crickets chirping

As this virtual space has fallen dormant (again) over the past three months, a similar phenomenon has played out in real life.  For those faithful readers of mine (God bless them) who keep checking to see if this is the day I've clicked "publish" to post something -- anything -- since that last bit of good advice from the younger lad, I am grateful.  Thanks for sticking with me.  

***

Have you ever offered to help only have to your gesture ignored?  Not even ignored, but maybe politely noted, then not acted upon?  

This has happened to me more than once, and for the most part I've been able to cultivate a certain detachment that if verbalized would sound something like "here's what I'm offering.  You don't want it?  Fine.  Moving on..."

I've struggled to maintain this detachment recently when, once again, I offered to help when I saw that I could.  For whatever reason, what I was offering wasn't what the other party was looking for.  They didn't come right out and say it; they thanked me but then didn't get back to me on the offer for a while.  Maybe they didn't want my help.  Maybe they forgot.  Maybe they figured the offer stood (which it does). 

Maybe it wasn't about me at all.  

As I stewed in my juices cooking up reasons why I wasn't hearing back on the offer, I began to have an awareness that I was making it more about me than about the gift I was offering, which I truly meant as a gift.  Once I had this realization, I began to think more about my reasons for making the offer.

Was it to fill a need I saw?
Definitely yes.

Was it to fulfill a need of mine?
Yes to this also.

Was it to draw attention to myself?
I hate to think so, but maybe a little, given how much I'm letting it bother me.

In light of this last less-than-flattering thought, I began to pray for the grace to let go of any ambition I may have had lurking behind the offer (which I earnestly made with a sincere desire to help) and leave it all up to the Lord.  Maybe it just wasn't God's will that they take me up on the offer.  If he wanted me to serve him in this particular way, I knew he'd make it happen.  If he didn't, then I needed to accept that and pray for wisdom to discern his will for me here and now. 

Waiting on someone else to respond to some gesture of mine leaves me open to the awkward silence of no response -- what some might refer to as "crickets chirping" -- as in quiet enough to hear those critters that give me the heebie-jeebies serenading their sweeties.

This goes for prayer as well.  While it may seem our prayers are going unanswered, that all we're hearing is crickets chirping, such is not the case.  The answer to prayer does not come on our time table or even in terms we expect.  Answers can be found, however, as we "keep turning the cards over" as my dad would say, as life unfolds day by day.

In the particular case I describe, I have had to level with the Lord by letting him know what he already knows, that I very much wish for something specific to happen, but that even more than that I wish to do his will -- even if it means something other than my desire being fulfilled in this particular circumstance.  I trust that all things will work out according to God's plan, in God's time.

face time

The bambini love calling family members via FaceTime on our gadgets that support the application.  It's a bit like The Muppet Show while we are waiting for the call to connect, with much jostling and jockeying for that front and center spot, as well as some last minute reminders hissed by the director (that'd be me) to "modulate your voices" (as Grannie would say) so that the people on the receiving end can hear what we're saying. 

Being able to connect with our loved ones by seeing their faces and hearing their voices in real time is an amazing boon, one of the biggest advantages of our present-day technology.  When we can't be in the same room with our friends and loved ones, we can still see and hear them.  It's not quite the same as being able to reach out and hug them, but we'll take it!

In this world with so many ways of communicating, there is still no substitute for time spent together face to face.  Phone calls keep voices fresh in our minds; and letters, e-mail, texting, and social media are better than nothing, but each of these media have their limitations.  We can only infer the intentions with which people write to us; we can't hear their tone of voice or see their facial expressions.  As the messages get shorter, such as in texting, there is ample room for misunderstandings to arise from such short snippets and exchanges.  While they are useful for a variety of things, they certainly can't be the primary means of communication between two people, and there are many situations for which these modes of communication are simply inappropriate.

Then there is the time factor.  It's difficult to have meaningful conversations when time is limited, conditions are noisy, or gadgets are involved.  When there is only time for exchanging pleasantries, how can any real relationship be cultivated or maintained?

While the tools at our disposal continue to evolve in capability, they cannot intuit the meaning of a human heart and convey that to another.   Only we can do that for ourselves, and the best way to accomplish that is face to face.  Until we can visit in person, we'll make use of the array of technological tools made to keep us in touch, always preferring actual face time to its virtual counterpart.

noted

Polling the school-going bambini for lunch box requests, there seems to be a theme going in spite of their vastly different tastes: they all want a note in their lunch box.

