The Last Week

Yesterday afternoon, I was standing in my backyard, chatting with a friend who had come over with her kids to swim because of the wilting, oh-there-you-are-summer heat and humidity. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a yellow jacket went kamikaze on me and dive bombed into my eye with such force, I stumbled. He stung me, at least once, while I did a frantic little dance and tried to swipe him off my eye socket without getting my hand stung. (But my tongue wasn't hanging out, and there were no giant teddy bears, so at least I didn't look completely ridiculous.)

I immediately ran to get an ice pack, which helped both the pain and the swelling. But because the sting was right below my eye, I've still got some residual puffage. You probably wouldn't notice it if you glanced at me. But I notice it. The right side of my face is swollen and today the bags under my eyes are right up in my eyes. My vision is slightly compromised and my skin stretches taut when I smile and it's all mildly uncomfortable.

It makes it hard to focus on what's right in front of me, because I keep focusing on the distraction.

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This is the last week of summer. My kids go back to school next Tuesday, the day after Labor Day. The first day of school is one of those looming dates, you know. It's so big, it can't help but cast a shadow on the final days of vacation. And my brain, blessed be it's geeky neurons, is already in September, sorting out schedules and signing the kids up for fall classes and events.

But this is the last week of summer, the final hurrah of my favorite season. Outside, the sun is shining, and the pool beckons. There are still several lazy, hazy nights worthy of ice cream runs. I have many grill-worthy meals in my fridge: carna asada, Greek chicken kabobs, cedar-planed salmon. We still have to visit the Minnesota State Fair and squeeze in a few more afternoons at the lake.

I don't want back-to-school to puff up into my vision and crowd out what's right in front of me.

It's mildly uncomfortable. My inner planner squirms at this stay-in-the-moment crap when there are to do lists to be written, options to discover, calendars to be aligned. It's hard for me to focus short instead of long.

But I refuse to let the swirling, stinging things distract me from what's before me right now. So if you see me squinting the next few days, it's probably not the bee sting. It's just me, trying to stay here, in the last week of summer, where my kids laughter and the clink of ice make a swollen eye no big deal.

What the Train Taught Me about Perspective

We live a few hundred feet from a train crossing.

It's not as bad as it sounds. Because our home's original owner was a man who owned a cement company, our walls are solid concrete. (We have to be very careful hanging picture on outside walls. The nails only go in about 1/2 inch before "ping" and they bend.) This place is a fortress. So even though trains thunder by about half a dozen times a day, we barely feel a tremor.

But of course, between the hours of 7:00 AM and 10:00 PM, we hear the whistle. OH MY WORD, do we hear the whistle. We hear it in the distance, we hear it as it grows close, we hear it around the corner and then it takes up residence inside us when it sounds its arrival at our street.

This delights Kieran to no end, of course. Even the faintest whistle triggers his train dance. "Train cah-ming, Mama! Train cah-ming!" he squeals. And then he runs for the front door and bounces on his toes with impatient joy. We end up standing on our front steps for the whole show, from the almost-scary thrill of the piercing it's-here whistle to the ding-ding-ding of the crossing guards returning to their upright position after the train is gone.

Watching the train in December

Occasionally, we will catch a train crossing when we're in our car, as happened this morning. We were loading up for the drive to school when we heard the first whistle. We ended up pulling out of our driveway just as the red engine roared through the intersection. We drove closer and idled right next to the crossing guard, counting cars and feeling the tick-tick-tick of the train wheels shake the minivan.

But you know what? It's hard to watch a train when you're close to it. The freight cars whizzed by with such ferocity, I couldn't focus. I got dizzy. I ended up backing up a bit so I could gain some context. It was too close, too fast, too much.

It's funny what a little perspective can do.

My word for 2012 is focus. It isn't as all-pervasive as Sabbath was last year. It's more of a drip in my mind than a steady stream. But this morning, because of the train (Hi, my name is Kelly, and I'm an analogy queen), it's been like a mountain brook rushing with snow melt.

