Angel Dresses and Flower Petals

Last Wednesday we packed up the sippy cups and fancy clothes and flew the friendly skies to Colorado for Megan and Brian's wedding. It was a big weekend for Flower Girl Jalynn. We arrived at the beautiful Black Forest wedding chapel a couple minutes late the day of the wedding. I tore Jalynn from her car seat and rushed her into the bridal party's dressing room, ripping off her polka-dot leggings and pink cotton dress as though they were tear-aways. Her tights, ivory dress, shoes, and crown of white flowers finally in place, I spun her around in front of the giant gold-framed mirror.

"Mommy, I look like an angel," she said. Her words brought me back into the moment. She was right. She did look like an angel.

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About a week before the big day, Jalynn and I started watching wedding videos on YouTube. We glued ourselves to the computer screen as dozens of flower girls from all over the world walked the aisle, smiling and dropping their white flower petals along the way. So when the big day arrived, she was ready.

I watched what I could see of the processional from my post at the end of the front row. I couldn't see Jalynn until she was even with me. Her eyes were focused on the front. I could tell she was determined, driven, and, to my relief, past the threat of potential melt-down. I didn't, however, see any evidence of white flower petals scattered along the middle aisle. She joined me in my seat a few minutes later. A quick glance into her white satin basket confirmed my suspicions. She'd forgotten to drop her petals. My performance-driven, old self would've been quick to point this out. But I resolved not to say anything about it to her. Ever. Turns out, I didn't need to. About 20 minutes after the ceremony ended, Jalynn realized her own oversight.

"I forgot to drop my petals, Mommy!" she said.

"That's okay," I reassured her. But she had other plans in mind.

The two of us went back into the empty chapel, now entirely cleaned up. Jalynn walked down the aisle, smiling her huge, baby-tooth smile as white flower petals flittered from her fingertips. A minute later we gathered them back up into the basket. Both of us laughing the whole time.

On our way back home to my brother's house in Denver that night, I asked Jalynn what her favorite part of the whole day was. "Dropping my petals," she said. Her words brought me back into the moment. Again.

Giving In

There are days when I think it’d be easier to just give in … To Jalynn's persistent pleas for more TV or fewer vegetables. To my taste buds’ cry for just one more Nutty Bar. To my body’s desire to nap all morning, afternoon, and night.

But most of all, there are days when I think it’d be easier to just give in to the enemy and give up the fight. To settle for ordinary—ordinary marriage, ordinary kids, ordinary existence.

Yesterday was one of those days. It was hot out. Really hot (even for southern California). We’d exhausted about every indoor activity in our reportoire—board games, pretend games, hopping and skipping and jumping games. There was just one thing left: the dreaded and always-messy watercolor paints. With a tiny brush in hand, Jalynn began crafting her newest masterpiece on a sheet of bright yellow paper. I recognized the circle and two lines as a three-year-old’s version of a person. “Who’s that?” I asked. “It’s you,” she explained. “You’re laying down on a bed at Jesus’ house.”

As He so often does, God used this often-defiant, vegetable-deprived little person to show me a piece of Himself. “Come to Me, and I will give you rest,” He seemed to say. “Lay on the bed at My house, for my yoke is easy and my burden light.”

Following Jesus—inviting Him into each moment, then acknowledging and obeying His voice—sometimes feels like the opposite of giving in. In reality, it’s the ultimate act of surrender, of handing over the fight to the One who wears the gloves on my behalf. And it’s the only way to know true rest, to experience an extraordinary life, even in the ordinary moments.

Two Dollars and Fifty Cents

Sometimes the best memories aren't free. Sometimes they cost two dollars and fifty cents. We moved to California two years ago. And when we did, Jalynn, then just 14 months old, was introduced to a new and exciting concept—the kiddie mall train. At first she whined and lunged at the tinny sound of the pre-recorded train whistle. A few months passed and her passionate whines turned into a passionate "Choo choo!" Now when we visit the mall she still looks longingly toward the oval track. "Mommy, please can I ride on the train, please?" But I am not a sucker for her please sandwich.