I've been tucking notes into lunch boxes here and there (not every day) for as long as I've been packing lunches for people. I didn't realize how much the notes meant to the people opening the lunch boxes until a couple of recent occasions when I didn't stick a note in. That was the first thing I heard about when we were reunited. I have learned my lesson.

It's nothing fancy, usually just a plain square of white paper with a short, not too mushy sentiment such as "I love you!" or "I hope you're having a great day!" or "see you soon!". Sometimes I'll throw in a joke, though:

I can't take credit for this clever joke.  I found it online. 
I don't know if the jokes are read to friends at the lunch table.  I hope they are. 

I try to write as legibly as I can for the new and emerging readers among us, especially considering my standard quirky handwriting is a mix of cursive, printing, upper and lower case. 

If the most important thing in the lunch box is a note from Mom (or Dad), does it even matter what else I pack?  The answer is a resounding *yes*, but it's gratifying to know how something that seems like a little thing to me is of such significance to my little loves -- at least for now.

fighting words

Maybe the triple digit heat with temperatures upwards of 110 degrees have something to do with it, or maybe it's a consequence of us slacking off on our agenda, but I've noticed an unwelcome increase in the amount whining, fussing, and caterwauling heard in these parts -- yes, even from me.  What's going on?   The answer is probably multi-fold, but on my part I'm sure my sleep deficit isn't helping.  I thought this braid of homegrown garlic curing in our kitchen might help ward off the crankies (just kidding), but alas it has not.

I am not one to criticize, blame, nag, cajole, or be passive aggressive.  When I am extraordinarily tired, however, I am far less able to take the "normal" drama and shennanigans in stride.  Instead of employing humor, goofiness, or alternatives to yelling like singing or whispering, I am far more inclined to be snarky, snippy, snide, or sarcarstic in my terse responses.  I am never proud of those pronouncements.  They are anything but constructive. I don't like to be spoken to in any of those ways, and I always feel terrible when I allow such vitriol to escape my lips. 

It is one of my highest priorities for our bambini to learn to authentically, respectfully, and honestly express whatever emotion or need they're trying to verbalize.   However will they learn to do that?  By replicating the way the adults in their lives handle themselves in times of stress and moments of need.  (That would be me, among others)

When one of our children spouts off some poorly-phrased demand request or hurtful insult, I try to respond matter-of-factly with an opportunity to restate him- or herself and a script to use in doing so.  When the insults are flying among siblings or disrespectful demands are hurtled my way, adding my own yelling voice to the equation gets us nowhere good (even if I'm trying to communicate that some things are better left unsaid).

Feelings of frustration, disappointment, hurt, and confusion are all part of the human experience.  It's important to sort them out and move on without name-calling, empty threats, or brute force, just as it's important to take ownership of the emotions we feel and take control of how we allow the treatment of others to affect us.  Similarly, we all have basic (and not-so-basic) needs for all kinds of things both tangible and intangible.  Not every need is of equal necessity, nor can every one be met *right now.*  And we can't always have everything we want -- not in this life.

We owe it to our bambini, their future spouses, ourselves, and society at large to express our own emotions, needs, and desires clearly, respectfully, and as lovingly as possible -- even when we are tired, frustrated, hungry, overheated, or otherwise vexed -- so that when our little loves go to express themselves, they will have some positive point of reference to model.  They won't always get it right, but with practice comes a greater chance of success.

On my part I have to get better about going to bed earlier so that I have easier access to the tools at my disposal.  When it comes to conflict resolution, I'm still working on developing the virtue of fortitude to speak up in a manner that honors the needs of all involved.  The best outcome of such a faithful response to conflict or insult instructs those who are watching closely to be ever mindful of the presence of Christ in every person and to be respectful of the inherent dignity in each of God's precious children, young or old, sassy or circumspect, willing or unwilling, peaceful or troubled, happy or sad, whatever and whenever.  It's how I wish to be treated, and it's how I endeavor to teach our bambini to treat others, to "do as I would be done by", and to tread lightly on the delicate ground that is the heart of the other.

family reunion

You know that scene at the end of Christmas Vacation when Chevy Chase's character Clark Griswold surveys the scene around him after all of his relatives have witnessed firsthand the collision of reality with his dream of a "fun old-fashioned family Christmas" and says in amazement to himself, "I did it."?

