In Pursuit of Magic

Laurèn made chocolate covered carrots with sprinkles for the Easter Bunny and placed them on a plate in the kitchen, the night before Easter.  Earlier that day she had told me that three of her favorite people were Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy; she liked getting candy, presents and money.  All week long Faven had been challenging the younger kids; “Do you think there is an Easter Bunny - really?” or “Who do you think the Easter bunny is?” They simply stared at her, while I instant messaged her with my eyes!  She seemed to be enjoying the fact that she finally knew something that they didn’t.  Or did she?  In private she pleaded with me to tell her the truth – who was the Easter Bunny?

Late that night when Laurèn couldn’t wind down for sleep, as her mind reeled and her mouth spilled out the contents of her day, in a round about way she told me her thoughts about the Easter bunny.

            “Mom, you know what?” she said.

            “What?” I answered.

“According to Hatching Pete the magic is in the mystery, and I still want the magic of Easter, so I don’t want to find out the mystery.”

“That is interesting honey” I offered, relieved that I didn’t yet have to confess.

The magic is in the mystery.

Years ago, in the waiting stages of our first adoption, our minister was speaking one Sunday about callings. Some people truly feel moved by a calling but it isn’t necessarily clear why.  Embedded in the uncertainty, there is mystery.  Take Jonah, God called him to go to Ninevah to cry out against that city’s wickedness.  He was afraid.  Jonah, as a prophet was called to do the work of God, and yet he refused and fled.  We all live the mystery, but the question is, can we overcome the uncertainty or fear and answer the call in order to find the magic.

Our family is a mystery to many. I am regularly asked why we adopted children from Ethiopia. The question comes in one of two forms: with a quizzical expression, hands gesturing in the air and a skeptical tone, or with a soft voice, hand on my shoulder and a look of gentle curiosity and sincere attention. I willingly admit that it is not ‘textbook’ family-planning. Each time I am given an opportunity to answer this question, I pause, not sure what to say.  For me, living a life that is authentic means answering the call, to live, to give, and to be in a certain way – this is a difficult concept to share with another and it is a vulnerable piece of my journey.  Creating our family through adoption was and is a calling, pure and simple.  It was a plan outside of our making.  It was a journey of faith.  (Which in the aftermath has felt more like a leap of faith, across a vast valley somewhat miscalculated, crashing into the side of the gorge and slowly sliding down, then gathering speed, while debris and dust lodge into every orifice, rendering me unbalanced with clouded vision as I tumble into the pit – only to pick myself up, dust myself off and climb up and try again.)

On the days that I am exhausted and exasperated and I bellow out in anguish, from that pit, “Why me God?” there is only a dull echo in response, followed by complete nothingness.  In that gentle space is where the mystery lies – in the still and quietness between God and I, where there are no clear answers, just a map without a route, and a path without footprints, which I am urged forward onto.

How appropriate that in this season Laurèn reminds me of the magic hiding within the mystery.  Every parent knows that there is magic in our children. Heck, we have some pretty magical parenting moments too. I don’t mean the moments that take our breath away.  No, I am referring to the moments when all seems lost; the train of our living is skidding out of control towards an imminent and ugly crash and somehow, as if by magic, we right the train, calm the fire and a crash is averted (this time!).  We are left with the words hanging in the air, “What the….?”

Truth is, every day is a mystery; we only think we know what is going to happen.  Our calendars are filled with work, appointments and ‘to-do’ lists.  In the book “the Seven Whispers”, there is a section about Surrendering to Surprise.  Christina Baldwin writes, “Life’s surprises introduce unexpected elements and experiences we might not have the courage to choose”.  Remember Jonah, he ran away because he was afraid, he neither had the courage to ask questions nor step into the unknown.  Also, Baldwin says,  “surprise is […] the practice of leaving enough space in the day for something to happen that isn’t on the list.”  Whenever I am on holidays I leave space for sunsets, the call of the loon, sticky messes and breathing in nature; but at home, there simply is no space in my day-timer.  In my day-to-day life, I can’t hear the calling because there is so much noise and clutter.

Now we have a running joke in our house.  When the phone rings, my husband quips, Check who is calling…….. if is God, don’t answer!  Yes, there are many days when we feel that this particular calling has been too much to bear, and the sacrifices have been great.  But the magic of being audience to a child who cooks corn on the cob directly over the flame on the gas stove, or widens their eyes in wonder when their curly hair get pressed straight, or makes their first joke, in English, or blossoms before your eyes in ways you never imagined, for reasons you can’t articulate, is worthy.

So I wish for you some magic in this season of your life.  Just as my kids continue to suppress their suspicions about Easter for another year, so they can run with pure excitement from clue to clue on their egg hunt delighting in the palpable magic of possibility, may you explore the events of your life with cautious curiosity while marveling at the magical moments.

