Black and White

Today was black and white day at preschool. All of the children were to wear black and white clothing of some kind, then they would have a black and white snack, do black and white activities and apparently have a fantastically fun black and white day. The school sends the parents a calendar at the beginning of each month detailing all of these important events in the lives of our four year old children. I dutifully hang mine on the side of my refrigerator each month and hope I remember to glance at it in time to be adequately apprised of each upcoming occasion.

I had three extra children in my home for three days and nights prior to this morning. After an exhausting weekend of doubled everything, I was pretty proud of myself that I had managed to get my children up, dressed, fed, out the door with lunches made, orderly backpacks, clean clothes, and combed hair. So when we walked into the preschool this morning, I was anticipating a feeling of accomplishment and looking forward to a well deserved quiet morning to myself. As my son skipped in wearing his forest green henley shirt with khaki brown corduroy pants and his new Batman shoes, I noticed all the other children dressed in their black and white and suddenly remembered the black and white day square so carefully posted on the preschool calendar at home. I started quickly into the world of 'mother guilt' that plagues even the most stalwartly self-confident mothers at times. How could I have forgotten black and white day?

As I was hanging up his coat, I began apologizing to the teachers. I kept feeling like I should have remembered somehow. I felt so bad for him and quite embarrassed for myself. Then I noticed how little my son seemed to care or even notice. He was busily placing his butterfly nametag on the attendance rainbow. He was giving me high fives, noticing that it was his turn to be the light helper today. He was thrilled to be back amongst his friends after a week of snow days. He didn't care that he looked different. He knew he would still get the snack and be able to do all the activities. He was simply happy to be at school, dressed just as he was.

As I drove away, I took my cues from my son and realized how little that 'mistake' in my mothering mattered in the grand scheme of things. My son was happy. He had crawled on my lap earlier that morning to read together. He had grabbed me around the legs as I was making sandwiches and said, "I love you, Mom." He kissed me before he went to get dressed. After the older children had left for school, during the half hour before it was time to leave, he asked me to play a game with him. I usually shower during that time, but not today. I played with him. We were having so much fun, laughing and being together that we lost track of time and were a little late getting away. And in we walked together to school, hand in hand, smiling and laughing and happy, dressed in green and brown.

I came home, circled the date on the preschool calendar and put a happy face on it to remind me. Motherhood isn't measured by perfectly dressed children. Success isn't determined by calendars or agendas or checklists. Lasting influence is largely determined over time. Character is nurtured by cherishing even the smallest moments of happiness. Fulfillment is found by sharing the short, fleeting footsteps of our children, before they grow so large and independent that they walk successfully away from our immediate circle of significance. Happiness is hard to quantify, impossible to counterfeit or conceal. Marks of masterful motherhood are multi-hued, vibrant and variant - anything but black and white.

We Choose

I am on my third week of terrible ear pain, untreatable thus far by modern medicine - a terrifying situation for a musician. As I was returning to the doctor's this morning for further treatment I was a little behind schedule. I parked my car, locked it and started running into the clinic, worrying about the possible implications of my situation when I saw a man limping out into the parking lot. He had a huge leg brace on his right leg and was struggling to maintain his limited momentum in order to make it to his car. I slowed immediately to a walk, suddenly very grateful for my legs, for my amazing ability to be able to run.

We choose every day, in every moment, how we will see the world. We determine by that perception our place in it. We decide whether to be worried over impending catastrophe or grateful for current miracles. We shape our own existence by our perspective, by our willingness to see the possibilities in our lives. We choose to be the victim, the survivor, or the hero of our own life story.

We choose.

Beauty in the Midst

I don't live in a very beautiful town. There are pockets of loveliness and a growing number of people expressing the desire for a more beautiful city and working towards that goal, but due to the transient nature of where I live there doesn't seem to be much of a sense of ownership and pride in the maintenance of our bit of earth here. There is an abundance of litter, unkempt yards, abandoned lots and dilapidated properties. Overall, the beauty of God's creations have been overrun by man's relative neglect.

Several weeks ago I went for a run along a fairly busy, main road of town. As I ran, I saw mile after mile of debris, rusted cars, and crumbling fences. Trash cluttered the sidewalk and surrounding areas. I passed a little stream choked with litter where a small family of frogs was trying to eke out their earthly existence. I was increasingly discouraged, not only by the lack of overall concern for beauty, but more so for what it represented about our society in general - an acceptance for filth and disarray in our lives.

As I pounded along the pavement, I was suddenly and quite literally stopped in my tracks. In the midst of the filth was one property, one vestige of hope. It was a modest home, not unique in scale or grandeur, but it surpassed its surroundings soundly in beauty. The bushes were all trimmed neatly, the home was in pristine repair, flowers carefully plotted and planted, immaculate in every regard. Surrounding this lovely oasis was a low iron fence, carefully plotted and designed to secure and complement the property. Within the careful protection of this fence was a place of beauty, order and peace.

As I stood, stunned by the contrast this little piece of land presented, I was instantly filled with hope. Hope that in the midst of an increasingly evil world, beauty could still be preserved. Hope that goodness springs possible through considerable effort - careful tending, pruning, weeding and planting. Hope that with the creation of a carefully crafted, graceful fence, refinement can remain in full view while still protected from the filth surrounding it on every side. Hope that beauty can not only be found, but created, cultivated, captured and shared. Hope that there is yet hope for us all.