I can relate.

Last week our young family mounted an expedition unlike anything we'd done before.  We took a road trip.  Not just a short jaunt to visit my parents and sister -- a trip upwards of 350 miles.  Sure: other families have done this sort of thing plenty of times.  I myself was a veteran road-tripper by the age of five, driving more than twice that distance one way with my father (who did the actual driving) to visit our Chicago family before my Papa Jack passed away.  Still, this was the first time the family my beloved and I are privileged to parent went on such an adventure.  We, along with my parents and sister, met our Chicago family for a reunion.  There were some among them we'd never met (children, that is), and vice versa, and although Grannie had come to stay with us a couple of times and each of my aunts had come for short visits, it had been a long time since nearly all of Grannie's descendants were together.  Even still, we missed my cousin the doctor who recently began her residency. 

The first moments of our reunion were similar to the scene in Cynthia Rylant's The Relatives Came, illustrated by Stephen Gammell.  There was lots of hugging and chattering and more hugging and laughing and more hugging.  In the story, the relatives have driven a long, long way from their family farm to visit their loved ones.  They pack the house and sleep practically piled upon one another (not unlike the many Fourth of July holidays happily spent at Grannie's lake cottage) and stay for weeks, helping the host family tend to their garden (while eating up all its produce) and other household upkeep.  Then, after lots more hugs, they pack up their station wagon and head home with visions of next summer when the ones who made the trip this year will be the hosts.  In spite of the physical distance that separates the two branches of the family tree, there is a bond evident that isn't diminished by time and space, one that every family surely aspires to retain.

For our family reunion we met not quite in the middle and stayed at a hotel, which was a grand adventure for our bambini.  Our Bambini Ride isn't rainbow-colored like the station wagon in the story, but it was packed pretty much to the gills like the fictional vehicle. 

The book's illustrator Stephen Gammell won a Caldecott Medal for the artwork that brings this story to life, as he did for (among others) Song and Dance Man by Karen Ackerman, another book we enjoyed about a grandfather regaling his grandchildren with stories of his days as a vaudeville performer.

Seeing the cousins I'd spent many summers with as a child now all grown up like me (or are we?), one with children of her own, the bond between us was renewed.  When we were much younger, we'd write letters to each other.  Yes: letters -- as in paper, pens, envelopes and stamps.  I'd write them to my cousins, I'd write them to my Grannie, and they'd write them back to me.  So when I stumbled upon David Ezra Stein's Love, Mouserella, I hastily requested it. 

Mouserella has just bidden her grandmother farewell after a visit, and already Mouserella misses her.  Sound familiar?  So Mouserella writes a letter to her dear grandmother, telling her about anything and everything that's going on and providing illustrations.  This sweet story conjures up memories of me writing to my Grannie upon my return home from her house, missing her already and eager to keep the conversation going. We still try to do that now by phone and e-mail, not so much with letters.  The occasional card is always considered "fun mail."

Though we are separated by nearly 800 miles, the connection we have to our Chicago family is important to us to keep alive.  Though traveling has been difficult for us in recent years, we saw an opportunity to give it a go with lots of help from my parents and sister along the way as well as lots of help from my beloved's parents before we left.  Our family is blessed beyond measure to have the love and support of so many relatives and friends.  For all of that, for the gift of time we've recently had to spend together, and for the safe trip we made, I will always be grateful.

I think Clark Griswold would be proud.

do-over

We took the Bambini Ride to the car wash not too long ago, an outing the bambini usually heartily enjoy.  Even without my glasses or contacts on I could tell that the wash we'd been through was not satisfactory, with soap left on the vehicle as well as dirt.  At first I thought I'd go rinse it myself at the quarter car wash, but that didn't seem right. So I called the car wash manager, explained the situation, and asked for a pass through to rinse off the vestiges of soap and dirt.  He said to bring it back, so we did.  He gave us a higher dollar car wash on his nickel than the one we'd purchased, and the Ride looks great (snack remnants on the inside notwithstanding; vacuuming wasn't part of the deal to begin with).