I've lost perspective of many things in my life lately. It's understandable. When you're standing close to the fast-and-furiousness of it all, it's easy to get hypnotized. You can hardly take in what's right in front of you when - zoom - it's gone and the next thing is coming at you full steam. Zoom! Zoom! Zoom! Pack the lunch. Fold the laundry. Make some dinner. Clean the dishes. Hug a toddler. Play dolls. Go to bed. Zoom! Zoom! Zoom! It's all encompassing, all consuming.

But thanks to the "train cah-ming," I think what I really need is to step back and remember the big picture. (Maybe after I close my eyes for a few minutes to chase away the vertigo.) I need to refocus on my husband, my family and my deepest dreams. It's easy for me to lose sight of the best things in life when I'm caught up in the zooming train inches away from my nose.

One of my Siesta Memory Verses from last year was this passage from Ephesians.

That's why, when I heard of the solid trust you have in the Master Jesus and your outpouring of love to all the followers of Jesus, I couldn't stop thanking God for you — every time I prayed, I'd think of you and give thanks. But I do more than thank. I ask — ask the God of our Master, Jesus Christ, the God of glory — to make you intelligent and discerning in knowing him personally, your eyes focused and clear, so that you can see exactly what it is he is calling you to do, grasp the immensity of this glorious way of life he has for his followers, oh, the utter extravagance of his work in us who trust him — endless energy, boundless strength!

I think those words need a freshening in up in my mind this weekend.

Maybe I'll focus on them while I sit on my front porch and watch the train.

Last week, in between trains, I created a Facebook page for my blog. I'd love you to click through and like it, because then I will have another way to interact with you. As a thank you, I've put a video of Keiran's I-want-to-jump-out-of-my-skin-with-excitement train ritual on the Love Well wall. (And if you're not on FB and you want to see the video anyway, email me. I'll send you a link to it on Vimeo.) Happy weekend!

Margins

Every morning this week, after tucking the big kids safely into school, I've turned the minivan into the rising sun and driven straight home. I bundle the littles, still wearing their footsies, out of the warmth of the car into the warmth of the house. We eat steel-cut oatmeal topped with brown sugar and dried cranberries and chopped pecans and flaxseed. (And maybe a few mini chocolate chips, for good measure.) Then we clean up the kitchen and I load the dishwasher and the sunlight fills the house with glory and I practically purr with contentment.

I do believe I've found my margin.

It's a funny thing; lasting change is so subtle. You never really notice it until you stop and look around.

A few years ago, I ran breathless. Part of me loves living on adrenaline and part of me was hooked on the productivity of busy.

But in my soul, where it counts, all that rushing was making me miss my life. I was so focused on the To Do List and the Next Thing that I missed the Right Now.

When my heart started to whisper that it wanted something more - a slowing, a stillness, a Sabbath - I didn't know where to start. It seemed so overwhelming, after a lifetime of preoccupation. How do I stop? How do I find some time to just be?

It started, as all change starts, with one step.

I decided to ruthlessly eliminate hurry from my life. That meant I had to cut a lot of things out of my schedule. So I did. Together, Corey and I decided to enroll the big kids in just one extracurricular event per year, instead of one per season. We decided to pull out of AWANA and other midweek church programming, because the hours were too hard on the little kids. I decided against a weekly Bible study for me, preferring instead the easier schedule of my twice-monthly moms group. I even made the somewhat draconian decision to say no to all evening events for the time being, because it's just not worth the fall-out of not being here at bedtime. (I hate putting four kids to bed by myself when Corey travels. So I can't justify making him do it because I want a night out with the girls.) (And here I should note: This is MY decision, not one I made lightly, and I am not asking you to do it. But this works, right now, for our family.)

All of this means I have exactly two mornings a month when I am committed to something. Every other morning, every other day, is at my disposal.

