of ours?

She went on,

I fell one day. It was a Thursday. I lived alone, you know. No one found me… until Sunday.

The doctors told me if it had been any longer I wouldn’t have made it. I was dehydrated.

I stared into her alert eyes. Three or four days. She lay on the floor in her kitchen for days. Hour upon hour… alone. Afraid. I could only imagine what the scene must have looked like. I thought again… of my mom. Four days alone, desperate, and in pain.

She smiled gently,

When I woke up in the hospital there was a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a note.

In this note, they told me I was going to come live with them. I knew them through church, you know.

I still have that note.

That was six years ago.

That’s what it looks like. All the stuff Jesus says. Do good. Help others. Be kind. Give. Others before yourself.

This is what it looks like. It can have so many faces, and stories, and eyes, and hands… but, this, is what it all comes down to.

Our new friends didn’t tell us about her story. As far as we knew, she was a kindly grandmother who lived with them and their children. They never told us. She did.

This kind of giving captures me. I had to know. What brought them to this step? To this offer?

So, we asked.

Our friend, soft-spoken and humble, replied,

Yea, well, that’s what we are supposed to do.

That’s what we are supposed to do.

One step in love gave this one beautiful soul with the sparkling eyes… a home. No… it gave her more. The most.

A family.

Psalm 68:6

God sets the lonely in families, he leads out the prisoners with singing; but the rebellious live in a sun-scorched land.

August 15, 2013 by Karin 4 Comments

Just When You Think They Don’t Hear You

It’s that time of day again.

You know, the time when mamas with young ones brace themselves.

It’s bedtime. It’s this day that we have to go there. It’s bath day.

Ok, yes, you caught me. We don’t bathe every day… or every other…

There is no humidity here. How dirty could they really be?

But, it’s time.

I laugh to myself remembering the words of my dear old friend. She voiced the complaints of our 7th child. Actually our hearts have more than that even… 7, 8, yes… even more than that. You know how it is when your love grows to that unexpected place of loving your friends’ children like your very own…

She chuckled over the phone,

He said that the Maddens only bathe once a week!

I told him that if we had 6 kids, we would be lucky to bathe that often.

I laughed aloud, knowing that the hustle and bustle in our home looks like madness to the naked eye. Only occasionally does a little one run through the house with high-pitched joy…

Naaaaaked!

The tush disappearing around the corner.

It’s only madness… sometimes. Usually on bath night. (And, it is more often than one time a week… but it’s a good story for 11-year-old boys. Almost, bragging rights).

Tonight, is the night. And mama is solo. Bracing for impact.

The blur, the suds, the squealing, the shrieking, the it’s-my-towel, the filth running down drains, the smacking of towels intermingled giggles and wails.

Step two of my favorite time of day… brushing of teeth and brushing of wet, tangled, matted hair.

More squealing, shrieking… more myyyyyy-tooos-brush from an exhausted toddler.

More. More. More.

Usually the joy of bath time is followed by prayers with mama and ninja-fast lullabies and blanket tucking.

Not tonight.

When is the last time I stopped to read you a story?

I thought to myself as I quickly gathered a disaster pile from the path I would tread in darkness to kiss sleeping heads.

It’s been too long.

I grabbed an old favorite. The Giving Tree. That story… that story could cover novels on what it means to be a mother. That book about giving and giving until there is nothing left to give… except for the last bit of yourself. The stump of you that is left. And you give it away. And you give it away. Because nothing makes you happier than giving every last ounce to the little ones who have no idea. Not yet.

To them. It’s a story about a tree. And a boy. That is ok for now. That is all it really needs to be for now. Just giving. And loving.

They will understand later. The giving and the loving.

Silence. Every little face riveted by Shel Silverstein’s words.

Every face… except for my oldest boy. My first-born. The one I bought this book for when he was 6-years-old.

He was quite riveted by something else entirely. His iPod.

When did that happen?

How did I miss that?

The young faces, melting into the warmth of sleepiness…

Please mama, one more.

Who can say no to that?

Ok, I’ll pick one more.

Another favorite. Guess How Much I Love You. I think we would go clear past that big old moon for these little ones. Clear to the moon and right past it into the space of something much more uncertain. A place just a little scarier… and more exhilarating… motherhood.

That place we think we can figure our because we have read books… because we have younger siblings and watched our own moms do it… because we started babysitting at age 11. That place we think we can figure out because we think we know love. But, we have no idea. Until we are there. And then, we have no idea where it will take us. I’ll take this over any ride into space. This place that puts us in the most uncomfortable space. The space of you. before. me.