My dad has been known to describe himself as essentially lazy, preferring to do a good job the first time with the requisite preparation and seemingly extraneous attention to detail that makes for the best end result than having to go back and do the job over again.  He says he learned this the hard way, having to wash his grandmother's windows more than once when his first effort didn't pass her muster. I've had to redo some lackluster jobs of my own, and I always think of him saying that bit about him being lazy, which is the last word I would ever use to describe him.

Speaking up for myself to ask someone else to redo a job they did for me that wasn't good enough does not come easily for me, like so many other conversations with conflict potential.  I did it anyway.  It's part of the growing up I'm doing as a mother.

We all make mistakes.  We all might even cut corners from time to time for whatever reason.  Don't we all hope for the opportunity to do it over when we know we need to?  That's a tactic we've employed with our very young bambini -- the chance for "do overs" when they've mishandled a situation.  Second chances aren't just for toddlers learning how and when to use their "inside voice".  Adults need second chances sometimes, too.

The car wash conundrum may have been a first world problem (and an insignificant one at that), but it afforded a teachable moment for our bambini (and for me) about the inherent dignity in and importance of doing a good job at whatever task is at hand, to take pride in the work we do for the glory of God, and to hold ourselves and each other accountable for doing that kind of good work, accepting responsibility for when we don't quite make the grade.

That's what I tried to tell the bambini on our second pass through the car wash, but I think the colored foam, octopus-like brushes, and blow dryer might have drowned me out.  That's alright.  Perhaps the actions of speaking up, going back, and seeing the final fantastic result spoke for themselves.

ringy dingy

Today would've been Aunt Robin's 51st birthday, and I didn't call my Grannie. 

I always try to call my Grannie on Aunt Robin's birthday -- or Papa Jack's -- and most definitely on Grannie's own birthday.  That's just how we do things.  As with there always being lamb cake for Easter, we always call each other on our birthdays, or on what would've been the birthdays of those we love but who are now departed from this life.

Grannie called late last week as we were driving to the last day of Vacation Bible School.  It was pretty early to be hearing from her, so I was initially concerned that something may be amiss.  It wasn't.  She was in good spirits, about to head out to help one of my aunts with some organizing.  Grannie has wizard-like skills in the organizational department -- specifically in the kitchen.   It had been a while since I had called her, in spite of my best intentions to call her at least once a week.   

*Once a week, Bonnie!  Is that so difficult?!  Especially considering how much time you spend driving in the car with that handsfree phone gadget?!*  

Not so long ago I did ring my Grannie-o to catch up on the "doings", as she calls them, only to chat for a minute with her dear friend there visiting all the while thinking it was Grannie.  Another time I called and interrupted her weekly bridge game with her "lady friends".  It was her turn to host.  She called me back later. 

Every time she calls she says something along the lines of, "I wasn't sure if this was a good time to call, so I just decided to try." I'm so glad she takes the chance.  I do that now too, not just with Grannie but with a few other cherished people.  I boldly acknowledge that I've taken the calculated risk of calling a fellow mother with young children at what might be their siesta time, hoping with great fervor that I won't awaken a bambini *thisclose* to drifting off to sleep for a sorely-needed siesta. 

When I've been on the receiving end of a call that I can't prudently answer, I don't answer it.  I hope this doesn't offend the caller, but most people who call me anymore realize that I'm not exactly sitting around waiting for the phone to ring.  It may take me a little (or a long) while to return the call, but knowing with certainty that someone I cherish has taken the time to call me has such a buoying effect on my spirits.  

I am often reticent to pick up the phone and call someone to say hello or indirectly ask for a pick-me-up in the form of a brief conversation for fear that they might be in the middle of something, but when I take the chance and hear his or her voice on the receiving end, I am so much the better for having done so. 

I'm sorry, Gran, that I didn't call you today.  Be expecting a call from me tomorrow...

chatty cathy

Out and about on my own for a little while today while the bambini were having "camp" with my beloved's mother, I found myself having a conversation with the girl who checked me out at Target, who eyed the stack of camo-patterned cargo shorts and pink polka-dotted swim shorts in various sizes and wondered aloud how many children I have.  Upon learning the answer, she divulged that she has four older brothers.  I asked her if they treated her well, and she said yes they did and that she liked to bake cookies for them, which inspired me to tell her that my father (who has three sisters) has long made a point of telling our lads how important it is to take good care of their sisters.  She concurred.

