Apple Juice Flood

I've been talking to myself a lot today. Some people say that's normal.  Some people say it's a sign of fading sanity.

"Hmm, it says in the forum that the best way to teach a baby how to use a straw is with a drink box...I think I've got some of those"
sit baby in baby chair for easier clean up. 
place straw in box
put the straw in the baby's mouth and lightly squeeze the box so she gets the first sip
let baby drink the rest on her own
"huh, that doesn't sound too hard"

I retrieved two drink boxes of apple juice and gave the first to Samuel.  When Stacia saw how enthusiastic Sam was about the gift, she decided she should have one too.

"That went well" I said smugly.

I used the drink box to lure her to the chair and proceeded to follow the instructions I'd found on my infallible source of parenting wisdom.  She put the straw in her mouth with a bit of a cynical "I'm not going to like this, am I?" sort of look.  But then I gave the box a slight squeeze and her eyes lit up.  Wide-eyed, she began to laugh.  This was not conducive to swallowing and there was a small apple flavored explosion covering her face and my hand in a mist of juice.  She was surprised but only laughed harder and, finding her apple covered baby joy irresistible, I laughed too, then she laughed at my laughter and it was a magical moment.  And then, as the laughter died down, she had a very logical thought that must have gone something like "If it was funny once, surely a second time will be twice as funny"!  She spat her second mouthful right in my face and tried to kick things off again with an artificial laugh. I tried to explain to her that some things are only funny once.  She chortled then tried to mimic my serious expression.

"Good. Yes. Juice is serious stuff. No more spitting".

She put the straw back in her mouth and began squeezing more juice not in a serious fashion really, but she was subdued.

At this point I heard Samuel crying in the other room.  I put a paper towel on Stacia's tray and ran off to help my distraught five-year-old.  Samuel had lost a toy, and cheered up quickly at the prospect letting me look for it since he was tired of looking.  I asked where he had looked so far, and it turned out his search had consisted mostly of sitting in the middle of the room and crying for me to come find it.  After searching the room for a few minutes, I asked him to stand up and help.

"I found it! I'm a faster finder than you!"

"You were *sitting* on it"

"Yes, and I found it first"

Before I could retort I heard my 16 month year old calling out one of the most useful terms in her limited vocabulary

"Uh oh!"

Knowing that this utterance could be used for anything from a misplaced strand of hair to a house fire, I ran back to the kitchen trying to prepare myself for...well, anything.  At first all I noticed was that Stacia had somehow found her way to laying tummy down on her baby tray.  I ran forward, intending to rescue her from a two foot drop, but just before I could reach her my foot slipped out from under me.

"Uh oh!"

I scuttled backwards and reassessed the situation.  There was a nearly perfect circle of apple juice extending outward about five feet from the baby chair in every direction.

"How, on earth..."

Stacia looked like she had taken a shower in the stuff, and there was a decent amount of standing liquid both on the tray and in the chair.

"...but it was just one box..." I said, weakly

"Uh oh!"

"...I was only gone a minute..."

"Uh oh!"

"...it said "easy clean up"

"Joooos"

"so, so, so much juice"

When I picked her up, her hair, shirt, and diaper were all dripping and heavy with the stuff.  I rushed her straight to the bath tub, and she screamed in my ear.  Stacia has recently developed a fear of bath tubs, and not wanting to make it worse I tried to ease her into a bath, going at what ever pace was comfortable to her.  Two hours later, Stacia was still crying and both of us were very wet after Sam jumped in the tub to "help" and then helped some more by randomly flipping on the shower head

Stacia couldn’t wait to get out of the bathroom and darted out of the room as I helped sam (and my still fully clothed self) get toweled off.

"I'm sorry I didn't help, daddy" Sam muttered from under the towell.

*skitch skitch skitch*

"Nonono, buddy, thank you for coming to help.  It's not your fault that Stace is scared"

*skitch skitch skitch*

"But I got you wet and angry"

*skitch skitch skitch*

"Sam, daddy still loves you even at his wettest and angriest.  It's not really your fault, it's just one of those-" *skitch skitch skitch* "-days...what is that noise?"

*skitch skitch skitch* is the sound that a one-year-old's foot makes running through mostly dried apple juice.

*skitch skitch skitch* is also the sound of a one-year-old crawling through mostly dried apple juice.

