Hieroglyphics

Mak tells Sophia to stop playing with her crackers.

Sophia gently helps Mak pray before they eat.

Brian gets up twenty minutes early every morning to read his Bible and do his men's study.

There are various books littered next to my bed on the Gospel, Idols, the book of John...

Hung on the wall in my hallway are wires adorned with art, layered upon itself, brought home by my preschool student, Sophia.

If you walk through the house without careful step, you might break your heel on a matchbox car, carelessly left behind by my two-year-old.

Hand-made Christmas ornaments made my children, or by Brian, or by myself, hung on our tree.

My laptop, perched on my dining room table. Accessible always.

There used to be baby bottles drying on the counter, or rogue burp cloths lost among the cushions of the couch, or diapers floating around my house, or sippy cups.

They're all hieroglyphics in my life. Where there used to be artifacts of a single life, not lived for God, but for myself alone, there is now very different evidence. I want to know Him. I want to change to be more like Him. I am a mom. I am growing in this role, my life is expanding in this role; my kids test me, challenge me. Today, as my kids were napping, I was thinking - if someone broke into my house, what would they see? What would they be able to say about me, after walking out of my house?

And, I think - this is what will shape our children more than we know. The things that act as hieroglyphics and tell marked stories about our lives, our now, who we are, what matter to us, what we cherish, what we spend our time doing. They will pour over these cave-man drawings in their heads as adults, because our today WILL be reduced to these kinds of rudimentary depictions as they recall their childhoods. Their memories. Some pictures I will be so proud of. Others, I will not. Because, the things my kids will add will be the emotions to the pictures. To my time spent on the computer, they will add disappointment that I didn't play with them more. To my time spent on the phone, they will add frustration that I was tied up and busy with someone else. Or maybe what I was talking about? Sadly, can I say that to my time spent on the phone they will add hearing me talk about others, or complain? Oh, the horror of that. The undoing of that. But, to my time spent in the Word, or in prayer, they will add everlasting fruit - love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, and self-control. And these fruits will also shape tomorrow's hieroglyphics into different pictures.

My hieroglyphics as a 21-year-old were sad, confused moments of me chasing fool's gold. Thank goodness hieroglyphics portray a dynamic, not static, environment - that I changed, that God found me, that He softened my heart to see His truth, that He infused it with love, and mercy, and forgiveness.

Our world is one big hieroglyphic drawing, and our children will shade it in with color. What colors will mine be someday? What colors will yours be?

An early Christmas present

So, I haven't posted in a while, and I've had some good reasons. The holidays stress out my type-A personality and I tend to over-obsess about all I need to do. I may or may not visualize this perfect woman, fireplace-side, handing her hubby a cup of 'nog while the children nicely do a puzzle together. Can I tell you that is not my life? By the time of night a fire would be appropriately burning in my fireplace, I'm usually lost for patience, occasionally yelling "I've had it" or "whoever is doing something wrong is going to get a consequence" at the top of my lungs (and sometimes these statements may or may not be directed at my loving husband). And, this is the perfect segue-way into my early Christmas present.

No, it's not "Jesus is the reason for the season" (although, 'tis true) or, "it's better to give than receive" (because I do love a good present, thanks Nicole). Here it is.... Are you ready for it?

The very best gift you have is the person you've been given for eternity (on this earth).

Ahh... So disappointing, right? WRONG!

The very things that drive me crazy about my husband, the very things that make me (occasionally) roll my eyes are the very things that (if I'm honest) challenge me. His joking helps me take life a little less seriously, which is good not only for my perspective but also for the stomach ulcer I occasionally foster. My husband's task-oriented nature helps me knock out what needs to be done and can be done today, and provides me with the time I need at the end of the day to relax. His budget-minded self sets parameters for my Christmas shopping so that I don't go overboard and am forced to re-mortgage our house, losing life and limb. And, his "the tree looks perfect just the way it is" opinion is always the reassurance I need so that I'm not so perfectionist-minded.

