The Grocery Store

I posted the lyrics to a song last week. Nothing is Wasted. I truly believe it. There was a reason I posted them (of course).

Last Wednesday, I went to the grocery store. Wednesday is not my usual store day, it's a busy after school day. My husband and I were both feeling a little crabby at the thought that our 14th wedding anniversary would be celebrated with early parent pick up, doctor appointments, gymnastics classes, harried dinners and too-late homework sessions versus the date night dinner we both needed it to be.

I received an email that morning from a friend who is expecting her fifth baby soon. "How is it really?" she asked me. I couldn't answer her.

I packed up the littles and headed off to the grocery store armed with a recipe to pick up what I needed for the surprise dinner I was making my husband, a throwback memory to our Grecian honeymoon.

At the deli counter the older women oohed and ahhed at the blue-eyed blondes nibbling cookies and cheese in the rocket ship cart we had chosen that day. Our talk centered around the whereabouts of the wandering moose who had caused quite a stir in our little town. He had passed very near our house on his way out of town.

A woman spoke to me and told me how she missed her children, and how I should treasure this time as the grow up too soon.

I know. I have guilt. I know I should treasure my littles being little, and not sweat the small stuff, and relax and be more patient and not yell and worry less about cleaning. But I'm normal. I sweat the stuff. Inwardly I rolled my eyes at her.

Then she surprised me.

She told me, while I should treasure the days, her children are in their 20's, but they were little, too; that she remembers the crying and yelling and dinnertime messes and overpooped pants and wanting to tell women in the store just like her to go away and leave her alone because the days are loud and messy and all a mom wants to do sometimes is run away screaming and slam doors and break things. And she told me it was okay. To do it. Because she was there.

She was there.

I wanted to hug her. She got it. And when she learned I had three more at school, she blessed me with the sign of the cross and told me to go get a bottle of wine or three.

My littles and I finished our tasks at the deli and moved on through the store, making our way down the list, covered in cookie crumbs and drinking sippy cups, hugging our baby brother and shrieking, pulling boxes off the shelf if I got too close.

At the end of one aisle and the beginning of the next present hit past again. I wanted to throw myself over my cart, protect my babies and scream, "Stop looking at them! After all you've done you don't have that right!" I was blind-sighted, and questioned, why that day, why of all days.

He looked old. Stooped over. Tired. Sad. Beaten. Worn.

I didn't yell or scream or slap, as I most certainly could have. I pushed my rocket ship cart ahead, got my salad dressing, and finished my shopping. Diapers was my last stop.

Up the aisle I headed towards the checkout was the woman I had met only 20 minutes before. I stopped and said to her, "I needed to hear what you said today. I believe I was meant to meet you today. Thank you." And I hugged her, this woman holding a bottle of shampoo, and me with a hand on my rocket ship cart, my crumb covered littles holding their sippy cups of juice.

As I emptied my cartful onto the checkout and bagged my items, I noticed him leave the store.

Everything for a reason. Nothing is wasted.

Nothing is Wasted

Time and again I have said, "Everything happens for a reason."
This song states the same, just in different words.

Powerful, beautiful, meaningful, and none of that is lost on me today.

The hurt that broke your heart
And left you trembling in the dark
Feeling lost and alone
Will tell you hope's a lie
But what if every tear you cry
Will seed the ground where joy will grow

And nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

It's from the deepest wounds
That beauty finds a place to bloom 
And you will see before the end
That every broken piece is
Gathered in the heart of Jesus
And what's lost will be found again

Nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

When hope is more than you can bear
And it's too hard to believe it could be true
And your strength fails you halfway there
You can lean on me and I'll believe for you
And in time you will believe it, too

Nothing is wasted
Nothing is wasted
Sometimes we are waiting
In sorrow we have tasted
Buy joy will replace it
Nothing is wasted
In the hands of our Redeemer
Nothing is wasted

-Nothing is Wasted, by Jason Gray

Boys are Different

Watching my little boy play, I can say without a doubt, boys are different than girls.

More than just the obvious separates them.

From just a few months old, he has known to laugh at his own noises, breaking into hysterics when it's time to take a wipe to tooschie and change a diaper. He knows the humor behind a good burp or toot. I think that means we are in trouble 7 years from now.