*skitch skitch skitch* is also the sound of a one-year-old rolling through mostly dried apple juice.

After bathing my bathaphobic daughter a second traumatic time, and scrubbing a baby chair, kitchen floor, carpet, and couch, and after a lot more self talk, I finally sat down to compose this note.

As I have been writing, I have been thrown up on, and there are also small hand prints that smell vaguely like jelly beans on my shorts.  This, I tell myself, is ok because everything can be washed.  I tell myself it's a good day because there was some lovely rain and a small thunder storm.  I tell myself it's a good day because we are that much closer to bed time.  I tell myself that it was a good day because we all survived and found some comic novelty in the day's events. I tell myself...

I've been talking to myself a lot today. Some people say that's normal.  Some people say it's a sign of fading sanity.

History In Progress

It was a very hot summer day at Laguna beach.  I hate the beach.  As the day had worn on I had found a place away from people on the shore line and started trying to construct a sand castle that could withstand the rising tide water.  The back of my neck and ears already had that slightly stiff feeling that lets you know you've already begun to burn in the sun, but I was too focused in my project to go get sunscreen and there was only so much time to prepare before the tide came in.  Having gone swimming all morning I was tired and the heat of the sun felt like a physical weight on my back while I toiled over my sand fortress.  Gritty sand chaffed between my fingers and toes and I felt clumsy.  I hate the beach.  My project was doomed.  I should go find shade and a drink of water....but it's very hard for me to change tack once already on a project, so I toiled on with something of a hopeless attitude.  I hate the beach.

Suddenly, shade.  The angry skin on my back and neck quited down.  "Wow!  Hey, those channels are a  really good idea!  Neat!"  My anxieties and frustrations melted away as I sat in dad's shadow, sheltered from the blistering heat of reality by someone bigger than me.  I sat and listened to him speak words of life into me. I love the beach.

It was a very hot day on the pitch.  It felt like when you first open the oven door after after baking and the heat rushes into your face...except this was all of me.  I was drowning in it, and my feet felt like they were soaking up the heat faster than the rest of me.  Why are soccer cleats always black?  And why do we play in August?  This is ridiculous!  

Suddenly, shade.  One lonely, perfect cloud settled in front of the sun bringing a collective sigh of relief from players and fans.  But for me there was more than a break from the Arizona sun.  My mind and heart were suddenly again in the shadow of a benevolent protector and words of life flowed into my mind.  I still love clouds and soccer because I found shade at the beach.

The greatest, the deepest, the most soul changing experiences we have need not be lost. Be aware of experiences that matter.  Rethink them, relive them, take possession of the setting, and you will be blessed with that memory every time your mind is able to form a likeness to it in your present.

A New Voice for Old Thoughts

i look up into the night sky
and see a thousand eyes staring back
and all around these golden beacons
i see nothing but black

i feel a way of something beyond them
i don't see what i can feel
if vision is the only validation
then most of my life isn't real 
-Sam Sparro (Black&Gold)


Very true, he said. 
Of this then, which every soul of man pursues and makes the end of all his actions, having a presentiment that there is such an end, and yet hesitating because neither knowing the nature nor having the same assurance of this as of other things..
-Plato:  The Republic (Politeia) VI, 505e

Hope, Heart Sickness, and Real Life

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.(prov 13:12)

The American culture has insulated itself from heart sickness the same way it has from every other discomfort. In order to avoid disappointment hopes are kept to a minimum. The true dreamer is an endangered species. Those that dare try and sometimes fail with all their passion are few and far between. As a result that “tree of life” is never reached and the highest point of earthly human experience is left unachieved. But the safety culture reaches for is an illusion, for hopelessness brings malaise more destructive than any hope deferred.  Hope big, fail big, reach for the fulfillment of the greater, deeper longing and find real life when you reach it.