This all stems from the email I got from him today, entitled "Dinner Options" (can I just say "he's good to me"?):

Mare,



The dinner options for tonight are as follows:



Stuffed shells with salad and bread sticks
Beef stroganoff with biscuits and brazed carrots (if you want this take the beef stroganoff out of the frig freezer asap)
chicken stir fry with egg rolls


Love you and try to relax a little. I know you don’t feel good and get stressed but that is exactly why you need to relax. Christmas is a celebration so try to relax and share the LOVE.



Have a good time with Tara and see you tonight. I will hang the lights and garland around the door tonight.



Brian

He's my gift this year. He makes me a better, more likable person. He helps me enjoy the things that need to be enjoyed. He helps me laugh at life and takes over when I need a break. But, most of all, he loves me. Completely and totally, even at my worst moments. And, I know this because the minute I apologize for my worst moments, he gives me the most passionate kisses.

Jesus, reason for the season, thank you for your gift to our world. Thank you that you loved us enough to come when we were still not even wanting you. Thank you for saving us and giving us life abundant. But, also - thank you for giving me my husband. Thank you that you have used him over the last decade to smooth out my rough spots, calm me down, help me to see the joy in life, and show me the things that matter in life. And, thank you for giving him the grace to know how to do all of this effortlessly with kindness and generosity. Thank you for giving me a man I know you're proud of, and for giving me the eyes to be proud of him, too.

Merry Christmas. I've already opened my gift this year.

These legs..

I have these two legs. They run up the stairs, taking them two at a time. They run down the street, pounding on the pavement, moving me through my neighborhood. They carry me in and out of places, often also bearing the weight of my children and bags of groceries. They tire, getting sore and stiff, and yet they go onward every day with their task of movement.

Today I've been marveling at the wonder of these legs. I have been thinking about how thankful I am of them - that I can zip through my house with ease and speed, all because my legs are willing. I think of the little attention they get, the very little amount of affection poured on them, the amount of what I require of them every day, all the time, tired or not, sore or not. I whip them over the bed in the morning, counting on them to support and sustain my weight without asking them if they're up for the challenge. I have begun thinking: do I march through life like a strong pair of legs? Do I move onward, whether or not my soul, my heart, my mind are sore and heavy? Do I run, not walk, through the tasks given to me, capable, strong, and willing?

I think I fail at this. I think I complain too much. I think I need to be encouraged, coddled, soothed too much. I complain if I'm not given enough accolades, that I need more encouragement. Yet, my attitude should be more like a pair of strong legs:

A week ago, after three weeks of not running, I went out for a run. I knew I'd be sore, I knew it would be a struggle, me being the owner of these legs. I knew my legs would be tired the next day, maybe I would even limp, yet I had faith in them. I knew they could do it. And, if they got too tired to keep going, being the owner, I would see their over-exertion and give them a break. But I also wanted to test them, to show them how capable they were to run this race.

I think it's this way with God. I am the legs, he is the owner. How often does he take me out for a run, and I balk, resist, present my reasons for a lighter load? Do I ever run willingly, knowing it will be tough, but also know that he is able to sustain me? That he will lay me down by cool waters if I need a rest? Knowing that he who is giving me this test, also knows the outcome: that the test is perfect for my ability, today, and that it will stretch me, but that it is perfectly matched with my ability? That he has prepared me for this race, even before I thought of running it?

I want to be a cheerful pair of legs, taking God's tasks two steps at a time. I want to whip myself out of bed, tired, but utterly willing for the day's challenges.

Bring it on, race. Bring it on, children to be carried, steps to be climbed, balls to be kicked. I will be a willing, cheerful participant and I will carry you. I will be a set of legs for you, God. Grow me to be strong, toned, and lean with the endurance needed for this race.

Dear Baby

Dear Baby,

Although the world never got to meet you, today you are up in Heaven with God. You are in a place where angels are celebrating your homecoming and I'm certain God is holding you, sniffing your baby head, and marveling at your small baby fingers. I am sure of his pride in your beauty, in your sleepy baby smiles, and I know that it's farther reaching than the pride I would have experienced had I held you first in the hospital. Although I didn't get a chance to wipe off your little finger smudges off of our back door window, you have left indelible marks on my heart. You are my child! I will always love you! Heaven blew every trumpet and played every horn at your arrival last night, and I'm sure there couldn't have been a more grand entrance. I only wish I could've been one of the first to see your face.