No one has taught him to play with cars and trucks. He just does. He wakes in the morning talking about them. He rolls and scoots around, running his truck on the table leg, up the wall, on bookshelves, on chairs, the stove. If it's not a car in his hand as he makes his way around the house, it's a ball. Which he is able to throw (er, fling) with incredible force, making it spin its way across the floor. The same goes for blocks.

He explores things in a way I don't recall my girls doing. I hope that's not because I've simply forgotten.

He calls me not "mama," but "mom." The sweetest sound to hear is a baby saying that word for the first time.

Every day I marvel at his differences.

No Dogs

I don't like dogs.

Not even little ones.

I think it has something to do with my uncle's dog and a bad experience from over three decades ago. I'll tolerate dogs, but won't go looking for them.

Unfortunately for me, the street on which I run is rampant with them. This morning I came upon another neighbor who now has two little dogs to yip at my heels as I run past. Last week I had a dog at the opposite end of the road come barking down the hill toward me as I pushed my stroller with 60+ pounds of toddler in them past his house. One of those dogs that give all dogs a bad name. His owner did little to curb him until not only I but my babies in the stroller screamed.

I'm bordering on being afraid to run on my own road.

I don't like dogs.

Broken Plates

The broken pieces lay around me like a carpet. Jagged, sharp edges. Flowers, rimmed with gold. Stripes. Nothing at all. Filtered by bits of fallen leaves and broken twigs.

The plate in my hand glittered in the sunlight flowing through the canopy above. Bits of written words shone back at me, placed there in my own handwriting.

I took a step, widening my stance. Lifting the plate high overhead with both hands, I inhaled.

Flung at the ground with all the force I could muster, the plate exploded with a shower of sparkling shards. My throat growled with animalistic sounds, a cry so deep every emotion spoke through, feeding the earth, the explosion, the sound.

Collapsed on the broken pieces, I wept. Never enough.

Night Before

'Twas the night before school
And all through the house,
All the creatures were stirring
With nervous tummies and trips for more water.

All the outfits were laid
On the dressers with care,
All too soon the school bus
Was going to be here.

And Daddy on his computer and
Mommy on her laptop
Settled in to their chairs,
Only to get up again for one more kiss goodnight.

Mommy was wondering what to pack into lunch boxes,
Because she hadn't wanted to go shopping at all this weekend!
"I'll do that on Monday," she said, and she jumped into the pool
For one last swim with the kids.

At last they seemed quiet, perhaps all asleep.
With visions of school work and new friends,
And the cake they know Mommy is going to bake,
For our snack tomorrow, to celebrate.

Life in a Small Town

Living in a small New England town, there's a lot of faces you see every day. Eleven years and many children have brought us a big circle of faces and names that we know. Some, I have gotten very good at avoiding. But sometimes, avoidance isn't an option.

At a school open house I got out of my truck and walked literally face to face with one of those I usually avoid. My stomach sank and I felt like I wanted to get sick. How I long for the feeling of palm to skin and the satisfying sting that follows. So many words to say, and nothing to say. Sometimes the only closure we can get is silence.

I'm mad at myself now for walking around a bank of cars parked along the sidewalk and not falling into step behind. For not allowing my daughter to greet the first person she saw. Soon, I will no longer have control over who she picks as friends. She has lessons to learn, just like her father and I.

I need to stop allowing myself to take all the blame, as there is another set of eyes that played a role, that should look down to the ground.

My daughter and I were greeted in the parking lot by friends and hugs. We were hugged again on the sidewalk up to the main entrance. And again at the door to the school. All along the hallways and into the school classroom, my daughter and I embraced friend after friend in greeting and well wishes, some we haven't seen since the end of June. Blessed, beautiful, wonderful people, some who know where we've been and have left judgement at the door.

My daughter grinned her trademark beautiful smile all through the school. A smile I hear about from so many in our town as one of the highlights of their days. We were in the building for the entire hour of the open house. Victory was ours. And even more hugs were received as we left the school for home.

There are days that I am happy that we have not yet left our small town for the safety and distance of a different locale. Yesterday was one of those days.