I read the words of Big Nut Brown Hare and his Little Nut Brown Hare.

I get you.

I thought of that big old rabbit tucking his baby into a pile of leaves.

I get you.

Finding myself flanked by two with two on my lap. Baby sleeping. Big brother… tuned into his own space. Somewhere else in his thoughts. Ear buds tuning out the sound of familiar mama cadence as I read the words.

When did this happen?

My hand patting bottoms to bed. Night time kisses. Hugs. Whispered I-love-you’s.

You didn’t listen.

I whispered to my boy. This unknown space of growing up. When do we ever really prepare for this?

Mama, I’m sorry.

He smiled sheepishly.

I know those stories. I’ve heard them so many times.

Remember?

I smiled and kissed his soft hair.

I know. I know.

Good night boys.

I love you.

Light switched dimmed the room to a memory.

A whisper…

Mama, I love you to moon and back.

That space. That space between a mama and her growing boy. In an instant… it filled. Love.

Just when you think they don’t hear you… just when you think they aren’t listening. Just when you think the space is growing too big, too far… just when you think they have forgotten. Just when you think that they might understand the giving… and the loving… sometime later.

They surprise you… and fill the space between.

John 17:24

Father, I want those you have given me to be with me where I am, and to see my glory, the glory you have given me because you loved me before the creation of the world.

Karin signature

August 11, 2013 by Karin 12 Comments

When You Are Feeling Stripped and Alone

Stripped in Las Vegas.

Ok, not literally. Stripping does not have to be literal to leave you feeling naked.

I’ve been in this place before, though it has been many years. I can barely remember.

The memories are returning and I am surprised that I forgot how it felt back then. Like a mama holding new life… slowly a window opens to scenes from moments gone by with babies before. How do we forget? The memories pour into the window like a rogue rainfall… streaming sideways, soaking the sill and everything in its path.

We forget… until, suddenly, we remember.

I remember feeling the loneliness that comes with the solitude of mothering children far from family… far from friends… far from anything, and everything, that feels like home.

It is different this time. There are… more children. The change is not in the numbers.

The change is in their awareness of the same loneliness mama felt years ago, when just mama was enough to fill their young hearts. When just mama was enough to keep the days full, the tummies full, the hours full, the arms full. When daddy’s evening arrival brought booming shrieks and wild, flailing arms. Thankfully, that has not changed with the years. Daddy’s arrival floods those young hearts with joy… maybe even more than back then.

It is different this time. There are hearts feeling this stripping for the first time. Much younger than this mama ever experienced it.

My oldest son… those blue eyes gazing out the window. The sun blinding. The rays blurred by the silent tears rolling down his smooth young, freckled cheeks.

My arm on his shoulder wishing I could keep the weight of all this from bearing down.

Are you ok?

Are you sad?

The blinking of tears, nodding. His jaw clenching in hopes of tightening a heart to this new place.

If you could be anywhere, doing anything, where would you be?

The hard choking of words from the boy growing up just too fast.

Um, I dunno, I guess I’d be hanging out with my friends.

That feeling. I know that feeling.

There are many things a mother can bear and hold… but this.

I know this one. There is nothing a mama can do to get around this one. This one, this time… I have to teach him how to go through it. Teach him to square his shoulders, cry without shame, pick his head up, and find joy.

This joy that does not come from friends spilling in the front door at all hours. This joy that does not come from endless summer days spent swinging on hammocks engrossed in conversations that only 11-year-old boys can truly appreciate.

Show him how to find the joy that comes from seeking.

This joy doesn’t come from the ease of childhood we long to give our kids.

This joy doesn’t come from the cushion of security that comes from the familiar. It comes from the hard step onto the path of uncomfortable. The rocky road filled with obstacles.

I recently read an obituary of a woman who knew she was dying. She had this to say…

…And may you always remember that obstacles in the path are not obstacles, they ARE the path.

(Jane Catherine Lotter)

The obstacles… they are the path.

Stripped of family. Stripped of friends. Stripped of familiar routines. Stripped of the go-to-girlfriends. Stripped of waves from familiar passing faces. Stripped of the moments when a look between friends is more than enough. Stripped of walking through children’s bedrooms at night, without needing one single light to guide the way.

Stripped of the paths that are worn and smooth.

We had comfort back there. We had a place where the seeking was easily met with the busyness of schedules. We had a place where we grew to rely on our friends. We had a place where we knew everything by heart. We had a place we left pieces of ourselves.

We had support and a good life. Maybe… maybe, we grew too comfortable… and maybe we forgot, just a little bit, to find our comfort in God.

The journey to this new place was filled with schedules and the go. go. go. of moving.