You see I'm sensible ... and cheap, really cheap. I am the self-declared queen of Ross clearance racks and Craigslist bargains and the proud owner of not one but two $5 pairs of brand named jeans. Instinct kicked in, and I clutched my purse a little tighter under my arm as I strolled our green plaid Graco by the mall train. Two dollars and fifty cents for a chinsy little ride around an oval track? Not a chance.

Yesterday Jalynn and Malakye went with their Aunt Jamie to the mall. I gave her a five to cover J's lunch. A frugalista in training, J ordered off the dollar menu. They had money to burn, so Jalynn finally got her ride on that train. I wasn't even there to see it. Around and around the oval track she chugged by for all the Tuesday morning shoppers and August-heat escapees to see. She did what every good three-year-old knows she should do—she waved at Jamie and smiled for her camera phone. But you see this isn't the same little girl who first spotted this magical ride two years ago. She's been to Disneyland, ridden on Space Mountain, and known the many thrills of Camp Snoopy (thanks, Craigslist, for the tickets). The train was fine. But it was no longer a priceless step towards independence. It was what it was—two dollars and fifty cents of fun.

In a couple months Malakye will undoubtedly start to lunge and whine as he passes by the mall train in that same green plaid stroller, now stained with strawberry Poptart and smelling like the beach. Only this time—while the magic is still in the train and a two-minute ride still represents the greatest two-minutes of independence he's ever known—I think I'll loosen my grip on my purse. At least just once.

Apparently whoever said the best memories are free never deprived her little girl of a ride on the mall train.

Mostly Random Observations (21 Days' Worth) ...

It's been three weeks since my last entry, three busy weeks. Packed with life, a blur of family visiting, trips to the beach, and a couple firsts for Jalynn—her first fireworks show and Space Mountain ride. As I reflect on the past 21 days, I have nothing specific to say yet my mind is alive with things I don't want to forget. So here they are, the mostly random observations of a tired (but satisfied) mom, wife, and daughter:

My kids are friends. When one sees the other for the first time in the morning, they both light up. She sings. He giggles. She pulls him into a near-violent hug. He doesn't fight it. Tough little thing, that Malakye. Good thing he's built like his daddy. Tonight Jalynn confirmed what I had already observed. "We're friends, Mommy," she announced as she squeezed her little brother. She took the words right out of my heart. I wonder when my mom first noticed that Kory and I were friends? I wonder if she still notices?

Family. My family visited for a week. Parents, brother, sister-in-law, niece. A houseful. A glorious, most-of-the-time lovely houseful. What is it about being around my family whom I love so much that brings out the ugly in me? Don't get me wrong. It's not them; it's me. Really. (And no, we're not breaking up.) When I'm with them I so readily travel back to familiar unpleasant places that used to be all I know. I guess it's why alcoholics are never "recovered" but only "recovering," even after decades without a drink. People pleasing. Martyrdom (over the silliest little things). Insecurity. At times their affirmation means more to me than God's Himself. And I interpret any moment of unanticipated silence as disapproval. It's messed up. It's my flesh. It's evidence that transformation is a process and not yet a destination.

Swim lessons. Jalynn started swim lessons last week. It's adorable and hilarious and well worth the $56 we paid (if not in measurable swimming improvement than at least in memories). It's her and three other three-year-olds in Mr. Louie's class. On the first day he called their names and told them to "climb on." Then like a daddy duck, he swam his four ducklings out to a little raft in the middle of the pool, two on his back, one in the crook of each arm. While the other kids take turns practicing their kicks and bubbles and floats with Louie, Jalynn occupies herself by "going under water." What she thinks is full immersion is really just putting her head back just far enough to get her hair wet. The rest of the class were no-shows last Thursday. So J and Mr. Louie had 25 minutes of undivided time. He taught her how to go under water for real. One of the cutest things I've ever watched from a short distance. Do I do that? Tell myself (and sometimes others) I've gone under when really only my hair is wet?