There are few things I would like you to know:

I was very excited for you to join us - we were already planning where you would sleep and Sophia was VERY excited to help give you a bottle!

I miss you and am so sad that you are not here! But we will all see you someday - Macy, our boxer, will probably get there first and I must warn you, she will give you LOADS of KISSES! (But they're the best! And she is a VERY good doggy! Scratch her on her belly, and you will have a friend for life.)

I am thankful for you. You allowed me to see God a little more clearly, and know his great love and compassion in a way I have never before experienced. Because of that, your life was a ministry and you made a difference!

I cannot wait to meet you. Do you have blue eyes like your brother and sister or hazel eyes like your daddy? Are you tall like Mema or short like me? Are you good at building things like your Ampa or do you like to read like your Grammy? Of all the unanswered questions, I am sure that you love God like your Grampy, with your whole, unbridled and open heart.

You will be remembered. You will be thought of. I am thankful that you are with the Author and Perfecter of life, so that you can have the fullest life possible. Worship him face-to-face with all of heart, soul, mind and strength.

I cannot wait to meet you and I love you.
Mommy

Prayer request

I'm writing twice in one day! This is a new record!

Anyway, I received an upsetting (and encouraging) email from a family member today. She(Kathy) was writing to ask for recommendations on how to write a blog detailing her daughter's progress.

I went to high school with this young girl, Jenny, and was a couple of years older than her. In fact, her sister was in my class! Now, she has become extended family, a daughter of my mother-in-law's cousin. She has a 19-month-old son, Tyler.

She just found out this last week that she has breast cancer. She is scheduled to see a surgeon specializing in breast cancer removal/treatment, but the treatment path is yet unknown.

In Kathy's email to me, I was so blessed to read the firm faith this woman has in a faithful, loving God. They are trusting God for his support, his provision. They are trusting in him. I can't imagine the battle with the unknowns. It seems to me that this would be where the enemy would wage his war; but, as I read her message, I was struck by this statement (and I quote): "But God is Great. He has been holding our hands every step of the way." Wow.

I am writing to ask for your prayers. Even if you breathe up one more prayer, it will be one more that God will hear on her behalf.

Some of you have faced cancer. Some of you have witnessed it in a family member. I feel as if you may be able to pray in ways of understanding that others would not.

Thanks in advance for being amazing people who are willing to pray!

My blog title

A quick history, and a story that makes me chuckle:

Every girl wants to have a song written for her. And, here's a tip: if you aren't a really good writer and your poetry resembles a haphazard assemblage of words that rhyme, then it's best to stick with making up nonsense songs. These, if done with the right amount of flair, can be heart-warming, treasured, and completely endearing.

The title of my blog means something. One my favorite things for my dad to call me is "Maresy Dotes". My whole life, my dad would randomly say/sing to me,

Maresy Dotes
and Dosey Dotes
and Little Lambsey Divey...

The humor in all of this was that my whole life, until I was 23-ish, I thought this was some special song my dad made up just for me, and I loved it. Most people I'm really close to call me "Mare" for short, and so I just assumed my dad, in a creative outburst, produced this high-talent precious song. **Swoon**

Well, one day as I was playing with my now sister-in-law's children, I sang this song to my niece. My sister-in-law turned and asked me to repeat myself. I sang it again, with flair. Laughing, she sang it back to me, slowly, deliberately, enunciating each word:

Mares eat oats
and Does eat oats
and Little lambs eat ivy

Okay, I had two thoughts:
First, what the heck - I thought my dad made up that song? and -
Second, what the heck - she is singing it all wrong. It is not about mares and lambs eating ivy. What the heck?

Then, it occurred to me - my dad has been singing it to me all wrong, all along. And, it isn't a song just for me, written for me, sung for me. It's a song about animals. And what they eat. Random animals. Animals who don't normally associate with each other. Mares and does and lambs. What the heck?

And, as if it couldn't get any better: this past Christmas, while playing cards at my parents' house, I asked them if they read my blog. My dad's reply was, "YES! I read your blog! And, I love your title, Maresy Dotes!"

Um, okay, dad? Sing that song for me... Please.

Um, dad?

Did you know that it's really mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy????

Apparently, he did not.