Beyond Breakfast

This morning the kids wanted to help me make breakfast.  Uh-huh, that would be great.  We got some tunes going, and broke into stations.  Yohannes was making the fruit salad, Faven was keen to run the espresso machine and Lauren and I were in charge of the pancakes.  Simple.

Yohannes cut up the pear into perfect bite-size pieces, complete with the seeds and stickers.  I stopped to admire his handi-work and thought it best to demonstrate what I wanted him to do with the orange.  Meanwhile Faven exuded the confidence of a Barista, so I let her at it – just until she called out “Oh no!”  I stepped in just as the froth was oozing over the side of the pitcher and down Faven’s fingers; the hot lava caused her to let go of the pitcher, which I caught just as it was about to hit the counter top.  As I eased the hot container onto the counter, I glanced over at Lauren, and she was alternately licking the spoon and then mixing the pancake batter.  “Lauren”, I called, she paused, oblivious and with the spoon in her mouth, “What?” she questioned.  My chin hit my chest as I let out an exasperated sigh.

I scurried back over to help Lauren, which Faven took as a green light to carry on. 

Lauren questioned, “ Is it okay to lick the spoon and then keep using it?”

“Well, not really”, I responded.

“But Mom, the heat will kill the germs, right?” she pressed.

“Hmm….. I don’t know.  But let’s just say, if you did that in a restaurant you would be fired.”

“Well, I’m not in a restaurant am I?” she finished.

I gave up, gently taking the spoon and replacing it with another to give the batter a fierce stirring.

My gaze took in Yohannes’ technique with the mango; there are no words to adequately describe it.  Imagine the skinning and gutting process after catching a prize fish, only the ‘meat’ was smooshed between keen and clumsy fingers and then scraped into the bowl.  Okay, moving on.

Lauren actually managed to get some batter onto the grill, and I felt like we were on our way!  Just at that moment, I heard the espresso machine sputtering and wheezing as if it was about to explode.  I am not sure what Faven had been doing, but there was a fine layer of coffee grounds covering the counter, floor and machine.  I looked at her, with the utter love of a mother who is amazed by their child’s deeds.  Then I calmly, but with an edge, informed her that it would be great if she stopped and waited for me to guide her through – she (haughtily) reported that she knows what to do!  Then I merely grunted and turned off the machine; I am not sure who was ‘steaming’ more, the machine or me.  Faven stood off in the background, quietly observing, just out of my reach (smart kid!).  I disassembled it to see what the problem was, cleaned out everything and started over. 

By now, there were some pancakes ready to come off the griddle, so Lauren held them out to me with the patience of an elite runner at the starting gate, ‘Mawm” she beseeched.  Kinda busy here, I thought, but scooped a plate from the drawer and got there just as she dropped them.  I didn’t quite make the catch.  I stared at the pancakes on the floor and with only a moment hesitation picked them up and put them on the plate with six eyes staring at me.  Into the warming drawer they went. 

Yohannes, inclined to interrupt at the least appropriate times – asked me, “How many strawberries should I cut up?”  I told him eight; he counted all eight, out loud.  I slid back over to Faven and asked her if she was ready to try again.  It took everything in me not to banish her to the back forty and just do it myself. “Okay mom” she quietly said, she took one reticent step towards me, waiting to see how I would handle her in my space.  I welcomed her in.  This time the espresso went into the shot glasses; she pulled the glass out (with the coffee/water still flowing) and quickly dumped it into the coffee mug before sliding it back underneath for more.  I asked her what she was doing?  She responded, “making coffee”.  After some dialogue I found out that she was going to continue running the water through the espresso until she got enough shots to fill the whole mug.  Hmmm…….I was completely surprised by this and stumped at how to re-direct her. 

Meanwhile, from the pancake maker, I heard another insistent cry for the pancake plate.  With a surge of speed, I retrieved the plate and she piled more onto it.  Then she queried, “When can I learn to make the coffee like Faven?”  I paused, “I don’t think we are quite ready for that, but I can show you how to make hot chocolate if you want.”  “You can make hot chocolate with that?” she asked with surprise.  “Uh-huh.  Finish up the pancakes and we’ll get to it.”

I got the milk and chocolate sauce ready, set the table and said a silent prayer.  I showed Lauren how to steam the milk and what temperature she was aiming for.  She finished that, and I directed her to pour the hot chocolate into her waiting mug.  I had made her wear oven mitts while preparing her drink, as I didn’t want her to get burned.  Now, as she poured the hot chocolate, it so happened that our foster cat Carlton was sauntering by.  Lauren completely missed the cup; the hot liquid hit the counter top and sprayed all over Lauren, the counter, the cabinets and the cat.  Thankfully I was there to grab it and save just enough for her to have a taste.  I looked at the mess and said, “Let’s eat!”  Just after that the dog walked through the chocolate milk and spread her milky paw prints throughout the kitchen.  Laugh or cry?  I decided to laugh.