On the way out of Target I stopped for my favorite beverage, a rare indulgence.  As we waited for the espresso to brew, the barista asked me where I was off to from there.  "To pick up my four children," I answered, along with a few pleasantries.  I don't think that was the answer the barista was expecting, though I could be wrong.

At another stop on my list of errands, I had a lengthy discussion with the clerk about the return process for items ordered online and how some people expect the store employees processing said online returns to be "miracle workers" when unwanted items are brought in without receipts or other necessary paperwork.

As I walked out of that store I laughed inwardly at how chatty I had been with these people I'd never met before, beyond the basic friendliness that is characteristic of our region.  I don't consider myself all that great a conversationalist.  I can make fairly decent small talk, but I'm a little rusty from lack of sleep, and my attention is often divided among several entities.  This makes a conversation of much substance more challenging.

Fortunately for me, sometimes it only takes a few words of kindness to leave a lasting impression on another person, stranger or not.  I cherish the opportunities for more lengthy discussions with loved ones, and I hope the few words I can muster in my default soundbyte mode will be ones that uplift, heal, and encourage.

get this right

The younger lass rifled through a filing cabinet with some of my piano scores and found a spiral-bound booklet of the repertoire assigned to me my senior year of college. She slapped it up on the music desk and toddled off to do something else.

As I walked past the piano I caught sight of the score she had left open, and I stopped to thumb through the pages. It was the "working copy" where my piano professor and I noted all sorts of things related to the piece and its performance: fingerings, pedaling, dynamics, harmonic analysis, and phrasing, among other things like this note I scribbled:

 

get this right.

as in: quit making this same mistake here.  You know it's coming.  It's tripped you up enough times to merit a note in the score *and* a highlighter, so fix it already.  Don't make it again.

How many times in a day do I make the same mistakes or allow myself to edge too close to that line where I can't help but bungle a situation that presents itself over and over again -- one I've had the opportunity to address and learn from and traverse successfully going forward?  For whatever reason, I still make some of  the same mistakes.  

My dad says I use my music degree every day, even those days when I don't touch a piano.  Maybe this is what he means.  And thank the good Lord for his infinite mercy in forgiving those mistakes, even though I make them time and again.  Isn't that what Easter, which we are at last celebrating, is all about -- forgiveness of sins and everlasting life?

I don't operate under the delusion that I am perfect or will always handle every situation perfectly, but I would like to eliminate some of those oft-made mistakes by considering the factors that contribute to my making them and doing what needs to be done to set up a better outcome.  

Here's what I hope I did get right today:  I hope I made good use of the time God gave me this day to show his love and mercy to those around me.  I hope in those moments when I felt like I might lose my patience or withdraw from interaction in the face of some drama that I was able to recognize them inwardly and overcome them either by expressing those emotions in a healthy and respectful way or by waiting a minute to let them blow over.   I hope to have shown my bambini that Mama does make mistakes sometimes, as we all do, and that when I do I try my best to make amends, tend to the hurt I may have caused, and move on.

We do our best, says my Grannie, and that's all we can do.  Part of that is built on learning from our mistakes -- God willing, before warranting a highlighter's notice.

outtakes

Sifting through scads of digital photos I've taken of the bambini in the past month or so (remember my strategy?), I am searching for those images that are in focus, well-lit, not too cluttered in terms of what's in the background, and interesting.  Those images that meet these criteria are added to a "favorites" folder that serves as my screen saver -- a veritable slide show of the past three or so years (the lifespan of my current computer) -- and organized into albums to share with our loved ones.

Notice I didn't include among my "favorites" criteria that bambini be looking at the camera.  I don't often ask them to do that.  Instead I try to document their doings, expressions, and interactions as they unfold in real time.   In my experience this makes for better photos -- at least the ones I end up taking. 