Here, now, the moving is done. We find ourselves in this place of sitting still. It is in the stillness that you can find yourself feeling stripped. Feeling naked without the clothing of the security blanket. Still and alone.

This time is different. The times that ring in my memory remind me of what was missing back then. The joy I could not find in the stillness all those years ago. The One I didn’t even know was there. Not floating up high, but right… there.

He is still right… here. Here in the stillness.

I held my boy’s chin in my hands, wishing I could take the sorrow. Knowing that this way is better. My dear sister reminded me…

They have to learn this sometime.

The places will change. The faces will change.

Our hearts will break. Our tears will fall.

The loneliness will come. The solitude will appear.

But, He is here.

Just waiting.

I held his chin,

I know this is hard. It will get better. I know this.

We need friends. God will give us friends.

We have to stay with Him. And trust Him.

He only has good plans for us. For you.

His head nodded slowly. Just to know we are not alone… sometimes that is all we need.

We are not alone. You see, my kids asked Him for friends before we even left home. This day, this day of tears spilling and a young heart touching sorrow and solitude… this day, one showed up.

She texted,

I’ll be there in 5 minutes to get him.

This new friend, with an 11-year-old son, saw the sadness she had seen in her own children’s eyes just a few years ago.

My son, all smiles when he saw the face of his new friend. Hours later, he came bounding back into the house. Joy.

My tears came later.

My warrior, a helpless look in his eyes shadowed by guilt,

Are you ok?

There is so much a mother can bear, but it is the heartache of her children that renders the mother heart… wounded.

I am ok, it’s so much harder when it’s one of my babies.

He nodded understanding.

We moms, we sneak grief into a closet and drop tears into plush carpet. Only One sees them. Only One wipes them away.

How am I going to learn more?

Who is going to teach me?

Whom am I going to depend on?

Whom am I going to go to?

Pleading heart behind the we-are-gonna-get-through-this and there’s-a-reason-for-this-place facade that slowly began to crumble.

Then, the whisper…

I am.

His words whispered to this still heart,

You have Me.

Maybe sometimes we have to strip off the worn, comfy, rubbed-bare silk we have clothed ourselves with through people, tasks, schedules, well-intentioned missions… just to get back to… Him.

Him.

Stripped. Wholly naked… to become Holy clothed.

Luke 5:16

But Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed.

Karin signature

July 31, 2013 by Karin 12 Comments

When You Realize That “Maybe Later” … May Be Now

It is hard to leave.

I think, though, that it’s harder to be left behind.

leaving

It was only a month ago. I watched the tail lights until they were only a glimmer… and then gone.

I don’t know when I will see her again. I didn’t cry. Not one tear. It’s pretty strange for me to hold back a good flood. Cleansing… those tears. Though I have to remind myself that there is no shame in them. I wonder why we struggle so hard to fight tears, when releasing them is far beyond the relief that any long talk or soothing glass of wine can bring. I have to remind my kids… especially my boys… there is no shame in crying. We were made to cry just as much as we were made to laugh.

Nevertheless, the tears didn’t come.

Hm, strange.

My heart hurts… but, no tears.

Maybe later.

I looked into eyes… blue eyes, brown eyes, and those green ones. Brimming heartache. My own blue-green soul windows… guarded. Heartache in my throat quickly smothered by my own words…

It’ll all be ok.

This will all work out.

Just wait and see.

This is only the beginning.

I repeated these same words over and over. My kids needed to hear them, but maybe I needed to hear them the most. I just didn’t know it yet.

I looked back as our own tail lights rounded the curve. The tan mama arm thrown over her son’s shoulder.

I wonder if she is telling him the same thing…

We began the first leg of our journey.

maryland my maryland

Hours upon hours and then darkness set in. Finally, through the veil of trees I could see the outline of the house I called home for decades. This place of carefree youth nestled in the overgrowth of memories. Snapshots tucked in my mind. My parents still live there. A gift. The feeling in my throat returned… joy, sorrow… how odd the two can mix and swirl and just get stuck in your throat. That ache that burns up to brimming lids.

Squeals from the back seats,

We’re finally here!

The words pushed that feeling and the brimming back into storage. Maybe later.

Just a few days. We had many more days to go. A long journey for two parents, six kids, 1000 videos, and one truck. We had a long way to go. It would just leave time for a few short days here.

grandma's secret garden

The thunderstorm woke her that night. She doesn’t do very well with thunderstorms anymore. She tells me that they remind her of the bombs. The bombs that burned her German city when she was 13. The apartment home her family lived in was hit directly. The air raid sirens shrieked through the night. My mom and her little 3-year-old brother were separated from her mother and three other siblings. Running in all directions. Running into a burning city. For a while, she sat with him on a park bench.