Generosity. My parents are hands-down the most generous people I've ever known. They are also the most under-appreciated people I've ever failed to appreciate. Gifts. Time. Constant, unreciprocated service. Washing dishes. Watering flowers. Sewing buttons back on Jalynn's curtains to replace the ones she bit off while she was going through an oral phase after Malakye was born (yes, kids are weird). My parents are breathtaking, and I want to give like them when I grow up.

Confessions of a busy couple. Our pastor challenged everyone in church last week to confess their sins to someone sitting near them. Jimmy and I looked at each other. It'd been a fleshy week for both of us. And we had more to say than I had even realized. Six years of marriage—we've prayed together countless times. Shared, cried, and laughed together. But never had we straight-up confessed our sins to each other. And I sincerely hope it's not another six years before we do it again. Amazing.

Splat. Malakye army-crawled noggin-first into our sliding glass door yesterday. I looked up from my station at the kitchen sink just in time to see it happening (but not in time to stop it). Had I glanced a second or two earlier, would I have rescued him from certain mishap? Honestly, I'm not sure. You see, it was one of the sweetest, most heart-breaking things I've ever laughed at. Like an unsuspecting, chubby little bird. He didn't cry, just looked at me and grinned, which lessened my guilt a tad. Maybe I should stop washing the window so often (and by "so often," I mean once a month, on a good month).

Home. When Jimmy and I got married and moved into our first house together, I programmed our new number under "house" on my cell phone. My parents' number occupied the "home" spot in my contact list. It remained that way for several years. ... Almost two years ago while I was working full-time outside of the home I texted Jimmy one afternoon to say I was on my way home from work. My words: "Coming home." His reply: "To the place where you belong." We're moving again next month, this time to an area outside of LA that's closer to Jimmy's work and all-around more affordable. It'll be move #5 in just under six years. We checked out the area and a potential preschool for J last week before dropping my mom off at LAX. Pretty much circled all of southern California in one afternoon. Before the last leg of the journey Jimmy typed "home" into the GPS. A cute little house icon shows up when you program in your home address. I had never noticed this before. Seeing it brought these little things back to me—my cell phone contact list, the sweet text message—and I realized that I am home. More than ever before. And perhaps as much as I'll ever be until I really am Home.

Three years. Really? Is that all?

Jalynn turned three today. It's popular to say things like "Where did the time go?" or "Ah ... They grow up so fast" whenever your kid's calendar turns to another year. But tonight I can't honestly speak such phrases. They are not true to my inner timepiece, the one that feels like Jalynn has always been a part of our lives. Three years ago. Really? Is that all? That was three houses ago. Two states. A handful of jobs and positions, promotions and demotions. A fanfare-free transition from my cool twenties to the decade that I had always labeled "middle-age." There's been colic and fevers and teething and lots of tearful battles between Jalynn's curls and my evil comb. Jimmy and I have disciplined Jalynn together. We've built her up, sent her off, then disciplined her some more. We've argued some and kissed lots and are more of a team now than ever.

And oh ... how God has worked us.

So while the last three years haven't necessarily been the fastest of my life thus far. They have been the toughest and most breathtaking—hands down.

Inspired by a college friend and fellow blogger, Emily, I started a new tradition tonight, one I plan on continuing every June 28th for a long, long time. I held my sweet daughter in my arms as I told her the story of her birth. "Three years ago I had a baby in my tummy," I told her. "A little baby girl named Jalynn. Daddy and I went to a movie at the theater that night. A movie about animals and a big boat, like Noah." (Evan Almighty, in case you hadn't figured that one out.)