So, I don't feel entirely bad that it took me until I was 23 to figure out that that song has nothing to do with me because it took my dad 62 years to figure this out. He thinks he made it up for me! Wow. I feel better, but still prefer my dad's version, which, in my opinion, will always be the right version!

Kudos to you all!

Love,
Maresy Dotes

reflective

When I was in college, so many of my psych classes talked about how, in your 30s, you realize the mortality of life. Man, this is true. Every death is hitting me hard. On some days, I feel like I'm burdened under the weight of it. I sit silent, thinking of exact, precise moments of memory I have of them. My uncle. Brian's grandmother. My grandfather. Friends that are gone. You feel invincible until you are sucker-punched in the gut with a loss, and then you grapple with what remains. You grapple with "what if's". You grapple with how your very own life would change if you'd encounter death in your very own household. You pray prayers petitioning "never". Oy.

Today, I am just sad. I am just missing people. I watch my very own kids, and I'm so thankful for them. They provide a diversion, a distraction. Shoes need to be tied, double knotted, actually; faces need to be wiped; babies needed to be pushed in swings and reminded to go down feet first FEET FIRST!!! down the slide; the floor under the kitchen table needs to be wiped up, and then wiped up again (and again). Life marches on, but those lives were here at one point. At some point, Brian's grandmother was young and full of life and was a mommy to little kids. At some point, her laughter filled a room and there were no thoughts of it ever being gone.

Brian's mom once told me that grandma said to her, whispering, privately, "You know, I have never felt old. Even now, even in my 70s, I still feel like a young girl. Like, when did this all happen? When did life happen? How is it that my kids are grown and I'm old?"

I think about this frequently, and try to invocate inspiration to relish my time here. But, usually it just leaves me sad - that someday, I will be gone, too. That these early days with my kids will pass, and there will be no more shoes to tie, teeth to brush, swings to push, or floors to wipe.

I am in my 30s, and boy, am I grappling with mortality in a major way. My psych classes were spot on.

To Tell or Not To Tell the Truth: That is the question

You know, the other day, my daughter "corrected" me as I was making a return at Target. I told the cashier that my daughter had cut the tags off the shirt before she had a chance to try it on. This wasn't entirely true, but the truth happened in the fever of our morning routine and getting ready for school. In truth, I had cut off the tags in the midst of changing my toddler's disgusting night-long diaper, and I didn't recall exactly the cutting-tags-off-a-shirt part of it (wow - interesting, here: Soph could probably come up to me, ask me to sign something in the harried craze of me getting Mak dressed, and I would probably do it with out thinking... scary.). Sophia corrected me in front of the cashier, refusing to be blamed for the premature removal of the tags, because that would be not true. That would be a lie. In the glaze of the morning, I had forgotten the small details. But, in my push for her telling the truth, and in my enforcing of its importance, she reminded me to tell it, myself. She gracefully pointed out that she is NOT allowed to play with scissors; she is NOT allowed to cut tags off clothes without asking me first; she did NOT break the rules, because she came to me, asked me to do it. As much as I turned around, shushed her, she was persistent. She chased the truth, was unafraid of being heard. She didn't mumble, but she was also not disrespectful. She simply wanted to see that I understood the truth, reality. She didn't think of my embarrassment, she only thought of the fact that I have taught her, diligently, to *always* tell the truth.

I now know that this world has a metric system of rating lies - white lies being benign, maybe functionally necessary to preserve your (??) innocence or character, used sparingly or (??) not, all the while being distortions of the truth; half-truths cover details that could hurt - we justify these with the thought that ommission isn't a lie, isn't being dishonest, it's being KIND because we're thinking of someone else's feelings; true lies being complete fabrications are just the fantastical imaginations that someone believes are reality - and like a web, we do get tangled, because they lose their crisp details the more we tell them. But this rating system - is it necessary? Isn't a lie inherent in its nature just as being pregnant is? Isn't a lie, even in its "white" form still a lie? Isn't any version of the truth other than the real version a lie? Why do we rate them? Is it so that our consciences can bear the weight of our indiscretions and we won't crumble underneath them?