You just can’t imagine the storms that come with that much fire.

So many storms.

They began to walk. They walked and walked. The door to the bunker was open. The women standing at the doors wore only their slips. The heat was too intense to remain dressed in proper clothing. The women were fanning air into that bunker. That’s where she found them. That’s where mom found her own mama and siblings. They were reunited. A gift.

The storms, they scare me.

distant storm

I looked into these eyes that had comforted, disciplined, loved, and raised me. She was the one who calmed my young heart during the storms of my youth. Now, she walked into the kitchen shadowed by midnight and needed a little bit of comfort right back.

It’s ok, Mom.

It can’t hurt you.

We’ll just talk a little while.

We talked for a while. The memories slowly sifting from this mind that holds decades upon decades of life. Those same blue eyes looked into mine,

You are going so far away.

I don’t know if I’ll see you.

There it was again. That feeling rising in my throat. No, not now. Maybe later.

Her eyes smiled into mine. Brimming.

Ok, c’mon, Mom. You went far from home and still saw your mom.

There I was, trying to convince her. Or, perhaps, myself?

There is no fooling wise eyes. No matter how much they seem to forget.

Her hand touched mine.

Well, we will certainly see each other in heaven.

I don’t think in all my life that I have ever tried to fight tears like I did at that moment. Why, I am not sure, but fight them I did.

Of course, Mom!

But, we don’t have to go yet.

My mind racing… it’ll all work out.

Not to be undone by sadness or uncertainty… we danced. Mom has a thing for polka music. At midnight, she turned on her music despite my and my husband’s attempts to quiet the music for the sake of sleeping children. No, we had to dance. She is quite German that way.

The three of us danced polka and sang Biergarten Musik into the wee hours.

My 83-year-old mama, my warrior, and I. We danced and my eyes brimmed. No time for tears now. Maybe later.

The morning came. The truck loaded with kids and cargo. Little arms wrapping and squeezing around these grandparents and then my turn.

Every time I leave them, I wonder…

No, not now. It’s just too much right now. Maybe later.

I could see their waving arms in the rearview. Smiles. A gift.

Our tail lights climbed the hill and disappeared.

Texas sunset

The journey went on for days and days. Rolling hills and green gave way to prairie, and desert, and majestic mountains. The scenery mesmerized. Sweltering humidity gave way to blistering heat. It’s all sometimes just too much to take in. You know that feeling when you can’t believe you are somewhere doing something until it’s over. Then and only then can you see what was before you. Only to find it is behind you in the rearview mirror.

bridge over water

Desert mountains

We made it. Road trip with a six pack. All the way across this breathtaking land. Mama sanity is over-rated anyway.

evening mountains

Sometimes it’s on the other side that we can finally see.

We can choose joy, you know. Joy comes from the surrender. The real surrender.

The feeling came back. That feeling in my throat. Here, right where I am.

It’ll all be ok.

This will all work out.

Just wait and see.

This is only the beginning.

I could only whisper it to myself. Thoughts colliding like bumper cars in my mind. Just almost too much to take in.

I could only whisper this to me. Stripped of the old normal. The comfortable. The safe place I could squelch that nagging feeling in my throat with,

Maybe later.

Maybe there is no later. Maybe the point is now. Right now.

I told my girlfriends,

Live day-to-day. That’s my new motto.

I can only think about right now. The rest of it is all sometimes too much. It is meant to be taken in day-to-day doses.

We have right now and to live fully in this moment… is the point. That is the gift. It’s not a new idea. Carpe diem has existed for ages. Actually seizing the day takes practice. So, here I am in this new normal. That nagging feeling in my throat. Here it is again… burning, brimming, blurring these eyes. Maybe later has tricked me just a little bit. Maybe later delays the sorrow… and the joy. Maybe later, may be just all wrong.

Yes, here it is again. That collision of sorrow and joy. Maybe later…

May be now.

Matthew 6:33-34

But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

June 27, 2013 by Karin 14 Comments

When You Can Take Everything… but the Kitchen Sink

My eyes drifted to the very back. There is a part of the fence I can’t see from where I scrub the dishes.

They run wild out there. Sometimes their energy takes over and they stumble out like puppies tripping over themselves trying to get to the good stuff.

Sometimes I send them out… those times that my own energy just can not keep up. Those times I want peace with soapy running water. Just my dishes, me, and the kitchen sink. Strange, it’s actually one of my favorite spots in the kitchen. The sink.