Which means I can do nothing if I chose. I can color all morning and do puzzles at lunch and then fold some laundry while Kieran naps and Teyla watches Team Umizoomi. I can bake cinnamon bread and whole wheat muffins and stir up big pots of chili and pork apricot stew. I can sit and cuddle my last baby when he falls asleep in my arms. I put off going to the grocery store unless absolutely necessary, and I don't run to Target just to get out of the house. I'm just fine here, thank you, sitting by the fire with my people and playing Candyland.

Wide margins. Oh how I've changed.

Suddenly, I understand why my graphic artists friends are such fans of white space. Without it, you don't really focus on what's important.

Focus

A few days ago, Kieran found me at my desk and excitedly handed me a pair of glasses.

They were small, oval-shaped, bronze-rimmed. Glasses.

My glasses.

I had all but forgotten about them, mostly because I don’t need them. I can see fine. My vision is a little blurry when I have to read street signs down the road, which is to be expected for a woman who’s just days away from turning 40, but otherwise, I’m good.

At least, I am in one eye. During an opthalmology check-up a few years back, I learned my left eye is the heavyweight. It does almost all of the work for the right eye, which is considerably less strong. My brain, ever the maestro, has learned to compensate. It gets most of its visual input from my left eye and ignores the fuzzy pictures coming from the right.

End result: My vision is clear. But my depth perception stinks. (Which explains why I got hit in the face with the ball every time I played sports with the youth group and why I could never-not-once see the 3D images hidden in those Magic Eye pictures that were all the craze in the ‘90s.)

Theoretically, it’s possible for my right eye to get stronger and for my brain to start listening to it. Hence, the glasses. The left lens is clear, the right lens compensates for my weakness. When I put them on, I feel like my life has become a 3D movie. I stumble around my own house, hesitantly opening cabinet doors, holding onto countertops for balance, walking gingerly around the Legos on the ground.

It’s disorienting, but it’s good. I had forgotten what life looks like when viewed correctly. So for now, I’m wearing the glasses everyday, for as long as I can stand it.

Turns out, focus affects everything.

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I enjoyed Christmas this year. Like, really enjoyed it. It caught me off-guard, seeing as I was 90% Grinch the last few Decembers. In the past, I couldn’t resolve the tension between cultural Christmas - Santa, snow, sentimentalism - and Jesus Christmas - expectancy, enigma, Emmanuel. While I liked cultural Christmas, I smoldered under its weight. I resented the way it overshadowed the deeper story, the true reason for the holy-day. And I grew grumpy with the traditions that sucked my joy and made my children greedy and shoved commercialism down my threat.

But this year, inexplicably, my focus shifted. I found my mind’s eye fixed on the babe Jesus. Some of the same cultural traditions I had grumbled about just last year became conduits of God’s grace to me. Christmas parties? Celebrations of relationships. Gifts? Physical manifestations of the Christ, “gift after gift after gift.” Christmas treats? Tiny symbols of God’s love of butter.

(Just kidding on that last one. I was trying to make sure you were still paying attention.)

But I did find myself less at war with the cultural Christmas and more able to see the deeper truth embedded in the season.

My focus changed me.

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As you’ve probably guessed by now, the word I’ve chosen for 2012 is focus. (If you have no idea what I mean by choosing a word, there's a great explanation here. My word for last year was Sabbath.) Focus is a layered word for me. It means both “the state or quality of having or producing clear visual definition” and “becoming able to to see clearly.” It can also mean to “meet at a single point,” as in the case of {Austin Powers finger quote} las-ers {end Austin Powers finger quote} or “to pay particular attention to.” To concentrate. To fix upon.

For me, focus means to be purposeful. To be intentional. My goal is to strengthen my inner eye so it sees the important in sharp detail instead of the blur of the urgent.

It will take discipline. I’m sure I will be unsteady and uncomfortable for a while.

But I believe my focus ultimately sets my course.

And the glasses? They are growing on me.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. LET US FIX OUR EYES ON JESUS, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him, endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.

- Hebrews 12:1-3