Candlelight and Ebenezers
I am a fierce creature of habit, and I've always claimed a spot at my dinner table and refused to relinquish it to anyone. In my childhood home, I sat in a small chair that did not match the rest of the dining set, and which was probably too small for me by the time I was in high school - but was my chair, and therefore it never occurred to me to give it up.
In our current home and dining arrangement, I sit at the head of our oblong kitchen table. Sarah often tries to steal my seat when I'm not in it, but I always force her out. That is momma's chair. As a parent of three, my odd behaviors have been reinforced by the undeniable fact that if I am the only one sitting in a particular chair, it is less likely to get as sticky and messy and crumby as the other spots at the table. I am less likely to set my morning Bible study supplies down in a puddle of milk (or honey), and my pants are less likely to develop a Golden Graham crust.
But I also like being able to see everyone, sitting at the head. Last night, P was working late, and so it was just me and the kids sitting around the table. It was late and dark and rainy; this fall all of our weeknight dinners happen after piano or karate or dance or church, and so they are always late and often rushed by the fact that bedtime is moments away. I'd made a delicious chili yesterday afternoon, perfect for the monsoon season we are currently experiencing, and perfect for warming in the crockpot so that it'd be ready as soon as we got home. I'd known my children would not share my satisfaction with the menu, and so I'd added fritos and cheese to their helpings - and as an added barrier against the griping which so often accompanies our family meals, I'd asked Sarah to help set the table and get out the candles. Something about the firelight...
It danced off their eyes as they asked how many bites and as they shared their "high, low, and buffaloes" of the day. The boys endeavored to "accidentally" blow out the candles while Sarah shared (again) her great despair concerning her BFF Ellie, who was home sick today, and Samwise whined from the torture of not getting to eat the chili. Andrew, as usual, did not eat much at all of his dinner, but he surprised me with a very grown-up recap of his day - his "high" was watching TV all morning, and his "low" was eating chili for dinner, but still, I marveled at how big this kid was getting; it wasn't long ago that he couldn't recall anything that wasn't immediately occurring.... Luke did not surprise me by highjacking the discussion I tried to have about what I was learning in BSF; he couldn't quite recall that Joshua fought the battle of Jericho, but he made up for it by recounting every time that God parted waters for people to cross on dry land. In case you were wondering, silence is never an element of our dinners together these days... it's a blessing and a curse... A jazz playlist quietly playing in the background set the mood for laughter and winding down and filling our stomachs and hearts with just a moment of all that is sweet about family, even in the midst of the Busy Seasons.
It has certainly been a busy season for us, and I am facing challenges of my own that require most of my mental energy and attention. However, I am balancing those demands by lowering my expectations of myself in other areas. No extra house projects, and only the most necessary of chores. I'm giving myself permission to read All the Novels - and watch TV - and listen to podcasts - and sometimes, to just sit on the couch in the living room, or in the parents' seats at karate, or on the bench at the school playground - and just watch my kids. Or other kids. Or the dog. Or sometimes the rain dripping down the windows. Whatever. I don't have to be busy; there's enough "busy" in my life already. When the moments of peace come, I welcome them with open arms.
And I love this, because it lets me See. It lets me see my kids, and their quirks and weirdness and wonder. I watch Andrew sorting his bucket of tiny plastic animals into neat rows. I watch Sarah murmuring to herself in a world of her own creation. I watch Luke scratching away at his homework, with the tip of his tongue peeking out and a drawing of fierce dragon-creatures developing off to the side of the math problems. I notice how Sarah gazes off into the distance, how Luke never passes the piano without plunking out a few notes, and how Andrew will probably smother Samwise one of these days. I get to be a part of Luke's endless quest to Know Everything There Is To Know, and a part of Sarah's already intricate friendship experiences, and a part of any number of Snuggle Games with Andrew (last night we spent ten minutes whispering in each other's ears during the big kids' piano practice; it was so silly, and so incredibly sweet...). I know these days fly by, and I seek to treasure each one in my heart. But some days, that requires an act of God, and on those days, I fall before Him so thankful. Thankful I'm trapped at piano lessons. Thankful the Walmart Pickup queue is extra long when we stop by after school. Thankful that our ride home from church on Wednesday nights is a slow 20 minutes. Thankful it's raining and I don't have the energy to do anything but sit in my living room and let my children entertain themselves, three small whirlwinds of activity orbiting my stationary self.
During that candlelit dinner, I had been trying to tell the kids about Joshua's monuments to the Lord, intended to remind Israel and its future generations of all He had given them and the ways He fought for them and how He protected them. We never got to that, what with the divergence into water-parting episodes, but I'm still thinking about it. I'm still ruminating on the fact that we all need reminders, ebenezers that will attest to things we know - things we should know - but so easily forget. In motherhood, I need this reminder daily. That God sustains, that He guides, and that He protects. But also, that God has been so very generous to me, with these three sweet souls. They are wild and unruly and stubborn and strong-willed, but they are wonderful, and they are made in His Image, and they are my own personal Ebenezer, a sign to me of all that God has done and continues to do because of His powerful love of His children and for the sake of His glory.