It had been almost two hours since we had started.  On my own, I think I could have had breakfast on the table inside a half an hour.  The kids were a mess, the kitchen was a disaster (it took me another two hours to clean up), but we had made it together and we enjoyed it together.  Now, I think I’ll take a nap – so I have the energy to handle lunch.

Playing the Field

I played in a soccer tournament all weekend.  It was fun.  It was good soccer.  I played well and hard.  And now, I suffer.  But really, it is not like the suffering is that great, I only seemed to have strained one muscle group.  It is the muscle that allows me to stand erect, the muscle that allows me to bend and tie my shoes, the muscle that allows me to put one leg in front of the other (aka: walk) and the muscle that supports me as I reach my arms out to pick something up.  Other than that simple little muscle strain in my back, I feel great.  Well, besides the fatigue, dizziness and headaches from exertion, dehydration and electrolyte imbalance.  I don’t seem to have any trouble sitting or lying down, which is great news because my husband, who has a herniated disc right now can’t sit or lie down so together we make one functioning adult!

I am forty-five, but on the field, I play younger (we all do!).  Before each game, I coach myself (brain before brawn) “play smart, slow down, stay in control”; but truth is, I love the feel of side-by-side sprinting, and gaining just an edge over the other player and meeting the ball first.  It is truly exhilarating.  Furthermore, a game with no physical contact would be boring indeed.  I am not seeking it, but when it finds me, I am ready to engage, mass-to-mass, sweat upon sweat, legs entangled and then free.

Our final two games we played the same team.  They were lithe, fit and young; we are robust, able-bodied and mature.  If the audience were at a horse race, and placing their bets based solely on appearance, they would have picked the fountain of youth over the well of experience – hands down.  They all would have lost their money, and incidentally, so would have I! The winning was really a testament to our teams’ defensive tenacity.  We stuck to them, like a teenage boy dancing his first slow dance.  When we successfully defended, we were just that close – but the response was completely different, our opposition wasn’t interested in a slow dance; we got under their skin.  They fought to shed us like a cobweb on a nature walk. 

We were there to play soccer, have fun and to win, if it was in the cards.  They were not only there to win, I think they expected to win; and on the second game, possibly even to teach us a lesson.  It wasn’t to be.  They left both games congratulating us, and shaking their heads wondering what had just happened.  I know their dressing room chatter was not likely reflecting their complete awe at our prowess, but in complete dismay over how they could have let that happen.  Our dressing room was simply celebratory, complete with Jello shooters!  We knew they were a good team, and we had beat them (twice)– not because we are a better team, simply because we had played well in both ends of the field, for the majority of the game.  That’s all.  It was minute-by-minute, game-by-game. 

The differences between them and us may not be so obvious on the field, appearance aside; but after the game, as they were peeling off their sweaty sports bras and matching shorts and climbing into their lace undergarments and 'skinny' jeans, we were peeling off our ‘protective undergarments’ and cursing the intricacies of aging, while slipping into sandals and sweatpants.  We were already icing and lubricating our muscles and joints – and popping Advil, just to get ahead of the aches and pains. 

It is after my fourth game in 48 hours that the difference in our age becomes apparent.  All the players had to be over 35, but when it comes to sport, each year difference is not simply additive, it becomes more like ‘dog years’ (7 years for every year).  Regardless of how much physical fitness I do regularly: running, biking, weights, core and walking – I pretty much come out beaten and depleted.  It is in the recovery; my ability to rebound is sluggish to the point of not being able to ‘come off the wall’ at all.  Everyone around me has to adjust.  My full time job, taking care of home and family, is hampered; I let down those that I love and I feel so ‘out of body’ for the next day….or two.  Is it worth it?

I feel like I have played soccer my whole life, despite only recently returning to it after taking a ten to twelve year parenting break.  In the same moment I simultaneously think, ‘I can’t do it anymore’ and ‘I don’t want to quit’.  It is why I stayed away for so long when my kids were small, I knew it would take something from me that I wasn’t ready to give.  There is great benefit for me to play soccer, and there is also a cost.  After a tournament it sure feels like the cost is higher, even with the lingering high of winning the tournament.  But when I am on the field, it is the only place where I am truly in the moment; I neither think about nor care what is for dinner, who has homework, whose fault it was, or when I am going to find time to do all that I do; I am simply playing soccer with a team of ageless and beautifully spirited women with the aim of giving our best in that moment, that game.  Can I really give that up?