My reminder today is to live my life as a memoir to telling the truth. That, if I want my children to be honest and possess integrity, it is not my words that will penetrate their choices: it is my choices that will influence theirs. Sometimes the truth hurts, but so does life. Perhaps a healthy way of learning how to deal with disappointment is first with dealing with the truth at all costs. Either way, we'll all have our chance at this at some point in our life. Because, even though a lie seeks to hide the truth, there are just some situations we cannot avoid or hide from. They hurt, they sting, they are unavoidable, they are our reality. They are our truth.

Very Lumpy Boy

Today, Mak walks up to me and says, "hold me". I cannot resist. Compulsively, I will almost always pick him up when he says this. Many a' time I've found myself on the phone, making dinner, holding Mak. And, it is always at this time that I wonder, "what in the world am I doing holding this kid? He's big. He's heavy. I'm busy. My hands are already full." Anywhoo, and I digress..

So, today, his request came while I was sitting on the potty. Yes - he was sitting in my lap, while I was doing the business. I'm sure he was thinking, "Oh look-y! Mom is bored! She's just sitting there! Unoccupied! Bored! I will go and give her something to do. It is my job to give her something to do. It is my duty to give her something to do." Anywhoo, and I digress...

I swoop up my boy, who nestles against me. I rub his back and hit an obstacle. A large lump in the small of his back. A three inch by three inch pile of whoknowswhat.

I realize that the lump is made up of smaller lumps. I move the stuff around and ask him what all that stuff is. His response is, "I no no".

I reach through the neck-opening of his onesie, down his back, and piled up and wedged against the top of his diaper is this:

Two shapes from his shape sorter: an orange star and a green circle;
A magnetic letter L from our LeapFrog alphabet toy on the fridge;
A green Matchbox van, metal and heavy;
A felt Pink Panther magnet.

He did not put these into his onesie. I doubt the boy who struggles with shape puzzles would be able to human-gumbie these toys in through the neckhole and down his back.

No.... this was a doing of a big sister. Soph has done this before, but bless his little heart, we've missed it until we were changing him for bedtime. Thankfully, this pile of stuff was only in there about 30 minutes. And, bless his little heart, not a bit of complaining came out of him. No crying. He's a trooper.

But, we'll save the next toy pileup for the toy box.

Note to self: lecture Sophia about appropriate toy placement when I ask her to "clean up the toys".

A few of my favorite things...

Looking back at the year in review, 2009 has been fun. Here are a few of my favorite things that Sophia has said:

History: today, Wednesday, was wacky, "funky" Wednesday at school, in which she got to wear her clothes mis-matched, backwards, inside out, etc. She was VERY excited about this last night before bed.

Last night, during prayers:

"God, thank you that tomorrow is wacky, crazy, fu**y Wednesday. Help it be extra fu**y. In

Jesus' name, Amen."

History: Sophia was quite preoccupied with Ariel, the Little Mermaid, for the majority of the last year.

Last year, after the holidays have passed, and Sophia was enjoying watching the Little Mermaid movie repeatedly:
"Mom, when I grow up, I'd like to have a top and a tail."

History: I took up knitting in June, when I took a beginner's class.

About a week after that class, in my backyard on the swingset:
A little girl was bragging to Sophia about her mom's new important job, in which she got to wear important clothes to. Sophia's reply was, "Well, MY mom cooks, and cleans, and takes care of us, and our house, and NOW she even knows how to KNIT." So, there.

History: recording and leaving a new Christmas message on our answering machine, which was a Christmas carol.

Sophia sings Mele Kalikimaka into the answering machine microphone, and then tells me,
"Mom, I really wish I could have a voice like yours. I wish I could sound like you."

History: this fall, after school started, Sophia began playing with a few boys in her class at school. She asked one of them to marry her, and he said no. The teacher tells me about how she overheard this conversational exchange.

In the car, on the way home from school that day:
Sophia tells me, "Mom, who will be my niece someday?"
I say, "Soph, when Mak gets married someday, and he has kids, his daughter will be our niece."
Soph replies with, "Well, Mak will love nobody. He won't want to kiss anyone. He won't want to to marry anyone else. Nobody. Only me. He will want to marry me, and hug me, and kiss me, and then he will marry me." ...Okey doke, Soph.

Love that girl of mine.