In our current home and dining arrangement, I sit at the head of our oblong kitchen table. Sarah often tries to steal my seat when I'm not in it, but I always force her out. That is momma's chair. As a parent of three, my odd behaviors have been reinforced by the undeniable fact that if I am the only one sitting in a particular chair, it is less likely to get as sticky and messy and crumby as the other spots at the table. I am less likely to set my morning Bible study supplies down in a puddle of milk (or honey), and my pants are less likely to develop a Golden Graham crust.
But I also like being able to see everyone, sitting at the head. Last night, P was working late, and so it was just me and the kids sitting around the table. It was late and dark and rainy; this fall all of our weeknight dinners happen after piano or karate or dance or church, and so they are always late and often rushed by the fact that bedtime is moments away. I'd made a delicious chili yesterday afternoon, perfect for the monsoon season we are currently experiencing, and perfect for warming in the crockpot so that it'd be ready as soon as we got home. I'd known my children would not share my satisfaction with the menu, and so I'd added fritos and cheese to their helpings - and as an added barrier against the griping which so often accompanies our family meals, I'd asked Sarah to help set the table and get out the candles. Something about the firelight...
It danced off their eyes as they asked how many bites and as they shared their "high, low, and buffaloes" of the day. The boys endeavored to "accidentally" blow out the candles while Sarah shared (again) her great despair concerning her BFF Ellie, who was home sick today, and Samwise whined from the torture of not getting to eat the chili. Andrew, as usual, did not eat much at all of his dinner, but he surprised me with a very grown-up recap of his day - his "high" was watching TV all morning, and his "low" was eating chili for dinner, but still, I marveled at how big this kid was getting; it wasn't long ago that he couldn't recall anything that wasn't immediately occurring.... Luke did not surprise me by highjacking the discussion I tried to have about what I was learning in BSF; he couldn't quite recall that Joshua fought the battle of Jericho, but he made up for it by recounting every time that God parted waters for people to cross on dry land. In case you were wondering, silence is never an element of our dinners together these days... it's a blessing and a curse... A jazz playlist quietly playing in the background set the mood for laughter and winding down and filling our stomachs and hearts with just a moment of all that is sweet about family, even in the midst of the Busy Seasons.
It has certainly been a busy season for us, and I am facing challenges of my own that require most of my mental energy and attention. However, I am balancing those demands by lowering my expectations of myself in other areas. No extra house projects, and only the most necessary of chores. I'm giving myself permission to read All the Novels - and watch TV - and listen to podcasts - and sometimes, to just sit on the couch in the living room, or in the parents' seats at karate, or on the bench at the school playground - and just watch my kids. Or other kids. Or the dog. Or sometimes the rain dripping down the windows. Whatever. I don't have to be busy; there's enough "busy" in my life already. When the moments of peace come, I welcome them with open arms.
And I love this, because it lets me See. It lets me see my kids, and their quirks and weirdness and wonder. I watch Andrew sorting his bucket of tiny plastic animals into neat rows. I watch Sarah murmuring to herself in a world of her own creation. I watch Luke scratching away at his homework, with the tip of his tongue peeking out and a drawing of fierce dragon-creatures developing off to the side of the math problems. I notice how Sarah gazes off into the distance, how Luke never passes the piano without plunking out a few notes, and how Andrew will probably smother Samwise one of these days. I get to be a part of Luke's endless quest to Know Everything There Is To Know, and a part of Sarah's already intricate friendship experiences, and a part of any number of Snuggle Games with Andrew (last night we spent ten minutes whispering in each other's ears during the big kids' piano practice; it was so silly, and so incredibly sweet...). I know these days fly by, and I seek to treasure each one in my heart. But some days, that requires an act of God, and on those days, I fall before Him so thankful. Thankful I'm trapped at piano lessons. Thankful the Walmart Pickup queue is extra long when we stop by after school. Thankful that our ride home from church on Wednesday nights is a slow 20 minutes. Thankful it's raining and I don't have the energy to do anything but sit in my living room and let my children entertain themselves, three small whirlwinds of activity orbiting my stationary self.
During that candlelit dinner, I had been trying to tell the kids about Joshua's monuments to the Lord, intended to remind Israel and its future generations of all He had given them and the ways He fought for them and how He protected them. We never got to that, what with the divergence into water-parting episodes, but I'm still thinking about it. I'm still ruminating on the fact that we all need reminders, ebenezers that will attest to things we know - things we should know - but so easily forget. In motherhood, I need this reminder daily. That God sustains, that He guides, and that He protects. But also, that God has been so very generous to me, with these three sweet souls. They are wild and unruly and stubborn and strong-willed, but they are wonderful, and they are made in His Image, and they are my own personal Ebenezer, a sign to me of all that God has done and continues to do because of His powerful love of His children and for the sake of His glory.
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