I went on to tell her about eating French toast at a restaurant, going to bed, and waking up in the middle of the night with a tummy ache. Daddy and I drove to the hospital where I put on a funny dress that looked like a sheet and laid on a bed with wheels. Then the doctor took baby Jalynn out of my tummy, and I held her for the very first time."

She was fascinated. Ate up every word. Then proceeded to tell me about the night the doctor took the baby out of her tummy. His name, she said, was Malakye.

Even though I can't write tonight about time flying, I do admit to tearing up three or four times today. This was one of them. After all, my baby isn't much of a baby anymore. And I'm not exactly sure how (or when, for that matter) that happened.

I Love You Forever. Just Because.

Sometimes I press my nose and mouth into Malakye's soft baby cheek and breathe deeply. In and out. In and out. Kiss. I swear my heart rate picks up a beat. Like a school girl whose crush just sat in the desk next to her. In and out. In and out. Kiss.

Scientists attribute my behavior to pheromones. I take a strange comfort in their label. Apparently I'm not a freak mom. I'm just a regular mom in love with my squishy little man.

Today I watched in awe as he army crawled the length of the house, methodical and determined, like a tiny explorer. The carpeted floor an undiscovered continent of doggy dishes and hidden dust bunnies. Each treasure looking more delicious than the last.

Sometimes I hold him close just so I can get a whiff of sweet potato burps and baby shampoo. When he's happy, his whole body smiles—arms and legs dancing a rigid bounce, mouth grinning a two-tooth grin. And perhaps my favorite, the sound of his voice—his surprisingly boy-like baby voice—squeeling out delight. It doesn't take much—a short round of peek-a-boo, his sissy's big purple ball, a dog within arm's reach, a chance to show off in his doorway jumper—his joy is an easy joy.

Every mom wants her child's life to matter more than her own. I look at Malakye's chunky thighs and see a future linebacker. He bops to music and I imagine a dancer or a pianist. I tossed him that big purple ball the other night as he sat in his high chair. Over and over he caught it with amazing consistency. So I did what lots of mom would do, I started imagining his baseball career. Oh, and of course he's going to be brilliant, like rocket scientist crazy brilliant. Of course.

I like to talk about unconditional love. Yet my flesh clings to a different kind, a love I've worked hard my whole life to attain. A pat on the back. A compliment. High marks from a teacher, a boss, a parent. For thirty years this love has defined me. It's there in the high times but dormant in the broken ones. It leaves me drained and anemic and desperate for more. I dish it out when my kids are happy and take it back during tantrums and back-talk and teething pain. It's my default love. And it is not of God.

What if the first thing I saw when I looked at Malakye was a boy after God's own heart, not a future baller or maestro or straight-A student? What if instead of dreaming my own will about his life I began praying God's will over it? If I prayed that he never be defined by the gods that say ,"I love you because you're smart or strong or successful (at anything)" but instead by a God who always says, "I love you. Just because."

A few months before Malakye was born (before we knew his name or that he was even a boy), a dear friend of mine had a dream about him. He was a young boy in the dream, about ten years old, and already strong in his convictions of right and wrong. Unwilling to compromise. Sure of his identity. Sure of His God.

She kept the dream to herself until a he was a week old. I read Psalm 24 the evening she told me about it. God nudged me that night, and I began praying it over Malakye's life:

"Who may ascend the hill of the LORD ?

Who may stand in his holy place?
He who has clean hands and a pure heart,
who does not lift up his soul to an idol
or swear by what is false.

He will receive blessing from the LORD
and vindication from God his Savior.

Such is the generation of those who seek him,
who seek your face, O God of Jacob.

Lift up your heads, O you gates;
be lifted up, you ancient doors,
that the King of glory may come in."

Imagine if a whole generation of parents began to love a whole generation of babies with a love that wasn't our own. A love that doesn't boast or envy, fail or abandon (especially in the broken times). A Love that already sacrificed everything. Just because.

Happy eighth month to the tiniest, squishiest man ever to make my heart race—my army crawlin', delight squeelin', chubby-thighed Mister Malakye! I love you forever. Just because.

