Zuzu's House, Trust, and Keepin' Out the Cold

A friend, over Christmas break, said something that made me smile.

"I think you live in Zuzu's house."

Zuzu. George Bailey's Zuzu. From one of our favorite movies, It's A Wonderful Life (it's a wonder we don't all have pneumonia). I sat in our living room and laughed. Then I reached for another throw.

I think my friend is right. Our house is like Zuzu's house. It's rambling. Old. Drafty. We can feel the winter wind whoosh and whisper over the floorboards.

And today seems especially cold.

The air is damp. Temperatures are low, and I think it's time to reach for the big defense: electric blankets. So I pull the stepladder from the basement and haul it to my bedroom closet because the blankets are stored high. I'm excited to retrieve six bundles and wrap them around six beds. I'll be glad to know that at night, when it's even colder because it's dark, my family will be warm.

If only it could be this easy to press out all kinds of cold, I think as I stretch on my toes and wriggle my fingers toward the soft bundles.

It's not something that's desirable to admit, but if I'm completely honest, I often a struggle with worry. I worry for my children. I worry for their futures and circumstances. I worry for my own future when they are not here. And then there's the dark place of fear. I slip there easily, even though it's nowhere I'd like to be. I don't want to exist in these cold places. But circumstances, unwelcome and unchosen, seem to create an opening and I let the cold seep right in.

But what if  challenging circumstances bring opportunity to find peace and comfort in the Lord?

It's something that I think about as I toss blankets until there's a sea of softness on the ground. I turn the thought over and over while carry armloads of blankets up the steep, curved steps. I ponder while I and unmake and remake a half-dozen beds.

When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.
Psalm 56:3 NIV


Trust.

This has to be the way.

During the times in my life when I've chosen to trust more and fear less, the sharp sting of fear diminished. It lost power.

When my response to worry becomes an opportunity to trust, the cold is kept away.

And this becomes my prayer.

Lord, it's a new year. A time for refreshment and new beginnings.  Help me to remember how turn from worry and to trust in You.

When evening comes and dark winter wraps around us, I find peace in knowing that my family is cocooned. As they sleep, they're wrapped in warmth. But even as I sit and listen to the strong howl of the wind, there's something else, too. A different kind of peace that's filling. Settling. Comforting. A peace that passes understanding and becomes salve to my soul.

I agree with my friend. This old house is like Zuzu's.

But I'm learning to trust.

And trust keeps out the cold.

Connecting Heart Deep

“Want to take a walk?” I ask. The winter weather is mild. Lonny and a couple of the older boys are away and Zay and I have the afternoon alone.

“Sure,” he says. My fifth child. My easy-to-please.

We pull on boots. Mine are for snow but his are cowboy boots. As we walk down the drive, they clickety-clack. 

 

And we walk.

We walk down the road that runs from our house to the country. We walk until we see open space and fields and farms.

And while we walk, the sun is on our backs.

And while we walk, my son’s heart opens.

At first, we talk about the weather and the want of snow. We chat about the runner sled that waits in the garage and the hill that's a weak green. Conversation skims the surface. But as we move along, things change. Isaiah begins to share from the soul. He speaks little-boy life and childhood dreams. He speaks of things hidden deep.

I ask questions. I respond to the beat of his heart. By now we’re away from the crazy. We’ve taken reprieve from the wild. Though we’re only a quarter- of-a-mile down the road, we’re far enough from fast living that I can hear my son. I can hear his heart.

 

These moments, this undivided, unshared sliver of time is gold to me. It’s worth more than anything  I could hold with my hands.

And I wonder, is this how it is with the Lord?

Trust in Him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for us. Psalm 62:8 ESV

Pour out your heart.

Oh, the grace in this. The sweet amazing grace. That the Lord would want me to share from the heart.

Heart-pouring, soul-sharing, takes effort and time.

I think about this, as we walk along. As my son has grown quiet. As his soul has been shared and there’s peace.

This time of reaching past the superficial into the things that matter, into the things that make a person, into the precious-intimate things, was the result of an effort.  A separation. An intentional, purposeful act.

Lord, give me the wisdom, the desire, to walk alone with You.

As I’ve delighted in the soul-sharing of my son, I understand how the Lord must delight in the times that I share with Him. In the times that my spirit opens wide. In the times when there is no distraction, no barrier, and I’m like a child, wanting to be known.

While we walk along, our shadows fall and Isaiah reaches for my hand. We move down the hill, toward our home. The winter sun begins to slip but the two of us are settled and still.

There is value in quiet moments.

Quiet moments shared with the One we love.

 

Swimming Deep and Room to Grow

We’re in Michigan at our favorite lake. Lonny and I started coming here twenty years ago when we were newly married. At that time, boys and family were not yet a dream.

Now we bring our brood back every summer. The lake holds memories that we hold dear.

When we’re here, there are a few things I can count on. The lake, when I first see its variegated blues, will move my heart so hard I’ll want to cry. When Lonny drives the boat, his hair will go wild like Jack Nicholson’s in Terms of Endearment. When we’re anchored, the boys will hit the picnic basket like madmen.  And when we’re in the water, my son,  Samuel, will push against my sensible-safe limits with his made-for-adventure heart.

We’re in the lake, shoulder-deep. The water is clean and clear and we can see the soft ripples of sand under our feet. We’re tossing a ball in the shallows. The big boys throw and it flies far. The little guys are under the surface again and again, bouncing like bobbers. And Samuel, sweet Sam, is lured by the deep.

“Let’s go out, Mom. Let’s go out where it’s dark!” he says as he erupts in front of me, water shedding from the force. He’s two inches from me with dark goggles and a grin.

“Sure,” I say. “Grab one of the big boys, too.”

Logan and Grant both join us and we swim to the place where turquoise gives way to indigo blue. When we tread above the drop-off, the place where the water goes very deep, we can see the slope of the sand. We can see it stretch nearly straight down. It’s the place Sam wants to go.

“Watch,” he says. “Better yet, borrow Logan’s goggles and you come, too.” Then he’s under the surface, belly close to the sand as he swims down.  I can see the white flesh of his soles. I stay above water to watch.

Sam’s a strong swimmer.  He’s had lessons every summer. He swims in the pool every day. He wants to join a swim team in the fall.

But still my heart beats fast.

It’s just a few moments before he breaks the surface. He gulps air and then he’s down again. I wish we were in the shallows.   I swim well, too, but still there are a thousand worries. What if Samuel gets tired? What if a boat or a ski jet comes too close?

I don’t know. So I tread water and watch him do what he loves most. My mama-heart wants to pull him back, pull him in, and take him to where the water feels safe. But I know I have to give him room to grow.  And letting him swim in the deep is just the beginning.

 It’s the theme of my life lately. Giving boys room to grow. Letting Logan grow, make decisions, and work through what he wants to do with his life. Letting Grant have freedoms in these teenage years.  Sam and his adventures. Sometimes it all feels like deep water to me. It’s enough t make a mama half crazed. But I’ve trained my boys. I’ve taught them. They belong to the Lord. I know my sons are in the palm of His hand.

So now it’s time to open my fist and let go.

Samuel’s up again. He swims close. His goggles are on his forehead now and I can see the joy in his eyes.

It makes me happy, too, seeing this unbridled bliss. It moves something in me, deep inside.

This letting go and giving room thing?

I have a long way to go.

But maybe, just maybe,  it will be okay.

Lord, thank you for holding my boys in the palm of your hand. Help me to open my hands to let go. Amen.