The Space Between What Is and What Should Be

"Take this rule: whatever weakens your reason, impairs the tenderness of your conscience, obscures your sense of God, or takes off your relish of spiritual things; in short, whatever increases the strength and authority of your body over your mind, that thing is sin to you, however innocent it may be in itself."
-- Susanna Wesley (Letter, June 8, 1725)

drowning

alone in the churning waves, she fights to keep her head up.
but it seems like every gasp ends in gagging on salt water
again forced under the tumult, there is a moment of stillness that seems to stretch on forever
she risks opening her eyes to the depths as the cold leaches heat from her body,
it is more quiet here, but her solitude is louder
if only there were help
if only there were someone
someone to see her struggle
someone to hold her up
someone to add warmth in this icy place
then
then everything would be alright
with someone to hold her up
someone to stay up for
she could live again
burning lungs remind her
she cannot stay below
pressing up ward, the surface seems slow to come
but come at last it does
and with it the roar of the storm
but there...
there for a moment she thought...
yes! a voice!
behind the thunder, wind and wave
a voice calls through the storm
but the direction is lost in the chaos
desperate, she strikes out
clawing her way forward
but tired. so tired.
a moments lapse and an unseen rise
drive out the air and leaver her coughing and sputtering
but again the voice cries out
and again frigid limbs flail
‘till suddenly hand strikes hand
a shock of heat and life
then gone
grasping hands find nothing
crying, thrashing, shouting
two voices call ...or three?
and then, carried by some friendly current
the two collide
arms lock and suddenly,
for a moment the storm is a paradise
lonely no more, joy abounds in hope fulfilled
until the next wave presses both beneath the sea.
hoarse from shouting I sit back in the boat from which we all had fallen
we were, none of us, swimmers
not at our best let alone in angry storm and sea
and yet, confused in the drift,
we forget the boat and set our hopes on each other
driven to be alone no longer, she finally found her savior
only to discover, too late, that he had hoped the same from her

Schwester

In a mountainous place far away there is a lake with a many small islands. I found myself on an island draped with chains on which were fastened a thousand-thousand locks. Every link was fastened with keyless trinkets of every style, size and age. Birds flew from tree to tree, calling loudly and mocking the permanence of the chain with their flitting freedom.

I think perhaps the template for the human mind is such a place. Twisted from what ought to what is and locked away from itself in a thousand-thousand ways. Smiths and thieves, wizards and charlatans try the locks, pounding, picking and cantriping under the avian scorn from dawn to dusk.

When at last a heroine produces the Golden Key and one of the tumblers gives way, the birds fall silent with the opening of the shackle, and solemn swallows witness as a piece of what we were is released from the tangle, forever changing how we see what we are.

It is in that place the true greats (and those that wished to be) did their work. And I suspect that the histories of those who succeed there will be forgiven, no matter how mean or misshapen.

Hope

It's the coach's job.

To see the potential in each athlete and believe so hard in their ability to reach it that they begin to believe too.

That's the easy part anyway.

The human body and human mind are so astoundingly adaptable, that I've yet to come close to pressing my hopes farther than a player's potential. I have a good team this year. Very athletic, very courageous, very coachable. They've done everything I asked and achieved each goal I've set.

I can see them starting to believe in themselves...and in me. Good grief, that's the hard part.

It's hard to develop further than you're coached. They're a great team with unlimited potential so far the glass ceiling of my ability will let them go. Season opener today and my stomach is tied in knots. Should I have spent more time on X and not so much on Y. Did I research enough? are the tactics and formations I'm feeding them any good? They've done everything I asked.

Out of time now. I hope it was enough. I hope I'm enough.

I hope.

Can there be worship...

..without emulation?


hello, blog :-)  I need to see this again and consider it more.  don't let me forget it!

The Soul Tonic of Prayer

"Father, I am beginning to know how much I miss when I fail to talk to Thee in prayer, and through prayer to receive into my life the strength and guidance which only Thou canst give. Forgive me the pride and presumption that make me continue to struggle to manage my own affairs to the exhaustion of my body, the weariness of my mind, the trial of my faith.


In a moment like this I know that Thou couldst have worked Thy good in me with so little strain, with so little effort. And then to Thee would have been the given the praise and the glory. When I neglect to pray, mine is the loss. Forgive me, Lord.


Let not, I pray, any future forgetfulness of mine, or a false sense of self-sufficiency, any spiritual laziness, or doubt of Thy faithfulness keep me from taking everything to Thee in prayer.


And now, I thank Thee that the fresh breath of heaven is blowing away the close, damp air of all my failure, of every doubt and fear. I ask Thee for that soul tonic of prayer that shall reburnish my faith, brighten my hope, revive and rekindle my love. In Thy name, I pray. Amen."

Peter Marshall