God Slapped Me in the Face Today

God slapped me in the face today. It should have stung, but all I felt was grace.

We moved into our current house late last summer. Within a week Jalynn had a play date with the cutest girl on the block, four-year-old Savannah. Her mom came over and introduced herself. She's sweet and generous and can wear leggings with anything. By January our relationship had grown from driveway chats to beach trips and botanical garden excursions.

Now Savannah may be the cutest girl on the block, but she's not the only. Living three doors down from us are five-year-old twins, a boy and a girl. If I hadn't run into their mom on a walk one day and engaged in a courtesy chat, I never would have known they were twins. Nathan is small for his age, disheveled blond hair framing a cute face, something baby-like still lingering in his big brown eyes. Taller than average and significantly overweight, Jesse shadows over her brother, edging him by some six inches and 45 pounds. They're quite the pair. Hard not to notice. Easy to ignore. For six months I didn't know their names.

I'd see them on their scooters, barefoot and sweaty and crossing the street without looking both ways—misfits in our neighborhood of cookie-cutter houses and luxury cars. The girl, especially, made me uncomfortable. The eleven-year-old in me wanted to snicker as I drove past. My inner Mother Theresa wanted to send her to weight-loss camp. I settled on a compromise: pity.

About a month ago I realized that when Jalynn looks at Jesse she sees someone different than I do. She doesn't see an overweight kid; she just sees a kid. And when Jalynn sees a kid, she wants to play. So that's exactly what they've been doing a lot of the past few weeks. Drawing with sidewalk chalk and riding bikes and taking baby dolls for walks in baby doll strollers. The twins are two years older than Jalynn but include her in everything they do. They are Jalynn's kindest friends.

Jesse and Nathan ate lunch with us last week. I asked Jalynn to pray before diving into turkey sandwiches and baby carrots. "What's 'pray' mean?" Jesse asked. The siblings looked up at me, anxious for an explanation. They had never even heard the word.

This afternoon Jesse was playing with Jalynn in her room. They removed every plastic beaded necklace from Jalynn's pink jewelry box and then moved on to the books on her dresser. I stood at the door in time to hear Jesse ask, "What's this book about?" She was holding up a children's Bible. Jalynn acted uninterested as she spouted a quick "Jesus" answer and moved on to making her giggling baby doll giggle.

I stepped in: "Do you know who Jesus is?"

Jesse started to shake her head "no," but a sudden realization stopped her. Excited, she shouted out, "I've heard Jesus songs at Target."

I knew exactly what she was talking about. There's an endcap next to the greeting cards at our local Target. It's like a mini-jukebox selling lullaby CDs by Jewel and some no-name Michael Buble of Sunday School songs. "Jesus Loves Me" is on a short play list that it broadcasts to everyone within a twelve foot radius. I've heard it a hundred times but only noticed it a couple.

All Jesse knew about Jesus was a song on an end cap display. This isn't a village in India or Burma or Brazil. This is Irvine, California. 2010. This is three doors down.

Jesse was captive. She wanted to know more. Holding The Jesus Storybook Bible in hand, I read some and story told a lot. We started with Matthew 19. Jesus' friends argued over who was the most important in God's Kingdom. This saddened Jesus. All that time with Him and they still didn't get it.

But then there were these kids. They weren't on their best behavior, their hair was probably messed up, and chances are some of them weren't the cutest on their block. But they ran to Jesus. He picked them up and giggled with them and listened to their stories. He loved them. And they didn't doubt it. Not for a moment.

We moved on from there. She turned to the page with the lions and the one with a big fish. For the first time she heard about a gracious God, a God who sent an angel to protect a faithful man and a fish to save a disobedient one.

For six months I, like Jonah, ran away from God's voice. I snickered and felt pity and avoided learning names. Yet still He chose to use me.

That same God slapped me lovingly in the face today. And all I felt was grace.