There are times I try to get all four bambini together for a photo to mark a certain milestone or holiday.  I don't think I've ever gotten a photograph of all four of them looking at the camera that is better than those that result from the logical progression of a "photo shoot" with four young children.  With these characters, there are plenty of goofy expressions and silliness shining through the awkwardness of being posed.   Among the candid images are usually several "outtakes", some of which may or may not end up as the favored photo for the intended purpose (such as a Christmas -- or Easter, in our case -- card).

Sometimes the best pictures aren't the posed ones.  That's not my area of expertise.  They may not be of portrait studio caliber, but their authenticity trumps the fancy factor.  The relationships among the siblings and we who love them are evident.  The accomplishments and milestones are documented as they happen, and the expressions captured for posterity are genuine.  These photos tell our story. 

drama queen

We are experiencing some unprecedented displays of emotions of late from one or both of the young lassies.  Sometimes these displays are amplified by siblings either directly affected by whatever is causing the upset in the first place or indirectly affected by the highly charged conditions that result from prolonged or impassioned protestations.

Maybe it's the heat, or the summer sniffles making the rounds through the family, not enough rest, developmental milestones, or some combination of these -- or something else entirely.  Maybe it's estrogen-related.  Whatever the explanation, it claims a huge amount of bandwidth to weather the outburst, determine the proper course of action, and try to keep from getting swept up in the furor myself. 

As the queen of my castle, my loyal (?) subjects are looking to me to make it all better.  I can't always do that -- nor should I.  Here's hoping I can respond to the bambini in their times of need while dispensing with all of the drama...

team players

By God's grace I managed to evade ever having to participate in team-building exercises via a ropes course in the course of my working career or church camp days.  It's not that I'm not a team player.  It's just that I've been on enough "teams" where I was among those pulling more than our share of the weight so that now every time I hear phrases like "team-building" and "teamwork", it's all I can to suppress the darn near involuntary rolling of my eyeballs.

As overused as these closely-related terms are, they are very useful in family life.  After all, and as I often tell our bambini, God has built our family for a reason -- or several.  We probably won't fully understand those reasons this side of heaven.  Nonetheless, each of us has unique God-given abilities to help the others in the family become the people Christ calls them to be, and we are to use those gifts always with that service to others in mind. 

This focus on teamwork is a revelation to me of late as a means of counteracting selfish tendencies -- we all have them -- and a tool in both developing empathy and cultivating virtues like courtesy, respect, generosity, gentleness, and humility.  The virtues serve as the framework for my "phrasology" (to quote Mayor Shinn from The Music Man, which was our movie night feature last weekend) to expand upon the token "teamwork" buzzword I loathe but use anyway in certain circumstances.

So it is with reluctance that I continue to utter the "T" word, knowing that it's a good, quick reminder that each of us has an obligation to the others to help us all get to heaven.

speaking their language

The few Easter decorations I put up with such glee on Holy Saturday night are still out.  While it's been entirely appropriate to have them up this long, today being Pentecost Sunday and the end of the liturgical season of Easter, it's probably time to put them away.  I have relished the delightful symbols of new life.  Just as things look a little bare when the Christmas decorations are put away, so too I think will they look once I get these Easter accents taken down.  But Easter hope and new life remain with us, as does the Holy Spirit whose presence among us we celebrate today.

In the first reading today we hear about the apostles speaking in the many languages of the diverse array of people gathered in Jerusalem.  Communication and word usage are perennial interests of mine, so I can easily parlay this into the various ways I communicate with my family and those around me... 

While we may speak the same language, each person really has a different way of expressing him- or herself and of feeling "heard" or understood.  (There's an entire series of books by Dr. Gary Chapman on people's "love languages".)  I've discovered a few inlets to the hearts of my bambini (among other tangible signs of attention and affirmation):

• Offer the lass some blueberries, raisins, crackers, or cookies.
• Take my younger lad to the "swing playground" (as he calls it) in our neighborhood -- or some other playground with swings, because often, as he says, "I just want to swing."
• Share some chocolate with the elder lad, or build something out of Legos with him.

In speaking their love language, I hope to communicate to and with these bambini in a way that expresses not just my love, but reflects the love Christ has for each of them.

And as for the Easter decorations, I've got a smashing wreath of red berries to hang on the door.  Red being the liturgical color of Pentecost, today is the perfect day to hang it.  I even remember where I stashed it -- but that's more likely thanks to the prompting of the Holy Spirit than my shifty memory.