This sink has washed dishes of 1000’s of meals. This sink has rinsed boo-boos clean. This sink has bathed babies, caught tears, and one too many times was readily available when morning sickness (in truth, all day sickness) couldn’t wait one. more. second.

This sink has been my big screen to the world of my young ones. The secret garden of their youth.

I have had many conversations at the sink here. Phone pinned to my shoulder, scrubbing circles over the parts of the pot already clean. Scrubbing circles, listening to the voice on the other end. Wanting to scrub away the pain, the hurt, the sorrow, the fear and uncertainty, the doubt, the shame… just all of it… from so many voices I have loved over the years at this sink.

The voices of my parents have become gravelled… grown quieter. Eight years is a long time when you are in your 80’s. Eight years is a long time when you are 8. Eight years is a long time… and a blink. My eyes wander to my little girl. She is 8. Just a baby when we came here. Eight years is a long time when 8 years is all you know. And it is just a blink.

The voices of my friends have risen and fallen at this sink… just like the laughter… and the tears.

The cherries… they hang from this window to the backyard. I put them up there 8 years ago. I had no idea then.

She gave them to me when I left home for the first time. The place I grew up. She gave them to me, gift-wrapped with a bow in the parking lot on a sweltering South Carolina summer night. That was a long time ago. I had no idea then… she would be gone 12 years later.

A gift, you know, to have no idea.

This life as a military wife has kept me in this place for a long time. It’s unusual to stay in one place for this long. Ten years in one place and eight in this home. This gift to watch our six little ones grow from flailing to crawling to sprinting legs that fly past mama.

My eyes drifted to the very back.

Just over the hill the yard slopes into woods… just out of sight.

I pulled on the rain boots. The ones covered with hearts. I get tired of the boring. The black boots. I found boots covered in hearts. It’s on the rainy days that we sometimes need a few more hearts.

It was actually sunny, but the boots would be just right for the lurking poison ivy. The stuff that creeps and crawls and licks at our heels. Only later do we know that it has touched us. The damage can sometimes show up much later. Sometimes the things that touch us, the ones that seem so benign at the time… they show the damage much later. Yes, the boots covered in hearts… they would do the trick.

I had to go back there. The big old oak tree. The woods, the peace, the quiet.

There is a trail through the back of our yard. The trail itself has been long swallowed by brush and trees and time. The tree line is what remains. You can see the line of trees stretch beyond sight. The trail was worn thin in its heyday. George Washington rode this old road. From his capitol home to the harbor city. Years and years and we have no idea. The years… a blink.

It was the wind that day that caught me. The kind of wind that whispers and names itself wild. Just the sound of wind as the leaves turned belly up in anticipation of quenched thirst.

Eyes closed, I just stood and felt the wind.

This wild wind, blowing in all directions. The whisper…

It’s all going to change.

You just can’t capture a moment. I tried to capture this wind, but on the screen it just stood still. The beauty is in the motion… and we just can’t capture the motion. All we can do is move. Be still… listen… and move.

I found my way to the bench. A small clearing with traces of marshmallows melted and sticks charred. I’ve watched from my kitchen sink countless time… I wonder if I forgot to come out here… I wonder if I forgot to move… one too many times.

The sound of squeals woven through the blowing breeze on this day. This wind of change blowing His holy purpose through our comfortable secret garden.

The plans we make, the routines that keep us flowing in forward motion, the secret gardens where we hide from the world. This garden where we have been planted for a decade… where we bloomed into something entirely new. From five to eight of us. From blindness to sight. From stillness to motion. From doubt to devotion. From fear to faith.

I just don’t know. I have no idea. This one moment in time to the next burst of wind. Unpredictable.

With each gust, this crescendo of hope. This hope that His holy purposes cast our doubts to the wind.

I have no idea where this will take us.

The one thought in my mind… the whispers growing louder… my sight growing clearer… it’s a promise. The number he flashes before me over and over. This number… He has reminded me to pay attention to Him again and again. He has a way with all of us… if we would just pay attention.

It’s 3:33 pm.

I smile.

I hear You.

I know it’s time to move. To leave this place where our roots have grown stronger.

It’s time to move into the plan of His choosing.

I know this. This wind of change is the one worth riding. This wind that whispers, that beckons, that commands… this wind is the breath of Life.

The breath of life that brings me to leave the secret garden…

and the kitchen sink.

Jeremiah 33:3

Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.

This Is What It Looks Like

Just When You Think They Don’t Hear You

When You Are Feeling Stripped and Alone

When You Realize That “Maybe Later” … May Be Now

When You Can Take Everything… but the Kitchen Sink

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